Anne Marsh's Blog, page 3

STRIPPED DOWN

 

                                                             

An excerpt from STRIPPED DOWN, a contemporary cowboy romance releasing on February 8th!
EXCERPT ONE

 

June

 

ANGEL

Blackhawk Ranch doesn’t run dry on my watch. Almost three hundred years the Mendozas have owned this part of California, my forefathers wrestling the arid landscape into submission. We reign here. We’re the fucking kings, and it’s not an empty title. Stetsons instead of crowns are the rule, but I’ve still got power. I run a fifty-thousand acre spread with ten thousand head of cattle. Forty cowboys depend on me for their living, and it’s about more than keeping the lights on and beer in the fridge. These boys are mine, and in exchange for their loyalty, I take care of them.

My name is Angel Mendoza, and anyone who hurts what’s mine learns fast that I’m more devil than not.

Protecting and defending isn’t the problem. Rain is.

This is the second well I’ve visited today. The first one was bone-dry, and this one yields only a sluggish trickle. Even a Mendoza can’t force the winter rains to come. The creek we get our surface water from is dried-out mud, the bed baked into razor-sharp ridges by the unrelenting sun, and the surviving wells fight to bring the water up nine hundred feet. If will could do it, I’d yank the water from the ground and feed it to the skin-drying heat of our California summer. Instead, for only the second time in my life, I’m fucking powerless.

The cowboys accompanying me eye first the well and then my face. They’re gonna take their cue from me. I yank my Stetson lower and head back to my truck. My boys fall in behind me, led by Dare, my foreman. Dare’s a tall, lean bastard who walks with a limp he took from a bad fall three years ago out in the mountains. The landing cut up his face some too because he and his horse planted on an old section of barbed wire fencing. It took us all night to get to him, and by then some of the damage was permanent. He wasn’t dead, though, so that went in the victory column as far as I was concerned. And he’d ride if he had to tie himself to the horse because he’s mean son-of-a-bitch if you push him hard.

“We’re dry,” Dare states the obvious as he stares at the well. He flicks the brim of his Stetson back so he can get a better look at Trouble with capital T. He’s not a pretty man. Unlike some of the guys who ride the Blackhawk spread, he’ll never be cowboy poster material. His buzzed-short hair and scarred face makes him look more MMA fighter than rider. He commands respect, though. The other cowboys don’t say shit when he talks, just wait for one of us to come up with a solution, to take charge.

I have one ace in the hole. “We’ll drill deeper.”

Sometimes cash can solve a problem and I’ve got money. Plenty of it.

“You so sure we’ll hit water?” Dare leans on the edge of the concrete reservoir, assessing first the water level and then the big yellow pipe sucking the wet stuff up from underground. He and I both know this isn’t a mechanical failure. Dare fixes things. If a wrench could make this shit better, he’d be all over it.

“I will.”

It’s that fucking simple. Plan. Execute. Succeed. Failure simply isn’t an option.

“Give me a drill date,” he says. If I say it’s done, it’s done and he knows that.

“I’ll have that for you tomorrow,” I tell him. “Until then, truck the water in from the reservoir.”

Hauling water is gonna cost money, but the ranch can handle it short-term. Longer term, we bleed cash, and I didn’t build my ranching empire by losing money.

After Dare is sorted, I get back in my ride and steer the battered pickup over the dark dirt road. Setting my plan in motion is as simple as punching the driller’s number on my cell phone and giving the order to go deep. Drilling for water is expensive, the price rising with each foot you punch down and ending in a price tag that makes Tiffany’s look like the Dollar Store. I know this, but even still the driller quotes me a per-foot price that makes my breath catch. For that kind of cash, he’d damned well better hit water and it had better taste like liquid gold.

Time kinda slows to heated, sensual shimmer outside the cab while the driller blah-blah-blahs his way through next steps because there’s one driving urge pounding through everyone and everything on my spread: find water. The cattle need it. My vaqueros covet it. I’ll be damned if I allow a dry well to consume what I’ve built here.

Making a living from the land means fighting every step of the way. Fortunately, I love a good fight and I’ve also planned for this day—already have the solution. I drill, the cattle can drink, and we all live happily fucking after. If I hit water. If it’s enough.

I drive for what seems like hours, making the rounds and ironing out problems. I’m the best at what I do, and everybody wants a piece of me. I oblige, but by sunset I’m pissed off and hot. Taking a few minutes for myself is a no-brainer when the turnoff for the swimming hole appears out of the shadows. I aim the pickup down the dirt road. I’m bone tired from a day that began before sunrise and has only just ended. I’m hot, and I smell like sweat, horse, and probably a dozen other unpleasant things as well. Right now, a swim sounds perfect, exactly what I need to cool down and think things through.

I pull in and kill the headlights, soaking up the nighttime peace and quite. You can practically feel the heat escaping slowly from the ground. Images flicker in the corner of my vision, but those are ghosts. I’m home. I’m in charge of my life now, and Afghanistan is far, far away. I’ve put a continent between me and that place.

The quiet grows when I get out of the truck. After a long day wrangling the ranch, I need to be alone. Sometimes, there are too many bodies, too close, and it’s hard not to remember that last month in Afghanistan.

Fuck.

And sometimes memories refuse to leave me alone.

I shut the truck door carefully, deliberately. Slamming shit doesn’t help because I don’t want or need the loud crack of sound that follows the violence. Something got broken inside me in Afghanistan, something I haven’t fixed yet, but I will. Failure is never an option. Turning toward the swimming hole, I fist the bottom of my T-shirt, ready to strip down. Ready for the cold lick of water on my face and my balls.

Except . . . I’m not alone. Tucked into the edge of the road is a beat-up Bug I can’t believe made it down the dirt track. Even in the near-dark, the hot pink paint job is an eyesore. One tire looks almost flat, and there’s a crack that stretches the entire length of the windshield. California plates, though, so I’ve got myself a local.

Christ, I’m sick and tired of the trespassers who think ignoring Blackhawk’s signs and fences is a game. High school kids have been sneaking onto Mendoza land for decades, which is a stupid fucking thing to do. We’re a working ranch, and we run cattle. Idiot kids wise up fast when they meet the wrong end of a bull, a barbed wire fence, or a snake. All they have to do is ask and follow a few basic rules to keep themselves safe. I’d say yes. Instead, they’re all about forbidden fruit, reenacting their own twisted version of the Garden of Eden and the fall. They get hurt, when all I want is to keep them safe.

Scrubbing a hand over my head, I reach in and snag the Stetson from the passenger seat. Somehow, I’ve acquired the reputation of being a mean-ass, coldhearted bastard. I cemented my new rep when I came home from the SEALs. Since I don’t give a damn what folks says, my fan club isn’t all wrong. Safety comes first.

I move out silently. No point in advertising my presence until I have to. Tonight’s trespassers are probably just kids and nothing more sinister, but, damn it, it isn’t safe to swim out here unsupervised. I’ve warned them not to come at night and never to come alone. I have to know when someone’s on my land because too many things can happen out here if a person isn’t careful. And if it turns out the visitor is less benign, well, I’ve got a Glock tucked in the waistband of my jeans. I don’t leave shit to chance. Not anymore.

It takes just a minute to penetrate the fringe of cottonwood trees ringing the swimming hole. Older than anyone now living on the ranch, those trees have seen plenty. My brothers had a rope-and-tire swing here. They spent hours whooping it up, clambering into the tire, soaring out over the water, and then letting go of the rope as soon as the swing floated over the center of the pond where the water ran deepest. They’d free fall screaming with pleasure, never second-guessing their landing. The temperature hovers too close to frigid for comfort, but the water table isn’t deep enough to tap. It can’t end my dry spell.

When I reach the edge of the trees, my feet stop moving without a direct order from my head; tonight’s swimmer is unexpected. I expected to find a few high school kids. Maybe a cooler of beer or a couple busy discovering each other. Instead, there’s a woman in the water.

A damned fine, completely bare-ass naked woman. She cuts through the dark surface with slow, lazy strokes. Not too tall and real damned curvy. Her sun-kissed skin is on display in the silvery moonlight and ink curls up her spine and wraps around her throat and her ribs. I can’t tell what the design is from where I’m standing, but there are branches and flowers and curly shit that follow the lines of her body. When she moves, the ink moves with her like leaves and vines shifting in the wind. It’s fucking gorgeous. Water-slicked blond hair covers her bare shoulders and back, obscuring more of the lines and colors. I should be a gentleman, should look away. But damned if her paddling around bare-ass naked in my swimming hole wearing nothing but ink isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

She dives beneath the surface, treating me to a spectacular view of her ass. Fuck if I don’t swallow hard. Her curves look soft as peaches and every bit as luscious. The urge hits me hard to cup both cheeks in my hands. Run my fingers down that skin and explore every inch of her up to and including the shadowed crease between her cheeks. I’ll show her every dark, sweet, dirty pleasure I know—and I’ve got a long, long list.

For the moment, though, I stand and look, feeling an unexpected grin tug the corners of my mouth. She’d be so much safer if my hell-raising younger brothers had been the ones to find her. I don’t pretend to be nice. I don’t have to. The Mendozas own this ranch. This world, this place, is mine because I’m the Mendoza, the oldest and the patriarch even if I’m only thirty-two, and here she is, blatantly trespassing without so much as a by-your-leave.

I’ll let her make it up to me.

My sexy swimmer reaches a rocky outcropping and grabs for a plastic bottle of shampoo. The scent of green apples fills the air as, with a little hum, she treads water and lathers up before slipping beneath the surface of the water. That body of hers is now slick with foam and apple goodness.

Christ, I love apples.

Even though I haven’t seen her face yet, she looks good enough to eat.

         

Pleasing her SEAL

 

                          

Chapter 3

This girl might just have the best job in the world! I’m hanging out on a tropical island, the cocktails are free and hotness is a basic job requisite. Because did I mention the good-looking guys are everywhere? Yum. I even ran into a bona fide single guy yesterday and he’s got yours truly thinking that a vacation fling should be part of my plans. Fantasy Fodder—let’s call him FF for short—accidentally bumped into me when I was snapping you some gorgeous photos of the lagoon at sunrise (ladies, you’re totally going to want to do your wedding photos here, although I recommend a less obscene hour than the ass crack of dawn). Then he jumped right into rescue mode and kept Yours Truly from going over the edge of the cliff. So there I am with my very own white knight and rescue hottie, and he’s not even mad that I may have christened him with a venti white mocha. A guy with a sense of humor and strong, manly hands? Sign me up, ladies!

—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle

There needed to be a fourth, hidden option for people who wanted to increase their odds of hooking up because Maddie wasn’t an A, B or C girl. Her generous coating of SPF-100 sunscreen—thanks, Mom, for the redheaded gene—and a blue-and-white-checked retro two-piece definitely didn’t fall into the string bikini category, although the buttons marching down her hips were a sassy touch she loved. She also appreciated her curves, even if they didn’t always fit into a standard-issue bikini. There was a whole lot of her recently thanks to a post-layoff diet of wedding cake and favors. She needed to plan on buying new clothes or minimizing the sweets.

A mental image of Mason popped into her head. He’d be anything but sweet. Bad girl. Maybe she’d been single long enough to recover from her last disastrous relation ship or maybe it was something about Fantasy Island itself, because the resort certainly encouraged her erotic daydreams with their hunky help. She’d posted about her hot-man-on-a-hillside early this morning. If she couldn’t get an orgasm from him, she’d at least get a blog post. So far, the yeas outnumbered the nays two to one in her “Would you have hot vacation sex?” poll.

Since it was the low season, Fantasy Island didn’t have many guests at the moment. There had only been two other women on the seaplane that had brought her here. Laney Parker had been using up her honeymoon reservation after her fiancé had ditched her, and Ashley Dixon had won a free getaway in some sort of Facebook contest. The low occupancy was undoubtedly the reason why Fantasy Island’s owners had been willing to fly her here for free so she could blog about their awesome resort offerings.

