Wicked Nights (Men of Discovery Island 2)

“I should make you swim.” He sounded tired and that made her feel all melty inside. No. Fighting was better. She was better at it.

“I’ll ride back with you to the marina,” she said.

9

THE RIDE BACK to the marina was uneventful. If Piper had been behind the wheel of the Feelin’ Free, Cal bet she’d have opened up the throttle and raced him every inch of the way. Instead, Carla kept the other motorboat to a nice, steady pace, content to follow Cal’s lead.

Piper dropped down onto one of the bench seats where she had a direct line of sight on him. “You want to talk about it?”

He didn’t have to ask what “it” was. Piper wasn’t blind. She’d clearly seen him struggling on his free dives, and now she was asking the questions he didn’t want to answer. He tightened his grasp on the steering wheel and let the speedometer creep up a little.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” he said, because admitting to the truth was impossible.

“Uh-huh.” Piper didn’t sound as if she believed him. “The dive didn’t work out so well for you.”

He shrugged. “We both know you’re going to insist on using Rose Wall in our demo. Your text mentioned sea lions, as well. Maybe I’m tired of fighting you on every point, Piper.”

She gave him what he was coming to think of as The Look. “You think? We’re oil and water. I’m not sure we’ve ever agreed on anything.”

“Yeah, but I blame you.”

She smiled and looked out over the water. Discovery Island’s harbor wasn’t precisely a bustling hotbed of activity. A few motor launches headed in and out, ferrying visitors who’d plunked down a substantial number of dollars for a charter fishing trip. Piper looked rumpled and relaxed, her hair whipped into salty curls by her dive and the breeze. She’d shoved her wet suit down to her waist and he couldn’t help but notice her breasts in her bikini top. Two small pink triangles of fabric cupped her curves.

“You wish,” she said.

“You could try agreeing with me,” he pointed out. “In fact, you could just try listening. I’m not the bad guy in this picture. I want to give a good demo every bit as much as you do.”

Or more. Honestly, he had no idea what to say to her. The five feet separating them on deck might as well have been a million miles. Bridging the distance was impossible.

She sat cross-legged on the seat, arm extended along the gunwale as her body melted into the up and down of the boat. “How are we going to make this work?”

He had no idea.

Bending over, he popped the top on the cooler by his feet and tossed her a bottle of cold water. “We have to put together a program of two dives. We’ll use one of yours and then I’ll pick a second site.”

“We’ll pick the second site together,” she said firmly.

Her definition of partner was closer to dictator. “You picked Rose Wall.”

“You don’t like the site?”

“It’s easy,” he countered. “We take uncertified divers out there all the time. There’s no challenge to it.”

“A dive doesn’t have to be hard to be worthwhile.”

For the next fifteen minutes, they bickered amicably, until the marina came into view. The arguing kept his mind off the dive he hadn’t made. Good.

As he pulled into the slip, she hopped out onto the dock and helped him tie off. He wanted to say something, but he was out of words. Piper was confident and sure as she went about the business of docking, so even that topic of conversation was out. He turned the boat off and grabbed her gear. She was already padding down the dock to the dunk tank, pushing the damp wet suit down her thighs with a wriggle.

And...wow. The wet suit hit the ground and her pink bikini had his body heating right up. When she bent over and swiped up the wet suit, his blood pressure soared. How did she manage to get under his skin without even trying?

He contemplated that while he rinsed her booties and fins in the freshwater tank at the end of the dock. Beside him, her arm brushing his, she dunked the wet suit.

“Where’s Carla?”

She snorted. “Probably closing up the dive shop or giving us space to kill each other.”

“Death or permanent injury would make a joint demo hard.”

“We fight,” she stated matter-of-factly.

True. “We could try not fighting,” he suggested.

“Yeah. And you could try not giving orders.”

“Your shoes are on your boat,” he pointed out.

“I’m tough. Walking barefoot isn’t going to kill me.”

“Uh-huh.” She’d say the same thing if she were strolling over hot coals. “Humor me.”