Wicked Secrets (4 page)

Surely someone would show up and lead her off. She couldn’t be here by herself. One set of dry heaves later, however, and she was still alone. Damn it.

Daeg hummed a few bars of the
Lone Ranger
theme music. “He’s going to do it.”

Cal looked at him. “Yep.”

Tag didn’t even have to ask. “Someone has to rescue her. You two could volunteer.”

“Sure, but we don’t have to,” Cal admitted cheerfully. “We’ve got you to go in for us. Plus, you’re the only one who’s still single, just in case she’s like Mrs. Damiano and decides
rescue service
is a synonym for
dating service
.”

Daeg hesitated. The guy’s white-knight complex would get him into serious trouble someday.
Pot meet kettle.
“You’ll take care of her?”

“Yeah.” Joking aside, it went without saying none of them would leave a woman alone on a beach in distress. Since he was the only one who didn’t have someone waiting at home for him, he figured that made him tonight’s rescuer elect. “I’ve got her.”

“If you need help—” Again, some things didn’t have to be said.

He flipped Cal the bird. “I’m good. Go get on with your life. Kiss Piper for me. Have some fun.”

He strode down the boardwalk, hung a left and crunched his way out onto the sand. Yeah, he liked his combat boots because, sue him, the military gave good boot. Part of him thought rushing to the lady’s rescue was a stupid idea, but then she made a small sound of distress and finished unloading the contents of her stomach on the palm tree next to his bike. Okay, scratch that.

She needed help.

Five feet away and closing fast, he spotted a flash of pink. Which could have been a coincidence. Plenty of women had pink swimsuits, and the last female he’d seen in a pink swimsuit was supposed to be on a cruise ship at sea. Not here.

Two feet out, he scuffed the sand because he didn’t want to add a heart attack to the woman’s woes. She had the towel pulled up over her head like a cloak, one suntanned arm braced against the sand. This close, he could read the word
bridesmaid
on her arm where someone had written it in sunscreen. It was the kind of practical joke he’d play on Daeg—or that Mia’s bridesmaids might have thought up.
Damn it.

Please, please, don’t let her be here.

* * *

S
OMEONE
 
LARGE
 
AND
 
MALE
crouched down beside her. Usually, Mia would have taken defensive measures, but right now she was too miserable to care. The world swung in dizzying circles, making her stomach lurch up and down.

“Mia?” Okay. She cared. She recognized that deep growly voice. Tag was back.

Don’t groan because you might puke on his feet.
“I already bought you a thank-you drink. Don’t you ever go away?”

He pressed a bottle of cold water into her hand, and, okay, she might have moaned. Even if he couldn’t be bought off with beverages, apparently she could.

“All the time. In fact, I have a date with Uncle Sam in six weeks. Rinse and spit.”

To her eternal shame, she did as he ordered. He measured her pulse, then tilted her head back to check her pupils. She let him because, right now, she was too wiped out to fight. If Tag had apparently decided to become her very own EMT tonight, she’d work with him. Tomorrow was plenty of time to take issue with his high-handed behavior.

“Follow my finger,” he said gruffly, moving his finger first left, then right. “Alcohol? Bird flu? Bad run-in with a zip line?”

His face was close to hers. Kissing distance, in fact, although she bet kissing was the last thing on his mind right now. His eyes were hazel with gold flecks, something she either hadn’t noticed or had forgotten. Huh. Her Senior Chief had pretty eyes.

“Zip line,” she muttered, when he let the silence stretch on.

“How?” Brow furrowing with concern, he immediately started palpating her arms as if he feared she’d somehow fallen off the zip line and then crawled to the beach to lick her wounds.

“Geez.” She knocked his hands away. “I didn’t fall off the thing. I just got dizzy.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You’re motion sick?”

“Got it in one.”

He eased her upright. “Okay. Deep breath.”

“I know what to do.”

“Uh-huh. This happens often?”

When he turned her forearm over, she spotted the
bridesmaid
temporarily tattooed on her skin.

“I owe someone for that.” Probably her cousin. It was exactly the kind of thing Laurel would do.