This was her big break. If Fantasy Island bought banner advertising on her blog, she’d be able to keep the lights on in her condo for at least six more months…and having one high-profile client would attract others. Business was like dating. The more popular a girl was, the more guys lined up to buy her drinks and share their contact info. So far, her blog had been a wallflower, but she was determined that those lonely days were over.

And writing about the pool scene was certainly no hardship. The pool itself was all sleek curves. Private cabanas offered guests superb views of the sea, and staff moved discreetly among the loungers, offering fruit kebobs and Evian water spritzes. Ashley waved from a cabana. She wore an electric pink string bikini and held a paperback that almost outweighed her.

Ashley shoved her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Are you here for the cooking lesson?”

Not intentionally, but it sounded like fun, particularly if it came with a side of Mason. She dropped onto the cushion beside Ashley, taking care not to slosh the mango margarita she’d acquired at the bar.

“I could be,” she agreed. “I like free food.”

Ashley nodded. “We’re making mango raspberry crepes with honeyed goat cheese.”

Yeah, that sounded pretty good. “I’m in,” she decided.

And then, wouldn’t you know it, Mason strode toward the pool, and he was the cherry on the sundae. He wore black linen plants that clung to his muscular thighs as he moved. Instead of looking silly in the white chef’s jacket and hat, he looked in control. Confident. He’d rolled his sleeves up, revealing powerful forearms. She was almost certain she was holding her breath, damn it. He was just one guy. One really hot, supersexy guy. His dark gaze slid over her, stopped, and he nodded. She had no idea what that meant. Hi? Glad to see you? Wait, there’s the woman I almost knocked over a cliff? The man should come with a secret decoder ring.

Ashley sat up cross-legged and closed her paperback. “Do you think we have to cook in order to eat?”

Maddie would bet the answer to that was yes. Mason wasn’t the kind of guy you took advantage of, and while she hadn’t asked his policy on free lunches when they’d run into each other at the lookout yesterday, she could certainly venture a guess. While she stared, Mason started dicing mango with easy confidence. She was all thumbs when it came to knives. Mason…was not.

“He’s going to make us work for it,” she said with a petulant frown.

Ashley sighed. “You think he’s a hard-ass about everything?”

“Probably.” If she took her friend’s words at face value, she had to admit that the man certainly had an amazing butt.

“Remember the drinks menu,” Ashley said impishly. “You could take him for a test drive.

The rumored drinks menu, she reminded herself. The menu existed. She’d spent far too much time flipping through the twelve laminated pages of drinks with sexy names like Leather and Lace and Kinky Sex. The question, however, was whether those drink names were really not-so-covert code names for naughty sex acts that could be requested from the staff or other guests. Laney Parker had certainly made a good case for the menu being fact rather than fiction. She’d hooked up with the resort’s super-sexy masseuse and, from her blushes, done some menu exploring with him. It was too bad the other woman had been unexpectedly called home when a new job had opened up for her at a local emergency room, because Maddie had questions. Like could you really just point and pick? For some reason, the notion felt kind of slimy. “Do you really think Mason’s available for that?”

Ashley shrugged. “Ask him.”

“A guy who looks like that isn’t available.” Not in her universe and not with her dating bad luck.

Ashley ogled Mason. “Are you offering him to me?”

No. She really wasn’t. “He’s off-limits,” she blurted, surprising herself. She hadn’t decided yet if she was going for him, but she knew she didn’t want to watch Ashley making a move on her chef.

“He’s all yours,” Ashley said, looking at her over the top of her sunglasses. “But you have to tell me what you’re planning for him.”

“He may not be interested,” she warned.

“Oh, he’s interested.” Ashley grinned and, although they both knew she had no way of being certain about Mason’s interest, Maddie appreciated the support.

Maddie didn’t want to explain how many times she’d met a guy and gone after him, only to learn that he thought of her as the fun friend. At the last wedding she’d attended, the usher she’d been paired with had spent the evening reception hitting her up for the maid of honor’s phone number. His patent disinterest in her own charms had rankled too, because she’d thought they had good chemistry. Clearly, her dating radar was broken.

“Remember,” she said lightly. “I’m always the bridesmaid and never the bride.”

“How many times?”

It took a minute to do the math. “Thirteen. And gig number fourteen is coming up in a month. I have enough bridesmaid dresses in my closet to open my own bridal shop.

Ashley made a sympathetic face. “You think they’d notice if you recycled and wore one more than once?”

“They’d notice,” she said with feeling. She’d dealt with more than one Bridezilla.

Ashley nodded. “So. What’s the plan?

She didn’t have one.

“Pick a drink,” her friend advised. “Imagine the possibilities. I’ll get you started. Dirty Girl Scout. Sex on the Farm. Sexy Alligator.”

“You made that one up.”

“Right here on the menu.” Ashley stabbed the plastic with her finger.

“Alligators aren’t sexy,” she protested. And sex on a farm didn’t sound particularly exciting, either. She was more of a sex-on-a-yacht-with-a-billionaire type of gal.

Ashley shrugged unrepentantly. “Imagine Mason’s face if you asked for that. You could get him to do anything.”

They both turned to stare at him. Nope. Imagining that was even harder than finding the sexy in an alligator. Ashley wasn’t deterred.

“Pink Panties. Sex in the Driveway. Long Slow Screw Against the Wall.” Ashley waved a hand. “Stop me when I get warm.”

“That sounds so cheesy,” she objected. But it also sounded fun. Her stomach hurt from laughing.

“Think of all the ways to improve your love life.” Ashley smirked at her, like finding an improved sex life was that simple.

Maddie stared at her margarita. No easy answer in the mango-flavored cocktail. Even though she was technically here on a working vacation, she’d been encouraged to sample everything the resort had to offer. So she could better describe it for her blog followers. She’d been more than happy to comply. A free week of R & R at an all-inclusive luxury villa? Sign her up. She could do whatever she wanted. Check out the beach. Go to lunch twice. Spend all her afternoons lazing in the sun or lying out at the spa.

Alone.

She hadn’t considered the implications of being a party of one until her seaplane had been wheels down—did seaplanes even have wheels?—surrounded by happy, honeymooning, we’re-having-fantastic-sex couples. Truthfully? She was lonely. Envious. Horny. As she watched other couples kissing and holding hands and generally getting started on happily-ever-after, she was feeling more than a little left out.

She clutched the mango margarita, fighting the urge to make a face. She had nothing to complain about. Hello, free vacation? It was just that she had kind of imagined that someday she would be the bride and that there would be a Mr. Maddie by her side to frolic on the island with her. Instead, she had another bridesmaid gig lined up for next month, and her lunchtime companion was another singleton she’d met on the seaplane.

Not that Ashley wasn’t fantastic. She was.

A shadow fell over them. “Ladies,” a familiar deep voice said. Mason stood over them, big and stern. Oops.

*

Maddie knew how to follow orders. Sort of. And definitely in her own unique, impulsive way. Mason probably shouldn’t read anything into Maddie’s attendance of his cooking class, but she was trouble and he had a feeling they both knew it.

After he broke up her gossipfest with Ashley, she bounced up to the temporary cooking station he’d pointed her to like he hadn’t just interrupted a conversation about her dating life. Her bikini hugged her gorgeous curves and made his fingers itch to touch her, to smooth the fabric away and uncover bare skin. Her red hair was pulled up in a ponytail that brushed her shoulders with each jaunty step she took, and she had a pair of big white sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. Her cover up was some kind of wrap thing with fringe on the sleeves that made him think of bedrooms. And getting naked. He thought a lot about getting naked when he was near Maddie.

She didn’t seem to be mad at him about his startling her yesterday, which was a plus. On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly paying all that much attention to him, either. Apparently, she wasn’t harboring teacher fantasies.

Still, he couldn’t help stealing glances at her and envisioning all the ways he could get to know her better. Make her feel better. She’d seemed…lonely. Even though she’d had her cute butt parked next to Ashley and had been laughing and talking up a storm like she always did, there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. Maybe it was just because she was literally here by herself and Fantasy Island didn’t have a swinging singles scene. He’d never seen so many couples glued to each other outside of a porn flick. He’d walked past the Jacuzzi the other night and his eyeballs still burned.

He lined his students up at the table, passed out mangoes, and then knives. Since he only had the four students, giving Ashley a wide berth was difficult but he managed. Guests three and four were a honeymooning couple more interested in each other than mangoes. That was fine with him. Teaching crepe-making was new to him, so the smaller the audience, the better. As soon as he barked go, Maddie obediently went to town on her mango, wielding her knife with more enthusiasm than skill. She attacked the fruit the same way she appeared to attack life—head-on.

She was beautiful, but that wasn’t the reason for his attraction. Or, rather, it wasn’t the sole reason. As hokey as it sounded, when she got close, he wanted to smile. To hold her in his arms and dance her around in a big old circle until she collapsed against him, dizzy and laughing. He wanted to laugh with her—and he’d felt that way since he first landed on the island and had set eyes on her.

She was someone special. And if there was an edge of desperation beneath her laughter, he wanted to know that side of her, too. She wasn’t just the life of the party, even if that was what she wanted the world to believe. And he didn’t think for one second that she was content with standing on the sidelines, watching wedding after wedding. So what did she want?

A piece of mango hit the pool deck. She cursed, nearly amputating her finger, and he decided it was time for an intervention. Her fruit was a mangled mess and he’d sharpened the Wüsthofs himself that morning.

“Did the mango do something to piss you off?”

She stopped chopping with a sigh, pink tinging her cheekbones. “At least you can still tell it’s a mango, right?”

Only because he’d passed the fruit out himself. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to identify the goopy yellow mass. Handling a knife was second nature for him. His Swiss Army knife had gotten him out of nearly as many jams as his combat knife. Reaching around her, he adjusted her grip. “Keep the bottom of the blade on the cutting board. Make sure the tip is up.”

She brightened even as she impaled her knife on her cutting board. “I get points for effort, right?”

Her hair smelled good, like strawberries and coconut beneath the added bonus layer of mangoes. She also had mango juice on her fingers, her front, and her cheek. He tried not to think about all the other places she could have self-decorated.

Focus. “Think squares.”

“Squares.” She sounded skeptical. He moved closer until his front was plastered up against her sweet butt. She inhaled, but didn’t protest.

“First one big square, then four smaller squares, then sixteen.”

“Math isn’t my thing.”

“Just dice.”

He mentally consulted what he’d dubbed the boyfriend cheat sheet. He needed to compliment her in a meaningful way. Establish a sense of emotional intimacy. Honestly, he had no clue what that meant, although telling her that her hair smelled nice probably didn’t count. A piece of flying mango hit him on the shoulder as he opened his mouth to praise her on her mad chopping skills.

Emphasis on mad.

“Oops,” she said and grinned up at him. He knew a deliberate hit when he saw one. If she wanted to play dirty, he was happy to play with her.

“Can I take over?” She dropped the knife—and leaned back against him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said and she blushed.

“Chopping’s hard work. You can be my mango boy anytime,” she said, surrendering the knife. If he was smart, he wouldn’t read anything into it. Apparently though, he’d checked his brain when he’d accepted her as his mission, because he could feel a small answering smile tugging at his mouth.

After he’d chopped her mango—and, Jesus, he wished that was a euphemism for something else—he moved down the table, checking on his other students. Ashley had her mango chopped into precise cubes. “Show-off,” he muttered, and she stuck her tongue out at him. All good there. The honeymooning couple at the far end had progressed to feeding each other slices of fruit, and he resisted the urge to tell them to get a room. They had one. They just weren’t using it.

Yet.

Fantasy Island made a guy think about sex about fifty times a minute. It didn’t help that Maddie was covered in mango juice, making her his very own sweet sticky treat. Her crepe had achieved some strange mutant shape that defied the round shape of the pan. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly was no circle. It figured she’d make quirky crepes.

He peeled her crepe off the bottom of her pan and gave it a quick QA check. The top was raw and the bottom blackened. With a sigh, he substituted his crepe for hers.

