Wicked Secrets (Men of Discovery Island 3)

Her phone vibrated in her hand, and she looked down as a text from Laurel flashed across the screen.

Safe my ass. Where the hell are you?

In trouble.

She considered turning the phone off, but then her cousin would probably call out the National Guard—or, worse, Mia’s brothers. Before she could second-guess herself, she snapped a cell-phone picture of Tag and sent it to her cousin.

Safe and sound. Catching up with an old friend.

There was a moment’s silence and then:

Is he the hottie from the beach bar? He makes stranger danger look good.

How much to disclose?

You have to share.

Her cousin’s next message followed fast on the heels of the last. A quick glance at the phone warned it was five in the morning.

Are you waking up—or just going to bed? Deflection was good.

I’m not the one who missed the boat.

She was never going to live her beach nap down. When her brothers found out, they’d hound her for years.

He offered me a place to stay for the night.

Hot sex had definitely not been part of the package.

Is that code for dating? her cousin asked.

No. He’s a Navy rescue swimmer who ships out in less than six weeks and who happens to have a spare couch.

Which he was sleeping on. Seconds later, her phone buzzed.

Typical. Email me more. Gotta catch some zzzz. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

Unfortunately, Laurel’s edict left plenty of ground uncovered. Mia’s cousin had been a wild child before she’d met her husband-to-be. Picking up a hot-looking stranger on the beach was probably a misdemeanor in her cousin’s book. Plus, all too reminiscent of Mia’s own former fiancé, Tag was spectacularly unavailable for the long haul. So...her cousin had a point. Mia excelled at picking guys who were emotionally unavailable. Not that she’d done all that much picking, if she was being honest. She’d always settled.

Really, she hadn’t been terribly surprised—or devastated—when her ex had made it clear he wouldn’t be around when she was ready to get married. Or even get back stateside. He’d been a fun diversion, a good excuse not to look around. Because getting involved with someone—really involved—might mean letting someone get close. Giving up control.

Conveniently, Tag was another sailor who wasn’t interested in settling down. They could have fun together while she considered what she wanted to do with her future. He was the perfect practice man. She slipped out of the room, cataloging the contents of the apartment as she went. Tag’s place was probably really cute in the daylight, even if it was hard to imagine him picking it out. Someone had hung gauzy sheers over the window. The filmy fabric provided no real cover, but Mr. Bentley probably wasn’t an enemy sniper, either.

When she heard the soft scrabbling noise coming from behind her, she almost dropped the phone. Just a little noise. Nothing big, tall and deadly. Whirling, she tracked the sound to a cardboard box beneath the front window. Adrenaline pumped through her, even as she knew, logically, there couldn’t be anything bad hiding inside the box. It was just a box.

A box making thumping sounds.

Dropping to her knees, she peered inside. Five small black-and-white kittens ignored her intrusion and continued to wrestle.

“Can’t sleep?” The raspy growl from the shadows behind her shot straight to her girly bits. Did he have any idea how sexy he sounded? The throw blanket hit the floor as he stood up.

“Occupational hazard.” She tapped the side of the box. “You’re stockpiling cats. Do these have names, too?”

“Occupational hazard,” he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice as he mimicked her words. “They needed rescuing and I had a spare box. I haven’t named them yet. You want to help?”

He’d given them more than four cardboard walls. The cats tumbled happily around inside, certain of their place in Tag’s heart. He crouched down beside her as if a dark-o’clock rendezvous wasn’t something out of the ordinary, reaching in to rub a small feline head, rough affection in each touch. The man was a mass of contradictions. He was a trained soldier and a dead accurate shot. He’d rappelled out of Blackhawks into some of the choppiest waters in the world, and, once there, he’d rescued some of Uncle Sam’s finest—and plenty of other people. Her nipples tingled. And he loved cats.

The only things standing between herself and naked were his T-shirt and her bikini bottom. That wasn’t a whole lot of clothing, even if her pink swimsuit wasn’t exactly Agent Provocateur. Tag was deliciously, fabulously half-dressed himself. A pair of dark blue sweats hung low on his lean hips, revealing a stomach that was all delicious ridges and hard male planes.