“Let’s focus on you right now.” Tag slid his thumbs down her wrist and pushed on a spot. “Give me ten,” he said, when she tried to yank her arm away.

Leaning backward against him, supported by the strong column of his thighs, was no hardship. Her fingers flexed, finding denim. Shoot. There was nothing professional about this, although he didn’t seem to mind.

“How were you injured?” He sounded matter-of-fact, but she’d bet he wouldn’t be happy if she trotted out all of
his
vulnerabilities with a cheery
let’s discuss
.

“Uncle Sam and the call of duty. Now, go away.” The words sounded childish, but she didn’t care. The world wasn’t swinging quite so badly anymore, the nausea dissipating now that her stomach had emptied itself. Yeah, the worst was over, but she was so not winning any prizes for elegance. Good thing she wasn’t still attracted to Tag.

“You don’t really want me to leave.” Amusement colored his deep voice.

“And you’d be wrong. Ask me why.”

His hand rubbed a small, lazy circle against the back of her neck, and the water bottle returned to her mouth. “Small sip.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because you threw up on my motorcycle.” She followed his pointing finger, and, sure enough, there was a big black Harley parked beside her palm tree haven. She’d missed his tires. Score one for her. “And because you need help.”

“You make a career out of rescuing damsels in distress? And, for the record, I didn’t hit your bike.” She sounded bitchy. She knew that. Accepting help, however, was out of the question. She stood on her own two feet. Or, she admitted wryly, lay on her own butt. Whatever it took. With her brothers and her father all being active duty, bitchy had been the only way to hold her own. Give them an inch and they’d smother her with love and concern. Of course, Tag wasn’t offering love, but, still...she had this. She’d led a team in Afghanistan until she’d retired, so handling a bout of motion sickness was child’s play.

“You want to ask me why I’m so certain you need help?” His calm voice annoyed her, she decided. As did the supreme confidence with which he moved his hands over her body. She just might live, however, thanks to his nifty acupressure trick. Two inches down her wrist and press hard. She could do that.

She took a good look around her, expanding her world beyond the sand, the man and the Harley. Post-sunset shadows painted the sand with stripes of dark. The cruise ship sailed at five o’clock. The beach around her had emptied out, and the sun was no more than a red-orange sliver above the horizon. And...no ocean liner bobbing away on the water or even anywhere to be seen. She asked the obvious question, even though she knew what the answer was going to be.
Too late. You snooze, you lose.

“What time is it?”

“Seven.” He extended the wrist with the dive watch so she could see for herself.

“They sailed without me.” Her brain tried to kick into planning mode, but a bout of motion sickness always wiped her out, leaving her fuzzy-headed. Finishing her siesta here on the beach had sounded like a decent enough plan—she could figure things out in the morning.

“No public camping on the beach,” he said pleasantly, as if he’d read her mind. “Go ahead and say it. It won’t kill you.”

“Fine. Can you recommend a hotel for the night?” The emergency twenty bucks and the cell phone she’d shoved in her shorts pocket wouldn’t take her far. She’d have to call for cash and new cards. Rejoining the cruise was probably not feasible—the ship was headed down the California coast for a quick pit stop in Ensenada, Mexico, and then to Cabo, where everyone would get off and fly home. By the time she made it to an airport, her cousin would already be airborne.

“Mia.” She felt rather than saw him shake his head. “That’s not happening. You can spend the night with me.”

“I’m fine.”

Liar.

Her gaze dropped to his hands. His strong, capable hands that were holding her up because otherwise she was likely to butt-plant on the sand. She hated feeling weak. Hated
being
weak.

“You can’t stay here,” he said, using his calm, logical voice again. She wondered what it would take to get him angry and loud. “You’re sick. You’re homeless. And, since I don’t see a purse, I suspect you’re broke, as well.”

“You certainly know how to lift a girl’s spirits.”

He kept right on talking. “So, the way I see it, you need a place to fall back to for the night.”

He was right, damn him. She chewed on her lower lip as she thought her situation through. Twenty bucks simply didn’t go far, and she didn’t have so much as an ID with her because her cousin had taken Mia’s purse back to the ship. Tag didn’t say anything as he waited for her to come to the obvious conclusion.