She flashed him a dazzling smile. “Thank you. For the rescue,” she added after a brief pause. He didn’t know whether she meant yesterday on the hillside—or the mangoes.

“I still owe you make up chocolate,” he said gruffly.

Her head whipped around, her ponytail slapping him in the mouth. “You meant that?”

“You bet.” He wiped a smudge of honey off the corner of her mouth. “I live to serve.”

That much was true. His family served. It was their tradition and he was proud to continue it. He’d do what he could do, push to be the best that he could be. Sure, he’d been the first to do it for Uncle Sam rather than Fish & Game or the Forest Service, but he figured service was like Christmas presents. It came in different sizes and shapes and sometimes you had no idea what you were getting, but it was all good. His dad had been a hotshot firefighter. His uncles were firefighters, too. He’d simply picked a different kind of fire, the kind that came with bad guys and bullets…and Maddie. Being her bodyguard detail was a whole different challenge.

She stared at him, evaluating something he couldn’t see. “Tomorrow?”

“It’s a date.”

“Like a date date?” Was that a hint of uncertainty in her eyes? He couldn’t tell, but that was nothing new. He wasn’t the kind of guy who dated much and being an active-duty SEAL made relationships near impossible. He never knew when he would be called up or for how long, which made any kind of connection or friendship outside of his team difficult.

“Makeup chocolate,” he repeated, skirting the whole thorny issue of their relationship potential.

She gave him another assessing look and then grinned. “Okay. Sounds like fun, so why the hell not?”

He, on the other hand, could think of multiple reasons. He was staring down thirty—from the wrong side of the decade. Although he still had all his working parts, he was banged up something fierce. His knees were good; his trigger finger steady. In short, he was a fixer-upper project and she was no carpenter.

“Give me a time, big guy,” she said, leaning in and patting his chest. “So I can prepare properly.”

Yeah. He was definitely out of his league here. Maddie was a dating guru, unlike his sorry self. At the very least, his instant erection was ironclad proof that she’d mastered the fine art of flirting.

“Eight o’clock,” he muttered and beat a strategic retreat.

 

 

                          

Pleasing Her Seal

 

                      

 

Chapter Two

When they reached the base of the hill, Mason called squad halt on the operation. Maddie had given him permission to lead her down the hill and down the hill only, so he handed over the tripod and flashed her a quick salute.

 She blinked at him, taking the tripod automatically. “Uh. Thanks.” Her gaze dipped to the coffee stain on his shirt, her face radiating embarrassment. “Sorry about that. And about scalding you.”

 She turned pink as if he were actually bothered by a few ounces of hot coffee. He’d been shot at, pinned down, and ambushed more times than he could count. Coffee was the least of his worries, although her blush was cute.

 “No worries, sweetheart. See you around?”

 “Pancakes,” she answered, sounding slightly breathless and he couldn’t hold back his grin. God, she was fun. When she went left, he hung back. Partly just to watch her go because, hell yeah, he enjoyed the sassy swing of her hips. Maybe she was trying to drive him crazy. It was a possibility.

 Mr. Guzman, his ass.

 The groom-to-be in Maddie’s photo was Diego Marcos and he would be arriving precisely never. His reservation had been canceled, courtesy of Seal Team Sigma. The possibility of Marcos’s brother showing up on Fantasy Island, however, was an unpleasant wrinkle that he’d need to alert the rest of the SEAL team to. If they didn’t have intel on where the brother was, they needed to get it stat.

 And added bonus… If Maddie ever found out what Mason had done, he’d be on her shit list for more reasons than scaring the bejesus out of her.

 He opened his hand and looked down. He’d taken advantage of her panic to pop the memory card out of her very expensive camera. He’d always used an inexpensive point-and-shoot himself, but then his usual model was a dead enemy target that needed documenting. Sunrises clearly required better technology.

 Unfortunately, boosting her memory card might not have been enough. If she’d transferred pictures via the resort’s Wi-Fi, he had a bigger problem than the square of plastic in his hand.

 By the time he’d made it back to their base camp, the prisoners were long gone on the Zodiacs, and the rest of the SEAL team was waiting for him. He’d take camping over five-star luxury resorts any day. The entire team, minus Remy, who was now somewhere between here and Belize, was present.

 Gray nodded acknowledgment when Mason stepped into the campsite. Gray was one of the biggest SEALs Mason had ever met. The team’s standing joke was that Gray didn’t parachute out of the plane so much as he plummeted. Like a rock. Although he sprawled at ease on a pile of backpacks, there was nothing casual about the glance he raked over Mason. Blood stained his camo. He’d stayed with the injured Remy until the medevac lifted off.

 Mason was last to arrive at the debriefing about to start. It was standard operating protocol to review every mission, identifying areas of concern where they could improve next time. The team sat in a semicircle, their attention focused on Gray. As soon as Mason dropped to the ground next to Levi, Gray reviewed the mission that they had just completed, beginning with their target’s arrival on Fantasy Island and ending with Remy’s medevac to Belize for emergency surgery. Since Gray’s maybe-girlfriend Laney Parker was a surgeon and she’d accompanied Remy on the flight, Mason figured his teammate had a fighting chance.

 When Gray finished the medical update and Levi had confirmed Marcos’s handoff to the US Navy, Gray dropped a new bombshell. “We’re not done here,” he said.

 “We get to vacation for real? Hooyah.” Levi leaned forward. “I’m borrowing your black AmEx, Mason.”

 “Dumbass,” Sam said. Their field medic was a laidback Alabama boy, but his lean build and easy smile were deceptively mellow. He could kick butt with the best of them, and no one on the team swam faster or blew more stuff up. “He means you get to work overtime.”

 Gray shook his head. “Real mature, Sam. And accurate. Our mission parameters have changed. We were charged with bringing in Diego Marcos, but now we’ve got a second target. Marcos has a brother, who operates as his right hand man.”

 “Would that be Santiago Marcos?” Maybe Maddie had it wrong. Maybe she wasn’t planning to shoot the wedding of a notorious drug dealer who, according to her, had invited his equally notorious younger brother to the celebration.

 Gray eyed him. “Are you psychic? Or is there something else we need to know about? Levi already mentioned that you hit a snag earlier today.”

 Maddie was definitely a complication. A beautiful, very alluring complication.

 “We had a resort guest up on the hillside lookout spot.” The place had some froufrou name like Lovers Lookout. He didn’t think Gray needed to know that, or that the spot apparently starred front and center in Maddie’s bridal portfolio. “She had a camera.”

 Gray scrubbed a hand over his head. “How long was she up there? Did she shoot the Zodiacs coming in?”

 Yeah, but that was only the first problem in a long list. “The guest is Madeline Holmes. She’s a blogger, one of those girls who hangs with Ashley.”

 Ashley waved a hand. “Maddie runs Kiss and Tulle. She covers destination weddings, wedding favors, wedding cakes, wedding dresses. Last month her blog had over two hundred thousand unique visitors.”

 “In other words, any noun that can be modified by the adjective wedding,” Levi interrupted. Mason was willing to bet that Levi wouldn’t recognize a wedding blog—or a wedding anything—if it bit him on the ass.

 Ashley made a face. “Pretty much.”

 “Well today she was covering sunrises.” He had no idea why a bride would want to hike up a hill at dawn in her dress for a few photos, but far be it from him to judge. “And she set up her camera yesterday to do time-lapse photography.”

 “She likes to vlog,” Ashley said with a sigh. “And live post.”

 Whatever vlogging was, he’d bet it was a security risk because Ashley made another face.

 Gray cursed. “Give me options.”

 “I snagged her media card, but she claimed she’d already transferred her pictures over the resort’s Wi-Fi.”

 Ashley leaned forward. “I’ve been monitoring traffic in and out, but she’ll likely keep copies on her laptop. Unfortunately, our resident wedding blogger has been experimenting with time-lapse photography. Even more unfortunately for us, her photos got picked up by a national travel site.”

 Ashley flipped her tablet around, exhibiting a series of sunrise photographs shot over the pier. The first half dozen shots were harmless unless you had a thing against waves and pretty colors. The next-to-last picture, however, was a problem. It showed a Zodiac shooting through the opening in the reef and heading toward the dock. Mason had a bad feeling that if he zoomed in, he’d see Marcos’s bodyguards bouncing over the water in that Zodiac. Worse, there was no sign of the Zodiac tied up to the dock in the next and final frame. The boat had disappeared in the thirty minutes between shots.

 Gray nodded slowly. “We need to see what else she got.”

 “There’s more,” Mason said. “Maddie mentioned she was planning on shooting a wedding later this week and the bride-and-groom pictures are a match for Diego Marcos and Julieta Ortiz. She’s been emailing Julieta and she expected them to show up yesterday. She doesn’t know their real names, but she knows their faces.”

 Gray pointed to Ashley. “Have the resort notify Maddie that the wedding has been canceled.”

 Ashley nodded. “Got it.”

“She also mentioned Santiago,” Mason divulged. He relayed what she’d told him about Santiago coming to the island to attend his brother’s wedding. “What do we know about him and do we have confirmation on his current whereabouts?”

 “He could have been part of the advance team we took out. I’ll reach out to command and see what they’ve got for us. In the meantime, no one breaks cover until we’ve got a bead on where Santiago is currently. Mason, you stick by Maddie’s side. Use the time to find out exactly what she has—or doesn’t have—on her laptop and to re-verify the identities of the other guests on the island. Make sure no one slipped past us, because if Santiago is here, he knows that Diego isn’t and that’s a problem.”

 “Smash-and-grab on the laptop?” Levi stepped up like he was ready to volunteer.

 “Do I need to define undercover for you?” Gray crossed his arms over his chest. “You steal or break her laptop, and she’s got a problem that becomes our problem. How much crime do you think there is on a luxury private island? The first folks she’s going to point a finger at will be staff.”

 “We could bring her in,” Mason suggested reluctantly. “Interview her. Or ask US Customs to intercept her on her return trip.”

 If Maddie had had her camera trained on the lagoon overnight, there was a very good chance she’d captured faces. Given what even amateur photo editing software could do these days, leaving any images in Maddie’s hands was a security risk. Put it together with the rest of her vlogging and…Diegos’s brother could connect the dots. Plus, if Santiago was here, Maddie could ID him and he’d bet Santiago had come undercover if he’d come at all.

 Gray nodded, apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Worst-case scenario, that works. The Customs boys can seize her laptop and go over it, although she’ll be asking questions.”

“Okay, then let’s go with plan A. I’ll find out what she’s got. If she’s got anything.” For some reason, he wanted to play nice. After all, he’d already scared her once, and she’d almost hyperventilated on the spot. She was a civilian, not collateral damage.

 Ashley examined her fingernails. “She’s here for another week.”

Good to know the timeline.

 “I’ll make sure she didn’t record anything.” If she had, Mason would wipe whatever device it was.

 Gray frowned. “Be discreet, okay? Scrub her media and shadow her in case there’s any blowback from Diegos’s people or Santiago.”

Levi whistled as the meeting broke up. “You just scored bodyguard duty. Enjoy.”

 Playing bodyguard wasn’t exactly the worst job in the world. He was all for sticking as close as possible to Maddie—up to and including getting naked. No. Wait. Resist that thought, sailor.

 Ashley rummaged in her bag. “I’m helping, too.”

 “Really?” Levi smirked, and even Mason recognized condescension when it stared at him. “How are you going to do that?”

 Ashley pointed to Mason. “Penis angle.” And then she pointed to herself. “Girlfriend angle.”

 “You think Maddie’s going to make Mason her new boy toy?”

 Mason punched Levi in the shoulder when his teammate snorted. Sure, he was an introvert and no flirt, but he’d dated as recently as this year. He didn’t need Levi’s lousy dating advice. The guy had a different woman for each day of the week, and he seemed perfectly happy that way. But that wasn’t the way Mason planned on living his life.

