Wicked Secrets (Men of Discovery Island 3)

Please, please, don’t let her be here.

* * *

SOMEONE LARGE AND MALE crouched down beside her. Usually, Mia would have taken defensive measures, but right now she was too miserable to care. The world swung in dizzying circles, making her stomach lurch up and down.

“Mia?” Okay. She cared. She recognized that deep growly voice. Tag was back.

Don’t groan because you might puke on his feet. “I already bought you a thank-you drink. Don’t you ever go away?”

He pressed a bottle of cold water into her hand, and, okay, she might have moaned. Even if he couldn’t be bought off with beverages, apparently she could.

“All the time. In fact, I have a date with Uncle Sam in six weeks. Rinse and spit.”

To her eternal shame, she did as he ordered. He measured her pulse, then tilted her head back to check her pupils. She let him because, right now, she was too wiped out to fight. If Tag had apparently decided to become her very own EMT tonight, she’d work with him. Tomorrow was plenty of time to take issue with his high-handed behavior.

“Follow my finger,” he said gruffly, moving his finger first left, then right. “Alcohol? Bird flu? Bad run-in with a zip line?”

His face was close to hers. Kissing distance, in fact, although she bet kissing was the last thing on his mind right now. His eyes were hazel with gold flecks, something she either hadn’t noticed or had forgotten. Huh. Her Senior Chief had pretty eyes.

“Zip line,” she muttered, when he let the silence stretch on.

“How?” Brow furrowing with concern, he immediately started palpating her arms as if he feared she’d somehow fallen off the zip line and then crawled to the beach to lick her wounds.

“Geez.” She knocked his hands away. “I didn’t fall off the thing. I just got dizzy.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You’re motion sick?”

“Got it in one.”

He eased her upright. “Okay. Deep breath.”

“I know what to do.”

“Uh-huh. This happens often?”

When he turned her forearm over, she spotted the bridesmaid temporarily tattooed on her skin.

“I owe someone for that.” Probably her cousin. It was exactly the kind of thing Laurel would do.

“Let’s focus on you right now.” Tag slid his thumbs down her wrist and pushed on a spot. “Give me ten,” he said, when she tried to yank her arm away.

Leaning backward against him, supported by the strong column of his thighs, was no hardship. Her fingers flexed, finding denim. Shoot. There was nothing professional about this, although he didn’t seem to mind.

“How were you injured?” He sounded matter-of-fact, but she’d bet he wouldn’t be happy if she trotted out all of his vulnerabilities with a cheery let’s discuss.

“Uncle Sam and the call of duty. Now, go away.” The words sounded childish, but she didn’t care. The world wasn’t swinging quite so badly anymore, the nausea dissipating now that her stomach had emptied itself. Yeah, the worst was over, but she was so not winning any prizes for elegance. Good thing she wasn’t still attracted to Tag.

“You don’t really want me to leave.” Amusement colored his deep voice.

“And you’d be wrong. Ask me why.”

His hand rubbed a small, lazy circle against the back of her neck, and the water bottle returned to her mouth. “Small sip.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because you threw up on my motorcycle.” She followed his pointing finger, and, sure enough, there was a big black Harley parked beside her palm tree haven. She’d missed his tires. Score one for her. “And because you need help.”

“You make a career out of rescuing damsels in distress? And, for the record, I didn’t hit your bike.” She sounded bitchy. She knew that. Accepting help, however, was out of the question. She stood on her own two feet. Or, she admitted wryly, lay on her own butt. Whatever it took. With her brothers and her father all being active duty, bitchy had been the only way to hold her own. Give them an inch and they’d smother her with love and concern. Of course, Tag wasn’t offering love, but, still...she had this. She’d led a team in Afghanistan until she’d retired, so handling a bout of motion sickness was child’s play.

“You want to ask me why I’m so certain you need help?” His calm voice annoyed her, she decided. As did the supreme confidence with which he moved his hands over her body. She just might live, however, thanks to his nifty acupressure trick. Two inches down her wrist and press hard. She could do that.