“Are you going to make me say it?”

His sigh ruffled her hair. “Yes, Mia, I am.”

Problem was, she was best at
giving
orders. Not taking them. He didn’t say anything else, though, and he was right, damn it. She needed somewhere to spend the night, she was temporarily broke and she knew him.

“Take me home with you.” She wouldn’t, couldn’t say
please
.

“You got it.” He rose smoothly, setting her back on her own two feet. So why, if he’d given her exactly what she’d wanted, did she feel disappointed?

4

T
AG
’
S
 
PLACE
 
WAS
 
a short walk from the beach. It figured a Navy man would want to be near the water. What she hadn’t expected was the picture-pretty complex of little apartments built for one. The place screamed cute, starting with the courtyard filled with tropical plants and a hot-pink fuchsia shrub going crazy. Tag headed straight for the first place on the left, unlocked a set of glass French doors and then hesitated. She really hoped he wasn’t about to rescind his invitation, because she was tired enough now to beg. Tomorrow was soon enough to sort out the crazy mess her life had become.

He looked down at her, where she was plastered up against his side pretending this was a voluntary closeness rather than him holding her up. “You don’t mind animals, do you?”

Right now, she’d kill for a pillow and a bed. “Is that a euphemism?”

She was only willing to take this white knight thing so far, although she’d even consider trading sexual favors for a toothbrush right now. Whatever he was asking, though, was lost when one of his neighbors—an elderly one from the quavering sound of the voice—bellowed out his window at them in a voice that was probably audible back on the beach.

“Is she your girlfriend? Hot damn!”

Wow. Tag got around. She leaned against him harder. “Girlfriend?”

Tag blushed, dark color staining his cheeks. Holy moly. She didn’t know the man had it in him. “Mr. Bradley may be under a mistaken impression.”

Uh-huh. She’d just bet.

“That’s Mr.
Bentley
to you. Check my mailbox next time you forget my name.”

“Either you have a girlfriend or you don’t.” She might have been out of the dating pool for a few years, but even she knew that much. Tag muttered something, taking the high road, and shoved the doors open. Whatever. She’d be the first to admit her social skills were rusty. She waved in Mr. Bentley’s general direction and followed Tag inside. He wasn’t much on furniture—he had a couch and a coffee table and nothing else—but a fifty-pound bag of dog food dwarfed the kitchen counter. The bag of cat food next to it wasn’t much smaller, completely overshadowing a couple of browning bananas. Maybe he had monkeys, too, because the man clearly had hidden depths.

“You have pets,” she said, stating the obvious as a white boxer wearing a happy grin loped toward them, followed by a Chihuahua suffering from some kind of eye infection. A geriatric cat and a rabbit brought up the rear of the parade. Honest to God, the man had his own Easter bunny, even if he’d apparently passed on the monkeys.

She hazarded a random guess because it had been a day full of surprises. “You’ve become a vet because rescue swimming is so boring.”

“No.” He greeted the dogs and the cat, picking up the rabbit and tucking it beneath his arm. Tag’s place was definitely small. He had a teeny living room and a galley kitchen too miniscule to hold the two of them. “Meet Ben Franklin, Buckeye, Beauregard, and Cadbury. Cadbury’s the one with the floppy ears, in case you’re wondering, but they’re all boys, and no one comes when called. The bathroom’s through there,” he said, waving a hand toward the hall.

“Are you moonlighting as Doctor Doolittle?” Snarking distracted her from the residual queasiness in her stomach—and the awkwardness of being here, alone with him, when she had memories of him naked. “Why all the animals?”

He shrugged, a powerful roll of his shoulders. “They needed a place.”

She settled for escaping into the bathroom while he fed his menagerie. The man even had a bonus toothbrush, which after her palm-tree encounter, she was pathetically grateful for. Mint had never tasted so good—and was all she wanted to taste right now. Not a big, too-charming, badass Navy man who thought she needed rescuing. No way, no how.