 “Read this.” Ashley shoved a magazine into his hands. The cover was one of those bright pink numbers with a too-perfect model. A brunette with spectacular boobs, her hair flying in an artificial breeze while she gave the camera a come-hither face.

 No thank you. “This is waiting room material.”

 Ashley grinned at him. “Maddie has a serious magazine addiction. She loves the quizzes, so think of this as enemy intel. X marks the spot, big guy.”

 He paged through the magazine. He’d been on the receiving end of intel more than once and it had never smelled like perfume before, or—he paused—scratch-and-sniff ads for tropical air fresheners. When he hit Ashley’s Post-it note, he stopped reading.

 “You think I should take a quiz on how to be the perfect guy?”

 Mason had four sisters. Surely that ought to qualify him as something of a girl expert? His jaw tightened. On the other hand, he’d also been married and divorced, so his credentials were rocky.

 Ashley slapped his shoulder. “Read it. Then ask questions.”

 Since Ashley had to be one of the most tenacious people Mason knew, he read. It was quicker that way. And she was right—it wouldn’t hurt to find out what it took to be a keeper guy. Mason’s sisters loved that crap. So did his cousins. A road map couldn’t hurt. He read the first quiz question.

 You kiss her for the first time. After you break your lip-lock, you:

 A) Tell her you’ve been fantasizing about kissing her for days—and that the reality is even better than the fantasy.

B) Whisper that she’s the hottest kisser ever—and you’ve got a list of other places you’d like to kiss her.

 C) Praise her kissing skills and beg her to do it again just so you can be sure.

 Jesus. What had happened to just kissing? “This stuff works?”

 Levi ripped the quiz out and tucked it into the pocket of Mason’s pants. “Take notes and have fun, sailor.”

 

                      

Pleasing Her SEAL

 

                      

Chapter One

Ladies, it’s Saturday and I’m surrounded by honeymooners. This is one step up from my usual weekend wedding gig, where my people options are usually the geriatric crowd, the toddler dancing crowd (always good for a much-needed cardio burst and the cutest, stickiest kisses), or the drunken groomsman crowd (good for equally enthusiastic but much damper kisses—ewww). I counted not one, not two, but three couples wrapped around each other by the pool. I have dubbed them the Octopi because they seem to have eight hands each and at least seven of them are engaged in activities best left to the bedroom or a soft porn channel. Go, Octopi! Speaking of that, watching the Octopi procreate underscores my own single state. You’ve found The One and you’re hearing wedding bells, or you wouldn’t be visiting this blog. Any tips for where to look for a good guy? Because this wedding blogger is feeling lonely in paradise.

 

—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle

 

“Hooyah, hooyah, hooyah, hey.” US Navy SEAL Mason Black fist bumped his knuckles with Levi Brandon’s. He didn’t have far to reach since both men were currently sharing the same palm tree backrest and catching their breaths after completing their mission.

“Today’s gonna be another easy day,” Levi automatically finished the chant. The words took Mason back to BUD/S training when making the SEALs team had still been seven weeks of hell away. Operating on four hours of sleep or less a night, he’d worked with his teammates to carry their Zodiac over their heads through the pounding surf, crawled through mud flats, and made best friends with a three-hundred-pound log that was their instructors’ idea of exercise equipment. Good times.

Levi grinned like he hadn’t just been embroiled in a firefight. “I’m hoping there’s a beer in my future.”

The current op wasn’t so bad and beat the hell out of completing the O course at BUD/S. Not only had the rain finally stopped, which went in the plus column, but one hell of a tropical sunrise lit up the horizon. Since he was waiting for the Zodiacs from the US Navy cruiser anchored just offshore, Mason had every reason to stare at the horizon. His team was minutes away from successfully finishing their undercover op on Fantasy Island.

One more checkmark in the “Mission Complete” column.

If he’d been a paperwork-and-spreadsheet kind of guy. Which he wasn’t.

Nope, he mused to himself as he went to work with a SIG Sauer and a sniper rifle. Rather than riding the commuter train, he’d be extracted from the island by Black Hawk and flown to the nearest US military base to debrief. And instead of writing quarterly reports or coding software, he’d helped lead the hostile extraction of a South American drug lord who’d made the mistake of booking a luxury vacation for himself and his new girlfriend on Fantasy Island.

Mason’s SEAL team had moved in early, posing as resort staff, and intercepted the guy as soon as he’d stepped foot on the island. Pretending to be a gourmet chef had actually been fun. Poolside ceviche lessons were a nice change of pace from dodging bullets, and he genuinely liked cooking. The female students weren’t bad-looking, either.

SEAL Team Sigma had established an undercover camp on Fantasy Island’s undeveloped side. Unlike the resort digs, their camp was basic. A few hammocks, a couple of tents, and enough hardware and weaponry to take over a small country. They could be packed and wheels up in two hours, and that portability alone made the place more perfect than a country club. Better yet, the rugged terrain all but guaranteed that no resort guest would stumble across the SEALs.

The faint sound of Zodiacs cutting across the lagoon announced that it was showtime. Diego Marcos, the captured drug lord, started cursing up a storm behind his duct-tape gag and pulling at his zip-tied wrists. The scumbag wasn’t going to quit until he was in US custody aboard the Navy vessel cruising offshore and maybe not even then. Not Mason’s problem. The girlfriend, however, looked peaked and more than a little teary, so Mason helped her to a seat on the sand with a hand under her elbow.

She might or might not know squat about her beau’s drug-running activities, but she’d come here with him and now she was tarred with the same brush. Marcos shot her a look, not quite managing to mask his concern. Mason got that. Separating your personal life from your professional life was hard.

Mason didn’t like the worry in her eyes, either, so when she stared up at him, he broke out his Spanish for Dummies. “No te preocupes que vas a estar bien.”

The way her eyes welled up at his words wasn’t a good sign. Or maybe she’d just had enough. Someone, somewhere was going to miss her. That unknown someone would want to yell at her for her bad choice in men and then maybe add an I told you so. He could imagine all too easily how he’d feel if she was one of his sisters or his cousins, seven females he loved more than life itself and who’d managed, collectively, to date every badass bad guy out there. Some of them more than once.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and fell back. He couldn’t let her go, and he couldn’t give her a do-over. So the best thing was to get out of her personal space.

“Softie,” Levi mouthed.

Yeah, but he was also the softie in charge at the moment. Their team leader, Gray Jackson, was supervising the medevac of an injured team member, so Mason had command.

Something flashed at his nine o’clock. Light on glass, like a camera lens. Typical. Right when the mission wrapped and they were all free to ride off into the sunset, everything went FUBAR. Lifting his binoculars, he zoomed in and, damn, it was the hot chick who’d attended the cooking lessons. She’d liked his ceviche. He’d liked…her.

She was gorgeous, with a smile that lit her up from the inside out, radiant red hair bouncing around her shoulders. During the class, she’d worn a polka-dot sundress with tiny straps crisscrossing her shoulders and his new mission had become finding a way to nudge those thin ribbons down her shoulders and get to know her. Biblically.

He nudged Levi with the toe of his boot. “We’ve got company.”

“Tell me it’s the Budweiser truck.”

“We’re on an island, dumbass.”

“Don’t be so literal.” Levi saluted him with his middle finger. “And let a man dream. Where’s our hotspot?”

“Up on the hill. Nine o’clock. We’ve got a resort guest out and about.”

Levi snatched the glasses away from him and examined the hillside. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “Jogger?”

“No such luck. That’s Madeline Holmes. She’s a wedding blogger and, right now, she’s snapping pictures of the lagoon.”

She was also his personal eye candy, her happy-go-lucky smile drawing his attention every time he was near her. And if he’d taken advantage of this island op to put himself in her vicinity as often as possible, that was need-to-know information.

“And in another ten, our pickup crew.” Levi cursed. “Options?”

Their mission was already FUBAR in some respects: Remy taking a bullet to the abdomen and being airlifted to a hospital, Gray bleeding emotionally because he’d taken a header for the visiting doctor who’d flown out with the injured SEAL. Pick one. Hell, pick both. This was why an insertion into civilian space spelled danger. Everything was easier in the jungle. Something moved, you shot it. Not, of course, that he wanted to shoot the woman.

“What are the odds she’s taking selfies?” Levi asked.

Zero to none. A familiar calm descended. His pretty redhead was a threat to his team, so he’d neutralize her. No matter how alive she made him feel, the mission and the team came first. “I’ll take care of it. You hand off our guests here to the Navy boys.”

“Got it.” Levi turned toward the approaching Zodiac. “Try to remember that we’re on a no-kill mission, okay? Plus, she’s friends with Ashley, and you don’t want to piss off Ashley.”

Jesus. Did he look that cranky? Or like the kind of guy who would take out an innocent civilian? He agreed with the warning on Ashley Dixon, though. She was a DEA loaner and honorary member of the SEAL team—and she could be mean as hell if you riled her up. Moving rapidly, he stripped off his more obvious weapons and dropped them on the sand. Since he was supposed to be undercover, working on the down low, he couldn’t show up toting forty pounds of lethal hardware.

*

Mornings sucked. Predawn alarms sucked even more because no one, ever, had accused Madeline Holmes of being a morning person. Still, she’d given it a shot, scrambling up the hill even as she willed the sunrise to hold off. Hitting the snooze button the third time had been a mistake.

In order to make the sunrise, she’d rolled out of bed and settled for a tank top, shorts and sneakers. Usually, she put some thought into her clothes. Okay. Lots of thought. Clothing was like armor. Pretty armor. Instead of rocking her suitcase full of brand-new vacation wear, however, she was climbing Mount Everest. She hadn’t shaved her legs or brushed her hair and she stank of eau de bug spray.

Go, her.

As the air lightened around her, she pushed harder because the sun was coming up fast and, color her romantic, but she wanted to catch the first rays of dawn, the colors exploding over the edge of the horizon. This was probably her one and only chance to visit a place like Fantasy Island, so every moment needed to count—and the pictures would be awesome blog material. And the more footage she got, the better. Everything rode on this trip.

She was lucky to be here, even if she’d come alone. The Fantasy Island marketing team had reached out to her about advertising on her blog and, ka-ching, she’d found herself here on an all-expenses-paid vacation. Now she had to earn her keep or her chance at big-time success would go poof.

The place was paradise, so how hard could it be to talk the island up on her blog? The only thing missing was the naked hot guy. Or loincloth-wearing hot guy. She preferred a man of mystery to a letting-it-all-hang-out-in-the-breeze guy. If she’d understood the island’s advertising correctly, she might be able to have her choice of either. Or both.

Whatever she wanted.

Fantasy Island advertised itself as an idyllic slice of paradise located on the Caribbean Sea—the perfect place for a destination wedding or honeymoon. The elegant type on the resort brochure promised barefoot luxury, discreet hedonism and complete wish fulfillment. Maddie’s job was to translate those naughty promises into sexy web copy that would drive traffic to her blog and fill her bank account with much-needed advertising dollars.

The summit beckoned and she stepped out into a small clearing overlooking the ocean.

“I need to work out more.” At least her asthma hadn’t kicked in. After a quick check of the camera that she’d set up yesterday to do time-lapse photography, she unwrapped her breakfast. She had a purloined croissant and a mocha, which was the perfect sunrise-watching food. While she munched and she shot, the air lightened around her, the birds and the howler monkeys competing to see who could make the most raucous noise. Being awake this early was…almost okay.

The noise of a boat coming in hard and fast on the quiet side of the island was a surprise. With her camera lens, she zoomed in on a pair of black rubber dinghies bouncing over the lagoon’s calm surface. Huh. She squinted, trying to make out the details. Not only did the guys riding the Zodiac look mean, but they were toting a small arsenal, too.

“Good view?” At the sound of the deep male voice behind her, Maddie flinched, arms and legs jerking in shock. Her camera flew forward as she scrambled backward. As adrenaline surged through her, she sucked in air—happy place, happy place—but her lungs betrayed her anyhow, her airway closing up tight. It felt like an elephant had parked its ass on her chest.

