Private Maneuvers (Wingmen Warriors 4)

Irritation chased across his face. "I had a job to do. I couldn't tell you top-secret, classified business that falls under a need-to-know-only status. I thought you understood that."

She frowned. "I do."

"Then what's the problem here?"

"Problem? If anyone knows about duty and service to country first, you're looking at her. Problem? You're the problem."

"O-kay. Then you're still upset over the beach?"

Hell yes, she was, but she didn't intend to let him know. Especially not now. "Actually, I'm over that. After all..." She pinned him with her best Alicia the Icicle imitation. "You're the one who didn't get to finish."

Max's brows shot toward his spiky hairline. Good. He deserved a few surprises, the dirtbag.

His brows lowered slowly, assessingly. He studied her through narrowed eyes as if deciphering one of Lucy's or Ethel's clicks. "Then why are you pissed at me?"

Uh-oh. She should have admitted to the secret-agent-man excuse, an easy out to get him off her back. Instead, she would have to fess up to the truth. "You called my father."

Max's jaw thrust. "Excuse me for thinking your life seemed more important than your pride."

"Pride?" Indignation and more than a little pain chased away all traces of exhaustion. "You think this is about pride? It's about being treated with respect. If Crusty were the one lying in this bed, would you have called his mommy to come look out for him?"

He shoved to his feet. "That's a crock."

Shock shut her mouth. For two seconds. "Run that by me again?"

"You heard me." He advanced one stalking step at a time, flowered swim trunks riding low on his hips, T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders that had saved her just twenty-four hours before. "I'm tired of apologizing for keeping you alive the past three weeks. Tired of apologizing for making sure you're safe now."

He stopped beside her bed, hands planted on the silver rails as he leaned closer. "Most of all, I'm tired of trying to keep my mind on the job while keeping my hands off you out of some damned misplaced sense of honor."

He wanted her. Still. For real. No cover act.

And in that burst of realization she acknowledged her secret fear—that he'd been pretending the attraction and she'd been too naive to know. That he hadn't wanted to finish.

Hadn't wanted her.

Forget backing down. He desired her and she reveled in the power.

She met him nose to nose, this stranger who evoked a now-familiar heat within her. "Nobody asked you to be honorable."

A flame lit his eyes a split second before his mouth met hers. Or did hers meet his? She didn't know and didn't care.

She just wanted closer. Deeper. More.

Her lips parted under his and he took her mouth. Took her senses. Took her ability to do more than hang on to his neck and kiss him back, explore the taste and warmth of Max, the part of him she knew well.

His hand reached to drop the metal rail, his body following as he sat on the edge of the hospital bed. He cradled her gently, slowed their kiss, savoring, so different but no less enticing than their devouring frenzy on the beach. Their hands explored each other with tender reverence, stealing reassurance that they'd made it through the day alive.

He lowered her back onto the pillow. Not that she put up much resistance, or let go. She wanted to hold on to this moment, to the remnants of familiarity between them. She'd barely let herself dream there could be something more. And it seemed so damned unfair she couldn't have it all.

Max brushed her lips once, twice, again before he rested his forehead on hers. "What the hell am I going to do with you?"

Familiarity faded, painful reality threatening to intrude. Her hand cradled his bristly cheek. "You don't get it, do you?"

"Apparently not, Darcy."

She held back the words for a second longer, held him. For one more selfish minute she wanted to pretend he was just Max Keagan, marine biologist with an attitude.

Her own James Dean rebel with a Ph.D.