* * *

T
AG
 
HAD
 
RENTED
 
the apartment furnished from Mr. Bentley, and taking things month-to-month had seemed wise. Now with his plans to leave Discovery Island firmed up, the decision was even more fortunate. It wasn’t like he owned any furniture anyhow. He’d always traveled light, and his non-ops stuff fit in a pair of duffel bags. So he shouldn’t have this strange, warm
feeling
of satisfaction, getting Mia on his turf. The first time—the
last
time, he reminded himself—they’d gone at it in her hotel room. The place had been perfectly comfortable, and they’d really only been interested in the bed. The wall. He grinned slyly. And the floor...

The boxer bumped his leg, making himself known. “Lucky dog.”

Ben Franklin panted happily up at him, everything right in his doggie world.

Tag’s own life wasn’t quite as simple, and Mia was just the latest symptom. He was a sucker for four-legged and lonely. He’d have to figure something out, though, before he headed back to San Diego in six weeks. Base housing wouldn’t allow animals, and, although he could rent a place off base, finding a pet-friendly landlord would be a challenge. And, besides, animals couldn’t be left alone for months on end. Somehow, he needed to re-home the menagerie in the next six weeks. He definitely shouldn’t have named them.

Buckeye gave him a reproachful glare, as if he’d read Tag’s mind and knew the guy who provided the dog chow was having second thoughts. Or getting attached. Yeah. It was the
attached
part that posed a problem.

“We should get her a shirt, yeah?” One way or another, he’d figure out a solution to his animal woes. Maybe Dani need a dog. Or two. And Piper was definitely a cat person.

Beauregard rubbed against his ankles, decorating his jeans with cat hair, and then pranced down the hallway, tail swishing. The haughty gesture looked enough like a
yes
to him, so he took his cue and followed the tail. Thank God he’d done laundry this week. Mia had served overseas, and she’d have roughed it more than once, but even he drew the line at offering her a used T-shirt.

After grabbing a clean shirt, he fell back down the hallway and rapped on the bathroom door. The sound of water running got his imagination going. She could be naked in there. Naked and wet. She had a gorgeous body, all toned, tanned lines and feminine strength. He could... He didn’t know what he could do.
Hell.

The water stopped, followed by the sounds of movement inside. Had he left a towel in there? Damn. He had no idea, but he was no Martha Stewart. If he was lucky, he had toilet paper and a toothbrush. The door cracked, and Mia stared through the small space. She still sported the purple shadows underneath her eyes, but her color was better. Maybe her stomach was finally settling down.

“What?”

Yeah. What?
He was standing and staring. He yanked his attention back to the job at hand and waved the shirt at her. “Wardrobe change.”

She grabbed his peace offering, which meant she had to open the door farther. Bingo. He had his opening. He should move back. Give her space. Instead, he curled a hand around the frame and inserted a foot into the crack she’d created. She was fully dressed, although she smelled like mint and hand soap. He stared at her while she turned his offering over in her hands and examined it.

“You’re giving me a Navy T-shirt?” She looked up at him, her eyes laughing. How had he missed her sense of humor? She’d also unbraided her hair, and the loose waves made her look softer. Younger. Okay...it also made her look tousled and fresh out of bed, so the new hairstyle wasn’t a good thing because it gave him too many ideas.

He’d grabbed the first clean T-shirt he’d found and, yeah, it might also have been the
only
clean shirt in his possession at the moment. Beggars, choosers and all that. If she didn’t like her choice, she could wear her own things or go naked. Naked definitely worked for him.

He shrugged, as if some small part of him didn’t like the thought of her wearing his shirt. “The shirt’s optional.”

She wasn’t looking at the clothing, though—instead, she was staring at him and, more specifically, at his
mouth
. How was he supposed to be a gentleman? She was a
veteran
. Injured. And breathtaking. He was going to hell, but he wanted his own brand of sensual revenge. She’d pulled rank on him during their one night in San Diego, and he...well, he’d been willing to let her. Not this time. This time he had plans—if he was being honest with himself—for erotic payback.