Strong male fingers fastened around her wrist. Panicked, she grabbed her croissant and lobbed it at the guy, followed by her coffee. He cursed and dodged.

“It’s not a good day to jump without a chute.” He tugged her away from the edge of the lookout, and she got her first good look at him. Not a stranger. Okay, then. Her heart banged hard against her rib cage, pummeling her out-of-air lungs, before settling back into a more normal rhythm. Mason. Mason I-Can’t-Be-Bothered-To-Tell-You-My-Last-Name-But-I’m-A-Stud. He led the cooking classes by the pool. She’d written him off as good-looking but aloof, not certain if she’d spotted a spark of potential interest in his dark eyes. Wishful thinking or dating potential—it was probably a moot point now, since she’d just pegged him with her mocha, followed by her croissant. Usually she couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, but she’d scored a bull’s-eye on the front of his T-shirt.

She snuck a peek at him. He didn’t seem pissed off. On the contrary, he simply rocked back on his haunches, hands held out in front of him. I come in peace, she thought, fortunately too out of breath to giggle. The side of his shirt sported a dark stain from her coffee. Oh goody. She’d actually scalded him. Way to make an impression on a poor, innocent guy. This was why her dating life sucked.

She tried to wheeze out an apology, but he shook his head.

“Let’s get you breathing.”

She had to agree with his priorities. Plus, if he wanted her breathing, he clearly hadn’t morphed from resort chef to serial killer, so he had some other reason for being up here. Who knew? Maybe he was a secret sunrise aficionado. With a grimace, she dumped her bag upside down on the ground, looking for the inhaler hiding somewhere in the mountain of stuff she carted around. Mason made a choked sound, but she ignored him. So she had a lot of stuff. Preparation was the key to surviving, right? Plus, she really, really hated cleaning out her bag. Mason rifled through the contents, his fingers skimming over her secret chocolate stash, mini samples from her Birchbox subscription, three pairs of sunglasses, a paperback and a clear plastic pouch of emergency tampons. Since he didn’t look like he wanted to run back down the hill screaming, she concentrated on breathing.

“Got it.” Uncapping her inhaler, he handed it to her.

Dark brown eyes watched her as she primed the device and shoved it into her mouth. “I scared you.”

“You think?” The albuterol went to work, her lungs opening up like her puffer was a magic wand and she’d just chanted open sesame. She hated having to rely on the device, but sometimes she couldn’t talk herself out of panicking.

“That wasn’t my intention.” The look on his face was part chagrin, part repentance. Worked for her.

“I’ll put a bell around your neck.” Where had he learned to move so quietly?

“Why don’t we start over?” He stuck out a hand. A big, masculine, slightly muddy hand. She probably shouldn’t want to seize his fingers like a lifeline. “I’m Mason Black.”

“I know who you are.” Or mostly. The last name was new information.

Belatedly, she shoved her hand into his. Good Lord, the man had her acting like she was fifteen. Not that she’d mind having her fifteen-year-old body back, but that year in high school had been the Year of Brody. Brody had sat next to her in her chemistry class, his mere presence driving textbooks straight out of her mind and reducing her to a stammering, drooling idiot. He’d made her tingle and flush, transforming chemistry class into both her favorite and her worst period of the day.

Mason Black was even more devastating. And, like her chemistry crush, she wasn’t entirely positive he knew her name. After all, he’d just introduced himself to her like they were total strangers and she hadn’t ogled his body while he taught Fantasy Island’s guests to make ceviche. Which she totally had.

She was also still holding his hand.

Oops. Letting go, she took a step back.

“I’m Maddie Holmes.”

“Uh-huh.” He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology.”

She leaned toward him before she could stop herself. “Okay.”

Did she still sound breathless? Maybe she could blame her asthma. He examined the ground and her gaze followed his. Right. Her camera…and her breakfast. Her breakfast was beyond repair—even she wasn’t going to eat a chocolate croissant that had bounced off Hot Chef’s chest and hit the jungle floor—but her camera was a different story. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, and then handed it to her.

“The first apology is for scaring you. It wasn’t intentional.” His lips curved up in a grin. “And the second apology is for your camera. And your croissant.” She liked the slow way he smiled at her. It made her feel all melty, like the insides of her croissant.

“It was chocolate,” she pointed out. “One apology may not be sufficient.”

“Call me crazy, but aren’t cameras a bit more expensive than breakfast pastries?”

“I have more than one camera,” she explained. “But at the moment, I’m completely croissant-less.”

“I make a mean chocolate chip pancake,” he offered, surprising her. With that brawny body, she’d assumed he was an oat bran and protein powder kind of guy. “I could make you a replacement.”

Somehow, she didn’t think his pancakes would take second place. Nope. Just like his smile, she had a bad feeling his pancakes would be addictive. He was a big, scary-looking guy offering homemade breakfast. Talk about checking all the right boxes.

“You cook,” she blurted out, when the silence stretched on too long and then wanted to smack herself. Duh. Obviously, he cooked. He was a chef at the resort, even if he wore camo pants, a black T-shirt and combat boots, and looked more like a badass than a chef.

“Yeah,” he agreed, rocking back on his heels to survey her, presumably for further damage. “I do. Really well, although I’m hearing a no on my offer.”

Only because she was biting her lip. She wanted to scream yes, please and not just for his pancakes.

“That’s not what chefs wear.” She flicked a finger up and down, indicating his clothes.

He grinned. “I’m not in the kitchen right now, sweetheart. I’m allowed to be out of uniform.”

And now she was thinking about him naked.

“I’m playing paintball with some of the guys,” he continued.

“At dawn?”

He shrugged. “You all like to eat. I have a job to do most of the time.”

“You don’t have any paint on your shirt.” Although if his alleged teammates had hit him on the butt, she’d be happy to check out that portion of his anatomy too.

He sighed. “That’s because I’m good.”

Again…maybe. Not that he had any reason to lie to her about paintball, but she had a suspicious nature. She tried to peer over his shoulder, but it was roughly the size of a small tree and offered plenty of places for a gal to dig in. His black T-shirt clung to him in all the right places and black and green paint streaked his face. The color drew attention to the strong line of his jaw and a really great pair of brown eyes.

She was staring.

Shoot.

“I saw boats.” She pointed to the lagoon over his shoulder. “Two of those black inflatable dinghy things.”

He turned around, crossing his arms over his broad chest. That move pulled the shirt tight. Since she was an equal opportunity kind of gal, she checked out his ass, too. Which was tight and firm, unlike hers. She definitely needed to take up paintball.

He shrugged and pointed to the dinghy-less, bad-guy-less lagoon. “There’s no one there now.”

“But there was.” She hated mysteries.

“It could be the Belizean police doing a routine drug check. They patrol up and down the coastline, and we’re only a few miles offshore.”

That sounded feasible. On her last visit to Cancun, back when she’d had vacation time, benefits and a 9-to-5 job, she’d spotted AK-47-toting Mexican police patrolling the beaches. The hotel had assured her that was standard operating procedure, although she’d almost choked on her margarita the first time she’d spotted the patrols. She stared at the camera in her hands.

“I have photos,” she said.

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you,” he pointed out. “But I’m happy to look at anything you want to show me.”

That almost sounded like a double entendre, but he said the words with a straight face, making it impossible to be sure. Instead, she focused on her camera and—damn it—its trip to the ground hadn’t done it any favors.

“The memory card’s gone. It must have popped out when I dropped the camera.”

And flown over the edge, she decided a few minutes later, on its way down, down, down for a tropical swim. Mason helped her look, but the card was nowhere to be found. Of course, since she was searching for a teeny piece of plastic in the great outdoors, her odds hadn’t been high to start with.

“I’m thinking I owe you more than a short stack,” he said with a grimace. “Now you’ve lost your pictures, too.”

This was where being prepared came in handy. “Not really. I had the camera set up to do time-lapse and all the shots should have been transferred to my laptop if the Wi-Fi isn’t moving on island time.”

“Good to know,” he muttered, his eyes on the camera in her hands. “What were you shooting?”

“Not what you were shooting.” When he gave her a lopsided grin, she told him the truth. “Sunrise pictures. Romantic stuff for my wedding blog. Brides will love having their pictures taken up here. I’m shadowing a wedding later this week, and the bride already picked out this spot for her photos. They’re a gorgeous couple.”

She whipped open her planner and flipped to the section where she’d jotted down her notes for the beach wedding. There were certain shots she definitely wanted to make sure she captured, and she did better with a list.

“This is my bride and groom. He’s a hottie. My blog readers will love him.”

Mason took the groom’s picture from her. “This is your guy?”

“Uh-huh.” She’d been in correspondence with Julieta, the bride, more than once before she’d arrived. The Mrs.-Guzman-to-be was a pretty blonde, while her groom had the Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome part down. He rocked a white linen suit in the photo Julieta had sent to give Maddie an idea of what they’d be wearing and, if he showed up looking like that, her photos would be outstanding. “What do you think?”

Mason snorted. “Not my type, sweetheart.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Well, Mr. Guzman clearly appeals to the future Mrs. Guzman, and that’s all that counts.”

“They here on the island already?” He returned the photo and she stuck it back in her planner.

“Not yet.” Which was both surprising and not. “Julieta’s dress is here—that’s the bride-to-be—but I haven’t actually seen them check in yet. Mr. Guzman runs some kind of import-export business and has stuff come up at the last minute all the time. Maybe he had a business thing. It must be nice to have a private plane and go where you want, when you want.”

“Maybe.” Mason gestured at her tripod. “You done here? Want a hand bringing this back to your villa?”

“A hand down the hill would be great,” she said, still thinking about her missing bride and groom. She’d been counting on shooting their wedding for her blog; if they were no-shows, she’d need to make alternative arrangements. “Maybe I’ll see if his brother has arrived yet. Ask him if Mr. Guzman’s plans have changed.”

Mason started breaking down her tripod. “He’s bringing family to his wedding?”

She shrugged. “Just his brother Santiago, according to Julieta. He was planning to get to the island a few days before her, so she was hoping to pawn some of the prewedding tasks off on him. He should have arrived yesterday or today.”

She let him help her fold up the tripod and then they headed toward the path that led back to the resort. Since the sun had risen, the lighting was no longer ideal, and she now had a date with her bed. A date that would be even better if Mason followed her home. No. He wasn’t a stray puppy. She didn’t get to bring him home.

He strode ahead of her, so she followed along, admiring the way his cargo pants bunched over his butt as he walked. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—and she’d definitely take a rain check on those pancakes.

 

                      

Wicked Alphas, Wildest Nights: Sizzling Collection of Paranormal Romance!

        

 

 

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Her Christmas SEAL: Excerpt 3 !

        

“I got to tell you something,” he said, his thumb making another pass over my hipbone. I froze, trying not to pant. How could one little touch set me off? What was wrong with me?

“You belong with me,” he continued. “Or I belong with you. Both. You picked the wrong man before, and I want a shot.”

Rub. Stroke. Sweet, sweet pressure on that one small, not-enough spot where we were connected. Somehow, I found my voice while my synapses misfired and melted into a stupid puddle of goo. “What do you think I am, a piñata or a shooting range?”

“I think you’re my Christmas present,” he growled, shifting closer. “I think I’ve been waiting a damned long time to open you up.”

“I got to tell you something,” he said, his thumb making another pass over my hipbone. I froze, trying not to pant. How could one little touch set me off? What was wrong with me?

“You belong with me,” he continued. “Or I belong with you. Both. You picked the wrong man before, and I want a shot.”

Rub. Stroke. Sweet, sweet pressure on that one small, not-enough spot where we were connected. Somehow, I found my voice while my synapses misfired and melted into a stupid puddle of goo. “What do you think I am, a piñata or a shooting range?”

“I think you’re my Christmas present,” he growled, shifting closer. “I think I’ve been waiting a damned long time to open you up.”

        

Her Christmas SEAL: Excript 2!

