Wicked Secrets (Men of Discovery Island 3)

A pop and a sharp noise on her six.

Flash bang.

No.

Sand rippled in front of the Humvee and exploded in front of the windshield in a wild, shifting column as the too-quiet pop-pop-pop of machine-gun fire filled the air, and something underneath the vehicle exploded, driving the front half of the Humvee up. Win rock-paper-scissors and ride shotgun—and live. Sit in the backseat and die. They’d laughed as they played for their lives.

And she’d won. She’d gotten out. She’d come home.

Or most of the way. She’d worried she wouldn’t know what to do with herself stateside, that maybe she couldn’t shake her training or the traumatic memories.

Home. She forced her eyes open, drinking in the boards of the pier and the distant slap of the waves. Not the desert. She was crouched on the ground, back to the railing, because that way no one could come up behind her. And yet she must have been completely out of it, because strong arms wrapped around her, anchoring her to the present, and she hadn’t heard him coming.

“Sergeant. Mia. Snap out of it.” The rough-tender tone of Tag’s familiar voice rumbled in her ear made her name sound so much like mine. “Just a kid with a balloon,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Evac,” she ordered. It was always better to be safe than sorry.

She felt rather than saw his nod as Tag scooped her up in his arms and started sprinting. Going somewhere, anywhere. She didn’t care as long as that somewhere had plenty of space. Quiet. And Tag.

Home.

* * *

TAG’S HEART POUNDED and not because he’d sprinted the length of the pier with Mia in his arms. He exhaled raggedly, carrying her down the steps onto the beach. Jesus. He’d almost had heart failure when she’d dropped to the ground, lost in her own world. He couldn’t fight invisible ghosts, couldn’t stand between her and the nightmares in her head.

Which, by the way, would only invite a verbal butt-kicking from her because Mia had made it perfectly clear she neither wanted nor needed rescuing. She’d tell him she had this, which made her the sweetest, prickliest liar he’d ever kissed or held.

“Hey,” he said, looking down at her as he crunched across the sand, because he was positively on fire in the conversation department. She ignored him, sucking air in like a dying woman. Between each breath, she counted. Onetwothree. The numbers ran together in a mumbled litany and didn’t seem to be doing the trick, because her fingers twisted the back of his T-shirt.

He tried again.

“I realize you like to do things by yourself, but I’m hoping you can make an exception tonight.” He laid in a course for the older pier, the one locals used for fishing. Unlike Pleasure Pier, which was lit up like a Christmas tree, the old pier was dark and silent. He figured she’d like that.

She nodded, more than a little desperately, so he took that as permission to proceed with his rescue mission. He took them beneath the pier where it was dark and shadowy in the best kind of way, cutting out the light and noise from the Pleasure Pier.

She unburied her face from his shoulder and looked up at him. “Just so you know, I’m seriously considering becoming a hermit.”

He knew she saw the small smile that touched his mouth, and not just because she halfheartedly dug her elbow into his side. This close, she couldn’t miss a thing. There wasn’t any space left between them. No distance. He had a feeling it wasn’t just a matter of inches anymore. Nope. He was falling for Mia, and it could only end badly.

“Discovery Island’s short on everything but sea caves. The accommodations would be wet.”

Her lashes fluttered. “I can handle a little water.”

He’d bet she could. His knees felt a little wobbly just remembering the terrified expression on her face, though, so he sat down on the sand, cradling her on his lap while he reached for his boots. She wriggled, but he pinned her in place with one arm, working on his laces with the other.

“Just not people.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Sometimes they drive me crazy.”

“Yeah.” She settled in against him, so he slid his hand up to rub the back of her neck. Her hair clung to his fingers, smelling like coconut shampoo. She’d left a bottle behind in his shower and he might have used it himself. Once. Or twice. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not in a million years,” she said, which just made him more determined to hear her story.

“I think you should tell me.” He kneaded the back of her neck gently. “And I’m willing to wait ten minutes, not a million years.”