Wicked Secrets (Men of Discovery Island 3)

“Mia.”

She was greedy. Being alive should have been enough. Instead, she shifted and swung herself over his lap to face him. He was leaning back against one of the pier posts, his legs stretched out in front of him letting the beach get his jeans wet and sandy. There was concern in his dark hazel eyes and—affection. Unfortunately, she had a bad feeling that wouldn’t be enough for her when he headed back to San Diego.

“There were four of us in the Hummer. We drove straight over an IED.”

“How many of you got out?” He went straight to the heart of the matter.

She could see each one of the guys who’d ridden in the Humvee with her. Frankie, who was six foot two with a head of strawberry-blond hair and a perpetual sunburn on the bridge of his nose. J.T., who hated his given names so much he only answered to his initials and spent hours coming up with nicknames for every man in his unit. And Dylan, who’d sung cartoon jingles in a booming bass voice, because no mission was complete without an earworm.

“Two and a half.”

“That’s—” He shook his head, unable to come up with a suitable adjective. It didn’t matter. She’d heard them all, and none of them described her feelings.

“Yeah. Dylan and I were in the front, so we both went airborne, which was a blessing in disguise. We had road rash, and I didn’t hear anything for three days, but pop a few Band-Aids on us and we were ready to go back out. J.T. and Frankie were in the backseat, however, and they took a direct hit.”

“I’m damned sorry,” he said in a low, rough voice.

“Me, too.”

He kissed her then, a sweet, quick brush of his lips over hers. It wasn’t enough. His mouth kissed the corner of hers. Kissed more of her. He was holding back, as if he wasn’t sure what she wanted, but he’d give it to her if he could. She could feel his chest rising and falling beneath her palm, strong and certain in the darkness. No, she definitely needed more.

“We could—” She waved at the sand around them. Really, it was almost dark enough. If they moved up toward those rocks, they’d have enough cover in case someone got curious and peeked underneath the pier. And neither of them had to get totally naked. Having Tag inside her right this instant seemed like a good idea. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel so cold.

“You want to get me arrested for indecent exposure?”

He didn’t sound like he minded, but he stood up and carefully set her on her feet before swiping at the sand on her knees. She was pretty sure she didn’t have sand on her butt, but he brushed her off there, too.

“Chicken,” she accused.

“I have it on good authority sand chafes,” he said, a smile in his voice.

She made a turn-around gesture with her fingers, and he obliged. Sand covered his butt. Lucky her.

“I don’t want to know how you know that,” she retorted, brushing a hand over his sandy bits.

“Cal has sisters,” he said apologetically, making a face. “They talk. I didn’t ask for details, but they volunteered. My vote is for a bed.” He held out a hand. “You coming?”

She punched him lightly in the shoulder. “That has to be the worst double entendre I’ve heard today.”

“I meant it.” He stared back at her, rock solid and steady. Except he wouldn’t be there always, not for her. He was headed back to San Diego, while she was staying here. She needed to savor every second with him while she could.

She slid her hand into his.

“Well, in that case, count me in.”

16

“SAM BLACK. RESCUE SWIMMER.” The man leaning against the front counter wore a grin and not much else. His swim trunks hung decadently low on lean hips, and he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. The man was seriously cut. While Cal had warned her the new guy was putting in an appearance today, he’d failed to give her a heads-up about how attractive the new addition was.

“Mia Brandt. Office manager who’s going to manage your ass.”

His smile got wider. “Give it your best shot.”

She did a quick hand check. No rings. The lack of jewelry wasn’t necessarily conclusive, because some guys shucked their bands before they dove, but he also didn’t have tan lines on his fingers.

“The guys said I could pick up a dive-shop T-shirt and a gear bag.”

She eyeballed him for size—damn, did the military ever grow them small?—and tossed an extra-large in his direction.