        

Lucky Paws Christmas Tree Farm was located twenty miles outside of Strong. I hadn’t had much call to go out there in the two years I’d been living in Strong and working for Donovan Brothers as a smoke jumper, but local gossip claimed that Lucky, the owner, had gone into Christmas tree farming some twenty years ago, determined to make a quick buck growing trees. The Christmas business had turned out to be anything but quick since the trees took a good ten years to mature, but Lucky had hung in there. Somewhere along the line, the man had expanded. The billboard—sporting an animated reindeer head—announced sixty acres of cut-your-own trees, a Santa’s village, a sleigh ride, Ye Olde Christmas Shoppe, and ice skating. I’d rather have stormed an insurgent stronghold with my bare hands than gone Christmas shopping, but there you had it. My Holly was in there. A guy did what he had to do.

When I pulled my truck into the lot, the place was already bustling. Kids were running around, shrieking, and climbing on everything that didn’t blink, whir, or chime out Christmas carols. A fat guy in a red suit shoved a candy cane at me and pointed in the general direction of the trees. I fell in with the crowd, looking for Holly.

Finding her turned out to be surprisingly easy. She met me at the entrance of the tree lot, although I doubted it was on purpose. She kind of did a double take when she saw me, like only the Easter Bunny would have been less expected. She was just going to have to get used to having me around, I decided.

I liked today’s outfit way better than yesterday’s lumberjack look, but maybe that was because she was mostly naked. She was dressed as an elf in a short green skirt that barely skimmed the top of her thighs. A matching green jacket hugged her boobs, and even though her “fur” cuffs appeared to be mid molt, I was a happy man. As an added bonus, the red-and-white-striped stockings had me wondering if they went all the way up—or stopped just under her hem. And if she’d let me find out or kick me with her steel-toed boots. Those boots were the only practical thing about her employee uniform.

“Put your tongue back in your mouth,” she snapped. That’s my Holly. She’d always called me on my shit.

I grinned at her. “Just appreciating the view, babe.”

Fortunately for me, I was wearing steel toes too. Barely felt it when she took a shortcut across my foot.

She mumbled something that sure sounded like it would put her on Santa’s naughty list. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t look like the kind of guy who gets his Christmas shopping done early?”

She snorted. “How long have we known each other?”

Twelve years and nowhere near long enough. “I want to pick out a tree.” I pointed to the pin fixed on her right boob. “According to that, you’re gonna bring the ax and help me find the tree of my dreams.”

“You don’t really want a tree.” She folded her arms over her chest as if that could erase the perky claim of her nametag.

“You telling a paying customer what he does or doesn’t want?” We’d had this conversation once back in high school, when she’d been working at the local Dairy Queen. Then we’d squabbled over ice cream, but I’d learned that I had an important ally in her boss. Money talked.

I had her, and we both knew it. Sure enough, she tossed a quick glance over her shoulder at Santa Lucky. The old guy was staring in our direction, clearly contemplating an intervention. He wasn’t letting any money walk off his lot, and we both knew it.

I leaned down and brushed my mouth over her ear. “You know what happens to naughty girls.”

She jumped, her elbow “accidentally” digging into my rib cage. “If you get me fired, I’ll kill you.”

Duly noted. I might be doing her a favor to get her out of here and the Christmas carols blasting over the PA system. “You really like working here?”

She shrugged and headed toward Ye Olde Christmas Tree Shacke. I followed. Her skirt wasn’t any longer in the back. It twitched with each irritated bounce. Fan-fucking-tastic. Up until now, I’d really just wanted to see her. I hadn’t thought further ahead than that, but it looked like I’d be buying a tree unless Holly was going Lizzie Borden on me with the chainsaw she snagged from a shelf in the Shacke.

“There aren’t many job options,” she said warily. “And I happen to like Christmas.”

I had no idea what to say, so I grabbed the chainsaw from her and struck out on the nearest path. I walked fast, and I had at least a foot on Holly. She’d always been a tiny thing. She hustled along behind me, babbling crap about liability and farm rules. Apparently I wasn’t allowed to handle the chainsaw. Since I wasn’t letting her cart heavy stuff around when I was right here, we were kinda at an impasse.

The path wasn’t bad the first few hundred yards, beaten down by the hordes hungry for one hundred percent genuine, fresh-cut Christmas trees. Even got a few flakes of snow falling from the sky, although I wouldn’t have put it past the Santa dude to have a snowmaker hidden somewhere. Probably good for business. After the first five minutes, the crowd thinned out, and after ten it disappeared altogether. It was just me, Holly, and about a thousand pine trees. A thought struck me.

“Why were you up on the mountain cutting branches when you have about a million trees here?”

She shot me a look. I couldn’t tell if she thought I was an idiot or just giving her grief. After a moment, she went ahead and answered. “I was tipping. It pays well.”

I’d never tipped, but I understood the principle. You went out in the forest, cut off the tips of pine branches, and then sold the green stuff to the good folks who made Christmas wreaths and that decorative garland stuff. It was kind of like making Popsicle sticks for the arts and crafts crowd. As far as pays well went, I was skeptical. Tree tips weren’t made out of gold, and Lucky had a reputation for being cheap.

I asked the obvious question. “You got money worries?”

Her hands shot to her hips. “You can’t ask me that!”

Where I came from, we didn’t see the point in pussyfooting around the issue. Unless she had a thing for pine trees and fresh air, there was only one reason to be hauling ass around the mountain, cutting branches. She needed the money.

“Can too,” I pointed out, thinking things through. “Mr. Dick not play fair in the divorce settlements?”

Because I’d be happy to fix that for her. Several possible solutions came to mind, and none of them involved me writing her a check. Not that she wasn’t welcome to raid my bank account, but I let myself fantasize for a moment about beating the crap out of her deadbeat ex-husband.

Her mouth opened. Closed like she’d bit back the words she’d intended to say. She made one cute, cranky elf. Fuck, but I wanted to kiss the frown right off her face. I also really, really liked the red-and-white-striped stockings. My eyes kept going back to those.

“You’re not freezing?”

Because if she was, I could think of a whole lotta ways to warm her up.

        

Her Christmas SEAL: Excerpt!

        

 

 

HOLLY

 

The weatherman had promised snow for Christmas, but the guy had been wrong. Instead of snowflakes, the sky was raining men.

Okay. One man, but there was plenty of him to go around.

He was a big, burly, cursing presence tangled in a mess of parachute and pine branches halfway up a three-story ponderosa pine. Despite his position upside down, he seemed surprisingly okay. The audible cursing assured me his lungs were fine—and I couldn’t spot any visible wounds. Which was a good thing, because I had zero cell phone reception this far up the mountain.

I’d heard the rumble of a plane a few minutes ago, but I hadn’t made anything of it. Strong wasn’t all that far from San Francisco, and planes flew in and out of that particular airport all the time. Since I didn’t have tickets—first-class or otherwise—for a sunny and exotic beach vacation, I didn’t pay the sky any attention. Nothing for me there. Instead, I focused on the pine branches I could reach, because working on a California mountainside got downright chilly in December. Despite the state’s liberal supply of palm trees, the mountains came with a side of cold—and snow. Bikini weather it was not.

Snip a tip, drop it into my bag. That had been my routine all morning, and I could practically hear the tree breathe a thank-you—the stand of pines was more overcrowded than a San Francisco train at rush hour—and my bank account breathed a commensurate sigh of relief. Pine tree tips were as good as gold at Christmastime. I’d take these bad boys back to the tree farm and turn them into pine ropes and wreaths. The farm’s gift shop would complete the miraculous transformation of trees into cash, and I’d be able to go grocery shopping for the first time in two weeks. Seeing as how I was sick of granola bars and canned soup, grocery day currently trumped Christmas Day on my calendar. Even better, there would probably be leftover dollars to add to my college savings account. When I applied to CSU Sacramento in November, I’d be able to cover my tuition. For the first time in a year, I’d be back on track.

Another curse drifted toward me.

“You okay up there?” I had no idea what I could do, but asking the question seemed like a good first step.

My answer was a yell from the top of the ponderosa, followed by the clatter of something metallic tracing down the trunk. A utility knife with a four-inch blade landed by my feet. Apparently, I got a free souvenir of today’s encounter. Merry early Christmas to me.

“If you’re feeling helpful, how about you toss the knife up here?” Mr. It’s-Raining-Men’s voice was muffled by the helmet, the tree branches, and the guy’s unfortunate, still mostly-upside-down position. Still, the bright yellow jumpsuit was a dead giveaway. Either the local prison had experienced an unprecedented jailbreak—unlikely—or Donovan Brothers had sent their team of crack smoke jumpers out on a practice jump. The jumpers loved to tell hang-up stories about their buddies down at the bar—who’d gotten stuck in which tree and who’d taken the longest to cut himself free. Naturally, the storyteller had never suffered such an indignity. I’d also never heard of any fatalities, so maybe this was just all in a day’s work? I was certainly happier pine tipping.

“Hello?” The smoke jumper folded his arms over his chest. The helmet made it impossible to make out much of his face, but I was dead certain he was glaring at me. A firm pair of male lips tightened when I didn’t move. Yeah, buddy. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with masculine impatience, and the divorce decree currently stashed in my underwear drawer promised I didn’t have to. Hallelujah. Mr. Hung-up-in-a-Tree could take one for the entire male team as far as I was concerned.

“Maybe she doesn’t speak English.” A big pair of steel toes collided with the trunk, and the boots’ owner sighed. Loudly.

I was too distracted by the boots to pay attention to the words. If the correlation between foot size and dick size held true, this guy was hung like a horse. While I stared, enjoying the view despite my no-guys rule, the object of my attention pulled himself upright with an impressive show of abdominal strength. I just bet he had a six-pack hiding under all that fabric. Since I was officially sworn off men—divorce would do that to you—the state of the jumper’s six-pack wasn’t of interest to me.

Much.

I toed the knife. I’d never been particularly good at throwing sports, so odds were high I’d either miss my target—or I’d stick him by accident, and that could be awkward. Plenty of powdery snow drifted around the base of the tree, but we hadn’t had a good snowfall yet. The stuff wasn’t more than an inch or two deep, and it definitely wouldn’t break the smoke jumper’s fall. He was as shit out of luck as I was.

I really should be nice. The guy in the tree wasn’t my ex, and I didn’t need to vent five years of marital frustrations on him, convenient as he was. I was a grown-up, turning over a new leaf, blah blah blah. The smoke jumper pulled off his helmet, tossing it to the ground. I wasn’t sure why he did that—if I’d been in danger of falling out of a tree, I’d have wanted to protect my noggin and every other inch of my body—but then my eyes processed what I was seeing, and my brain kind of skittered to a stop.

Of all the guys to fall out of the sky and land—almost—at my feet, why this one?

Habit maybe. Or maybe my heart was more stubborn than even my head, because I myself fell for Jacks Benson the first time I saw him.

He’d been slamming a basketball against the wall of the Laundromat, rubber thwacking against the cinder blocks with deafening regularity. If my dad hadn’t been passed out inside our trailer twenty feet away, he’d have been hollering at me to make that fucking kid stop. Dad hadn’t done well with loud noises thanks to a stint in the military, and even I had had no problem substituting the thud of bombs falling for the ball.

I’d pointed this home truth out to Jacks. He’d blown me off, dismissing my concerns as if I’d suggested the possibility of rain on a cloudless day. He’d then double-dog dared me into following him down to the local creek and proceeded to share both an oversized Slurpee and the ball with me. During the course of the afternoon, he’d taught me his best basketball trick shots. After he tilted the straw in my direction and I put my mouth where his had been, I’d been halfway in love. When he pulled off his shirt and went for a swim, I was hooked. He looked like the bad boy drummer from the rock-band posters decorating my bedroom walls, and my ten-year-old self had found it all too easy to imagine a happily-ever-after. His unexpected “Wanna kiss me?” had almost had me agreeing too, but then I’d chickened out and scampered back to my trailer, his laughter chasing me the whole way.

Apparently, saying no to Jacks was like waving red in front of a bull, however, because he’d been off and running from then on, and it seemed like the entire focus of his existence was to make my life as complicated as possible. If I’d loved him at first sight, I’d flirted with hatred thereafter. He teased me. He played practical jokes on me. He generally dogged my footsteps throughout our middle school and high school days, and I could never quite relax because who knew what awkward, embarrassing thing he’d do to me next? When he’d enlisted in the Navy the day after his high school graduation, it had been good riddance on my part. Maybe Uncle Sam could make Jacks behave, because I definitely couldn’t.

 ~*~

 

JACKS

 

Christ, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d hung up.

Spotted Dick, the jump-team pilot, had put the DC-3 up, nice and easy. Our spotter had laid down in the open bay and tossed the streamers out. We’d watched the fluttering descent like it was the coin toss at the Super Bowl. No surprises there either. I’d seen the smallest movement as the ribbons neared the ground, but nothing to worry about. Nothing to indicate I’d get within five hundred feet of the ground and find myself riding the windy equivalent of a bucking bronco. Mother Nature had decided to make me her own personal piñata today, and there wasn’t much I could do about it.

Steering the chute to the LZ—or at least the edge of the landing zone since hitting dead center had been less likely than winning the lottery—had remained possible right up until the last second when yet another unexpected gust of wind had blown up out of nowhere. I’d spent the week doing practice runs with Donovan Brothers, and today’s fiasco had been a first. I’d never had a problem in all the years I’d been smoke jumping, but apparently I really could fly fucking sideways—straight into the biggest ponderosa pine I’d ever had the misfortune to meet. As I’d crashed through the branches, chute tearing, arms over my face because I might not be a pretty boy but I didn’t need a pine-branch piercing either, I’d caught a glimpse of the DC-3 banking hard and aborting. Nice. Too bad the spotter hadn’t made that call ten minutes ago before I’d jumped out of the bay and plunged feetfirst into my current predicament.

The only consolation was that I wouldn’t be landing to the mocking calls of the team. Nope. After I’d signaled that I was okay, they were on their way back to the hangar and the airstrip. I got to hike out the two miles to the access road and my pickup.

The branch from which I hung creaked, warning me that Mother Nature might have further, even more humiliating plans for my sorry ass. I wanted down. I also wanted a hot shower, a beer, and to get laid. Right now none of those things appeared to be on the agenda. Hell, unless I got my knife back—and my Jedi mental powers were nonexistent—my options were severely limited.

The woman on the ground started humming Christmas carols like she was Looney Tunes. In addition to the approximately two thousand branches blocking my view, she wore layer upon layer of flannel shirts and a puffy black vest, all topped off by a ridiculous pom-pom hat. She hadn’t answered me about the knife, which was probably a sign right there. I’d be getting down from this tree on my own.

Only question was whether I did it in one piece.

“A little help?” I called, although asking for help was the last thing I wanted to do. Still, better her than the jump team. If the guys had to come up here and cut me down, I’d never hear the end of it.

My mystery lady dropped her bag and then followed it to the ground. For a moment, I thought she’d grab the knife. How she was going to get it up to me I hadn’t figured out—maybe my woodcutter had unexpected mad tree-climbing skills or a monkey tucked inside her bag—but then she lowered herself flat onto the snow. Tilting her head back, she stared up at me as her arms and legs moved lazily, creating snow angels in the light dusting of snow.

She definitely wasn’t playing with a full deck. Or maybe I’d hit my head on the way down.

“It’s Christmas,” I suggested. Not like I celebrated the holiday, but that line usually worked on most people.

She shoved her hat back and grinned up at me and… my stranger was no stranger at all. I remembered every inch of her pretty face, probably because it had somehow ended up tattooed on my stupid heart. I hadn’t seen her in years, but she looked just as good lying there beneath me as she had when we’d both been younger, newer, and generally less beat up by life. Although she’d divided her brown hair into two braids and looped the lot beneath her hat, her hair still escaped everywhere in little wisps and curls that stuck to her cheeks and kissed her throat. Kind of made me want to take her apart. Do a little kissing. Lick her some like she was my favorite flavor.

And the two killer dimples that twinkled up at me made me think… things. Bad, filthy, never-to-be-admitted-to things. She was one of a kind, and I’d always stuck a little too close to her.

Shitfuckdamn. Holly was off-limits, and seeing her just reminded me of what I couldn’t have. I didn’t know what reasons had brought her to Strong and my mountain, but I knew one thing. I was in trouble.

“Jacks Benson,” she said, and I was pretty sure I’d never heard my name pronounced in quite that tone of disgust before. Today was definitely a day for firsts. Since I wasn’t currently going anywhere, I took my time answering.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know me,” she continued.

I couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t making any move toward the knife—or helping me down. Figured. Holly Clark never had liked me. Not one teeny, tiny, sweet little bit.

“You’re hard to forget, babe.” For instance, I had the memory of her accepting the marriage proposal of her dickwad boyfriend burned into my brain. While she’d let the guy stick his tongue down her throat and his hands up her shirt, I’d guaranteed the immediate end of my employment at the local drive-in theater by illuminating her R-rated kiss with the drive-in’s spotlights. Honestly, I wasn’t sure why I’d done it—except that she’d fascinated me and pissed me off from the first day we’d met as kids—but that kind of history probably explained the evil grin playing across her face. She’d spotted an opportunity for payback in my current stuck-in-a-tree predicament.

Still, I’d never put her in any danger. I’d looked out for her even. I’d kept an eye on her high school dates, made sure none of those boys went too far, too fast. She made another slow, leisurely snow angel, and my blood pressure—and my dick—shot up. Holly had always been pretty, and she’d only gotten more so since I’d last seen her eight years ago.

Even mummified in all that crazy flannel, she had gorgeous boobs. The edge of a baby-blue T-shirt peeked out from beneath the checks, and her faded jeans sported more tears than my chute. It was hard to miss the shadows under her eyes though, and her cheeks were all angles. Someone hadn’t done a good job of looking out for her, and kicking that someone’s ass was gonna be fun.

So it was too damned bad she was married.

“You gonna help?” I snapped. Being noble didn’t agree with me. Kind of made me pissy in fact. So what if I’d realized too late that her picking some other guy for her happily-ever-after was the last thing I’d been gunning for?

She stared at me, then leaned up on her elbows. Naturally, her fingers didn’t so much as twitch toward my knife. “Nope.”

Not the words I was expecting to hear come out of her mouth.

“That a categorical refusal to come near me, or can we negotiate?”

Her grin got wider, and she fished in her shirt pocket and came up with a phone. Bright pink flamingoes danced across the case, and the lens was cracked in a dozen places, but sure enough she pointed the thing at me.

“Say cheese.”

Guess that was my answer right there. I liked to think I was a good sport, but no way I handed her that kind of ammo.

“You take pics,” I warned her, “and I take them back.”

She shrugged, looking downright unconcerned. “You got to get down first, big guy.”

True enough.

My balls were halfway to frozen despite the heated incentive of staring at Holly. The wind had picked up, the clouds were moving in, and we’d have full-on dark in two hours.

“I need the knife,” I told her.

“Uh-huh.” She made another leisurely snow angel, like she had all the time in the world. “I can sure see that.”

“Would it kill you to help me out?” I twisted, trying to get a better look at how I’d hung up. At least one branch had torn through the back of my jumpsuit—I was probably lucky I wasn’t bleeding out on her. I had chute strings wrapped around one arm and—defying all laws of physics—part of the chute itself twisted around my ankles. I was like one enormous, messed-up Jenga puzzle.

She flashed me a grin. “Helping you out wouldn’t be as much fun.”

“Payback’s gonna be a bitch,” I warned.

Growing up, we’d always traded tricks. I did something. She answered with something a little bigger. And then I did something bigger and badder. Our whole relationship could be described in terms of an arms race and nuclear escalation, with detonation a regular occurrence. Not that I really minded the twinkle in her eyes, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Why is payback always female?”

I’d forgotten how Holly’s mind worked—or leaped and twirled from point to point like some kind of crack-smoking ballerina. I’m sure it all made sense inside her head, but most of the time she left me reeling. She wasn’t done dredging up my past sins either.

“You weren’t nice to me before,” she continued, like thoughts A and B were clearly connected. Maybe they were in her universe.

“We met when I was twelve. I enlisted when I was eighteen. You gonna hold six teenage years against me forever?” Staring down at her baby browns, that suddenly seemed like a lame excuse. I could have been nicer. Fuck. That was probably why she’d ended up wearing Mr. Dick’s wedding ring and there hadn’t been any room left for me.

“You pranked me every day,” she accused me and then proceeded to rattle off a list of my misdemeanors. She’d all but alphabetized my shit. Her tirade included multiple water-balloon attacks, lockers glued shut, and my replacing her hairspray with blue hair color. That last one had been pretty funny.

In my defense, she’d tied me in knots. Apparently I hadn’t realized just how much—or how tight—until now. The branch creaked again, reminding me that I was on a deadline here. An uncontrolled fall to the ground via about four thousand spiky ponderosa branches wouldn’t do me any favors. I needed to get down.

Time to go on the offensive. “We went to school in Concord.” And since Concord—and our trailer park—was miles away, Holly was the last person I’d expected to see in the middle of the forest. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugged. “I work here.”

I made a production out of looking around. “I don’t see an art gallery.”

She’d been dead set on owning her own art gallery. She’d collected all the crap we drew in school and set it up when she was younger. I’d been roped into “viewings” on more than one occasion and had dutifully shuffled past the pictures. Since Holly was nothing if not determined, I figured she probably had at least a half dozen galleries by now. But as galleries were city material—rather than mountain material—her presence here remained a mystery.

She gave me a look I couldn’t interpret, but that was nothing new. “I work on a Christmas tree farm.”

Definitely not an art gallery, but maybe she enjoyed the work? I jumped out of planes for a living, so I wasn’t gonna judge her.

“So where’s Mr. Holly?” Wherever the fuck he was, he wasn’t glued to her side, and he damned certain wasn’t looking after her. I might be stuck halfway up a tree, but certain things were clear. She looked tired. She was alone. It was starting to get dark.

I couldn’t make out a ring beneath those ridiculous pink and green gloves she wore. She needed something tougher to go tipping.

She bit her lip, then glared up at me with the stubborn look I recognized. Usually it preceded her doing something particularly foul in the interests of evening the score or paying me back. Wasn’t like I had anywhere to be though. I was stranded in the ponderosa, facing a two-mile hike in the dusk. I’d far rather be here with her, so I could wait all night for her answer.

“I’m a failure,” she tossed off finally.

I didn’t believe that for a moment. Sure there was no such thing as insta-success, although I kinda would have liked that for her, but Holly didn’t know how to give up. She went after what she wanted, and I’d always liked that about her even if it had led her straight to Mr. Dick.

“There’s no more Mr. Holly,” she said, after the silence had stretched on for too long. “We got a divorce.”

Jesus.

Christ.

I still had it bad for her, didn’t I? One of the last times I’d seen Holly, she’d been glued to the side of her new fiancé. She’d flashed a teeny-tiny rock at me and then demanded I congratulate her. The reality of the stone had sunk in as I’d taken in the guy’s arm wrapped around her waist. Yeah. Fucker knew he’d lucked into the best thing ever to happen to him. I’d realized—too little, too late—that I wanted to be her man. I’d never made a move on her, hadn’t said a word. She wasn’t a mind reader, and she’d gone guy shopping and picked out a happily-ever-after that didn’t include me. Truth was, that hurt worse than crash-landing in any ponderosa pine.

So if Holly had ditched her mister, I had a second chance.

But first I had to get down out of this goddamned tree. Reaching up, I started to unlace my boots.

“What are you doing?” I hadn’t known her eyes could get that wide—and she hadn’t even seen my best parts yet.

“I’m getting naked,” I told her. “Which means I’m gonna shuck my clothes so I can shimmy out of my current predicament. That’s step one in my plan. Step two involves me climbing down this tree, collecting my knife, climbing back up, and cutting my clothes free.”

I kept step three to myself, because that was the part where I either kissed her senseless or convinced her she wanted to go out on a date with a slightly banged-up smoke jumper and former SEAL.

A pink blush tinged her cheeks. It was kinda cute. “That’s a complicated plan.”

And she was a complicated woman, I was cold, and my branch was about to break and plant my sorry ass on the ground. “You got a better one?”

I set to work on the second boot. In another thirty seconds, I was going to be freezing my ass off, and she was going to get her own personal Chippendales show. If I was lucky, that would jumpstart step three of the plan. If I wasn’t lucky? She’d either run down the mountain screaming or whip out that camera of hers again. I’d deal with it when it happened.

“You could ask. Nicely.” She shrugged. “I’d bet the word please wouldn’t even kill you. And you can add a promise to that. I want to hear you say you’re going to behave yourself.”

I shook my head, frustrated but out of options. “Please.”

The word came out more growl than not, but her face lit up. Who knew six letters were the key to winning her over? I made a mental note to say the word a whole lot more around her. I’d be happy to please her in bed. For instance.

It took three tries for her to lob the blade high enough for me to catch it. I didn’t like her tossing knives around, but I also didn’t like her being alone on the mountain. She didn’t have the right boots, she wasn’t wearing enough clothing, and I was pretty sure she’d cut her fingers on those damned pine tips. She was supposed to be happy and safe—that was the principle behind why I’d joined the SEALs. Guys like me fought so girls like her could enjoy the right kind of life. No one got to her on my watch or tried to tell her how to be. She even got to marry Mr. Douche Bag. So why was she out in the woods by herself?

        

 

 

 

 

Harlequin’s Biggest Ever eBook Sale!

Harlequin’s celebrating 10 YEARS of ebooks–and books on sale include all three books in my Wicked trilogy.

 

Bayou Wolves — Excerpt #5!

It’s release week for my new Bayou Wolves Boxed Set: Luc, Cruz and Gianna. I’m thrilled to share the trio’s complete story–and some sexy excerpts–with you!

CRUZ

 

Backing Gianna against the wall isn’t like me. Anyone could step into the stairwell and spot us, plus there are likely to be cameras too. It’s a fucking courthouse—and all I can think about is protecting her. Fucking her. My brain is on a one-track repeating loop, demanding my body get closer and start touching.

“I kinda thought we had a relationship, what with us getting together and the yes that came out of your mouth when I asked you to marry us.”

The words come out low and rough. Probably not the sweetest thing I could have said.

She opens her mouth and then hesitates. My mood has been pissy as hell this last month, but it’s better now that I’m close to her. That’s fucked up too, but it’s the truth. We had sex and then she ran from me. If I scared her, I’ll unscare her.

Somehow.

If she’s decided our night together was a mistake, I’ll fix that, too.

“We rushed into things,” she says quickly, her voice cool and calm. She gives me a tight smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. She makes a half-hearted attempt to slide away from me, but we both know I’m not letting her go that easily.

“Nuh-uh,” I say and press a finger against her mouth. “You got scared and ran, shug.”

She makes a face. Oui. She’s busted and we both know it. The problem with dating wolves is that we’re hard to shake. You run, and we chase. Christ, I’ve got no problem with hunting her, pinning her to the ground, and showing her just how bad I can be.

“You still seein’ Luc?” Fuck. Even I can hear the growl in my voice.

Her hand flies to her neck. She’s got her engagement ring on a chain around her neck. I reach down and hook the fragile links with my finger.

“Did you break up with him, too?”

I’m not sure if it’s better or worse if she and Luc are still together. She stares up at me—okay, she glares at me, clearly aware that I’m about to lose control—but I don’t step away.

Instead, I move even closer. My fingers rest against her throat where her pulse beats madly beneath the damned ring.

“No more werewolves,” she announces. “That’s my new motto. I can have T-shirts made if you prefer.”

“You told me you loved me.”

“And now I’m recanting,” she snaps. “Fangs and fur should not be part of a girl’s happily ever after.”

“Too late to change your mind,” I say, suddenly in a much better mood. She’s running scared, but all I have to do is figure out why. And how to fix it.

My thighs brush hers, my chest pressing against her breasts beneath the dress. We’ve been dancing around this moment for months now, me watching her every time our paths cross and planning ways to get closer still. Right up until our one night in the bayou when she cut loose with Luc and me. That memory’s one of my favorites, although I intend to make more memories, preferably of the two of us. Without our werewolf third wheel. In bed.

Or up against this wall. Apparently, that works for me too.

“Hello,” she snaps. “Back off, big boy.”

I can’t hold back my grin. “Hello to you too.”

She slaps a hand on my chest and pushes. I let her. She can’t move me, and we both know it. “Move,” she demands.

I rest my forehead against hers. “I’ve got something to say.”

Taking charge isn’t always the best approach with Gianna. This fight has had two different sets of rules—his and hers. Luc’s and Gianna’s. Even if Gianna believes she’s put a temporary hold on her engagement to us, Luc isn’t going to hold back and wait. That bastard Alpha will fight for what he wants. Gianna doesn’t understand the brutality of the shifter world or the primal drive to mate. She’s so fucking human, and I love that about her. But she’s also curious and sensual as a cat. She’s been pulled into my world, and it isn’t fair, but there’s a price to be paid. Luc’s pack mates human women, and their dating practices blur the lines more than a little. Those boys hunt their brides, run them down in the bayou, and carry them off to bed. I’ve kept an eye on the Breauxs and I haven’t seen any signs that their women mind when all is said and done, but… oui. I’d like my yes up front and clear before I’m touching and tasting. In their eyes, that’s a weakness.

I lean into her.

I’m not above exploiting weaknesses, either. Gianna promised to let me have a week alone with her since she’d given Luc a week. It’s the kind of crazy, sweet thing a woman says when you push her or she’s naked or she’s feeling guilty because she can’t choose between two guys. But I accepted.

And now I’m collecting.

“Give me my week,” I say roughly. “You promised me seven nights. I want them now, starting tonight. You give me that time, and then you still want to walk? Then I’ll believe you when you say our wedding’s off.”

Her eyes narrow and satisfaction roars through me. She’s not going to pretend she doesn’t know what I want. “Let me check my planner. Oh wait. I’m booked.”

She’s perfect. “I’ve got two words for you.”

She shoves her hand into my chest again, but I’m still not going anywhere. She’s got me for a lifetime, and I’m planning on that lifetime starting now. Her pissy mood is cute and sexy—and frustrating as hell. I want to protect her even more than I want to fuck her, but fortunately for me, I can do both.

“Protective custody,” I growl, watching the way her mouth tightens. “Seven nights. I can do both at the same time, but protective custody isn’t optional. You’re mine, one way or the other.”

She immediately goes on the offensive. “Do you really think the Breed is going to come after me?”

“They’re already here,” I say. “While you were wrapping things up inside the courtroom, I was outside.”

Her muttered curse says it all. Hell, I agree with her. There’s nothing fair about the way her life has been upended, changed completely by her run-in with wolves. The past doesn’t offer do-overs however, so all we can do is move forward. I’m just hoping it’s together.

“Let’s start over.” I watch her face cloud over at my words, the crease between her eyebrows deepening as she thinks. “Be friends.”

I don’t want her thinking, not right now. I want her feeling, turning liquid in my arms and against my mouth. These possessive urges aren’t part of my plan, but she’s so near me that I feel the heat coming off her body and I want to make her hotter, wetter, needier. I’m tied up in knots for her, and that’s not good. Still, I don’t stop myself from kissing her hello. It’s not a sweet, quick press-and-release either. I take her mouth deep and hard, my tongue straight past her lips, swallowing her gasp of surprise. I don’t know why she didn’t see me—us—coming, but I’m here now and I plan on being all she sees. It’s a fucking shame it took a werewolf attack and a court case to get us to this point, but Fate’s a bitch and I don’t have the blue moon card to play.

Gianna gives as good as she gets. Our kiss gets harder, wetter, noisier. I thread my fingers through her ponytail, angling her head back because she’s coming after me, desperate to take my mouth, and we’re going to end up banging in the stairwell if I can’t exert some degree of control.

“You do this with all your friends?” She breathes the words against my mouth when I finally let her go, all my blood flowing southward and making critical thinking difficult. Good thing I already cemented my plan.

“We’re friends.” I press my thigh between hers. “But we’re also something more.”

“We’re also in public.” She digs her fingers into my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin through the cotton of my shirt.

Oui. And from the pretty pink flush on her face, she doesn’t mind. Her dress rides up, she’s straddling me, and the heat of her pussy burns my thigh. My day is turning out pretty damned perfect.

“You promised me a week.” I watch her face, but she meets my gaze without flinching.

“That was before we got engaged,” she says in a husky whisper. “Back when you and Luc believed you were competing for me.”

We’re still competing. She just won’t admit it.

“And before you broke up with me by text message,” I push. “If we’re not gettin’ married, we’re datin’. I wan’ a week alone with you.” I press my thigh higher. Christ, but she feels good.

“Oh.” She gives a greedy whimper that sounds like no objection I’ve ever heard.

I have one goal for that week, one master plan. No matter what it takes, I’m making her love me. My other goal, the easier one, is to make things safe for her. Somehow, I’ll finish my takedown of the Breed. Safety outside the bedroom—and sexy dangerous times inside the bedroom. Simple. I know myself too well to think I can be anything but dominant once she lets me touch her. I don’t play the sweet Beta well. Hell. If I’m being honest, I’m gruff and awkward with traditional courting—so I’ll make up for it in our bedroom. And Gianna… she’s curious. She’s an independent woman in charge of her life, her career, her body. I aim to change that last one, to feed her curiosity about the way I can make her feel if she hands over control to me.

I play my trump card.

“Don’ you ever get tired of being the good girl, the law-abiding one? You don’ wan’ to break the rules just once and see what it feels like?”

“That would be a career liability, wouldn’t it?” Her eyes slowly focus on a point somewhere over my shoulder, as if she’s considering my suggestion. While she thinks, she runs a hand up my neck. I’m probably not supposed to get so horny from the simple touch—hell, I don’t even know if she’s really aware of how she’s trailing her fingertips over my skin—but I know one thing for certain. I want all her attention focused on me.

So I lean in and kiss her again. I’ve got her alone and she’s soft and sweet, driving me crazy. I cover her lips with mine, muffling her small sound of pleasure. Needing more of her, I cup her face in my hands, angling her head to deepen our kiss. She moans, and I push my fingers through her hair, fisting the sleek length. She feels so goddamn perfect in my arms that I could eat her right up. Kiss her mouth, her pretty breasts, her pussy. I’m a lost cause around Gianna. She opens right up too, letting me in, letting me take her mouth, and the way she tastes drives me crazy.

I reach down and fist the hem of her skirt.

She stiffens, like kissing in the stairwell is one thing, but naked is a whole world of off-limits. I should have warned her that I cheat.

“What are you doing?” She looks as if she has a pretty good idea though, so I wrap my palm around her thigh and slide my fingers higher.

“What’s it look like I’m doin’?” See? I can be reasonable. I can ask instead of tell.

She looks down. Looks back up as if she can’t quite believe I’m going to make her answer that question. She’s cute when she’s flustered and in unfamiliar territory. She’s always in control of the situation in those courtrooms of hers, and now here I am, borrowing that self-control from her.

“Hold this for me,” I wrap her fingers around the hem of her dress.

I’ve asked myself more than once what Luc would do. Not because I want to fixate on the other wolf but because clearly Gianna is drawn to him and I need to understand why so that I can give her the same thing. Luc is fierce, wild, and completely uncivilized—he’d never hold back from pleasuring his mate.

But right now I can smell her arousal. For me.

Right here in this stairwell, she’s all mine—and I’m not letting her leave until she recognizes that.