“Open the door or close it.” He growled the words, no longer interested in playing nice. His voice sounded rough and harsh to his own ears and, oh yeah,
needy
. While she, on the other hand, had made it perfectly clear she didn’t need him so much. He was a place to stay and a toothbrush, although she could have taken care of the problem on her own. Even puking on the beach, Mia was frighteningly competent.

He moved a step nearer, his fingers digging into the door frame. He was close enough to feel the heat coming off her body, to smell his soap on her skin. She was sexy as hell, but this night wasn’t supposed to be about sex. He let go of the door, but he didn’t back up, didn’t fall back down the hallway and put some space between them. Instead he got closer—and damned if she didn’t help him. She moved toward him in a sweet collision. Her breasts crushed against his chest, her thighs pressed against his. All those layers of clothes couldn’t keep him from remembering what she’d felt like naked in his arms.

And wanting a repeat.

Keeping his hands off her was impossible. So he clasped a hand around the back of her neck, tracing the soft skin, loving how the small tendrils of hair clung to his fingers as he drew her closer. She made a small, throaty sound, tipping her head back against the door, and he was lost.

He covered her mouth with his and kissed her. She was warm and soft and, as his tongue tangled with hers because she kissed with as much certainty as she did everything else, he felt the strangest sense of coming home. They’d kissed before, dozens of times, during their one post–Star Bar night, but the reality was even better than his memories. She slid her hands up his arms and over his shoulders, grabbing his shirt and palming the back of his head.

He wanted her, every stubborn, prickly and sensuous inch of her.

Never mind they were both leaving and he probably had no business touching her without admitting to his part in her unwelcome nickname. Or that he’d brought her here because she was sick and alone, which made kissing her a bastard move. Instead of stopping, though, he deepened their kiss, tasting mint and Mia. Damn it. Toothpaste shouldn’t be such a turn-on.
She
shouldn’t be because, well, there was still no future for them besides another night or three. Although, right now, the need for sex was almost enough.

Her lips parted beneath his, but there wasn’t an ounce of submission in her.
Trap
. She lured him in via the best kind of sensual ambush, making a sound that was part delight, part moan. He threaded his fingers through her free hand, pinning her fingers above her head. Her hand closed around his in response, and he couldn’t have broken free if he wanted to. Instead, he drank in the little sounds she made as her tongue twined with his, and they both fought to control the kiss and the heat. Kissing and kissing, because admitting defeat wasn’t something either of them did.

“Tag—” She wriggled, her fingers and his loaner shirt trapped between them.

That was his name, he just had no idea what she meant.
Tag, kiss me some more?
Or, more likely,
Tag, back the hell up.

“The bed’s to your right. I’ll take the couch.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her eyes got bigger, though, and he was staring at her mouth where her lips were swollen and pink from their kiss. He wanted to rub his thumb over their enticing plumpness, dip inside her there like lower, more southern parts of him wanted to do elsewhere. Except...she still wasn’t saying anything, and this was likely why he didn’t have a girlfriend, a live-in lover, or—God forbid—a fiancée like Daeg and Cal. They probably knew exactly what to say when their females stared back at them, all big, brown eyes. Maybe there was a user manual somewhere he could read up on, but right now he was on his own. And he had no damned idea what to say.

“Good night,” he said and retreated to the living room.

* * *

M
IA
 
WASN
’
T
 
MUCH
 
for sleeping. Her head got too busy when she slept, and the nightmares were the least of her worries. At least those were over—more or less—when she woke up. Nope. Her real problem was
getting
to sleep. She’d been fine the first three months she’d been back, and then the problems had started. She woke up dozens of times a night, although she didn’t always remember doing so. Sleeping pills didn’t help, and, after trying them for a week, she’d abandoned any hopes of pharmaceutical assistance. The pills left her with cottonmouth and a sluggish, detached feeling nothing seemed to shake. She didn’t need to be any more numb than she already was, so no, thanks. After her third wake-up call, she shoved herself upright and conceded defeat. Tag had a nice comfortable mattress with sheets that smelled like him. There was a neat stack of paperbacks on a bedside table, nonfiction bestsellers and a dog-eared copy of Sherlock Holmes stories. There wasn’t much else in the room, though. Tag traveled light.

Lightning cracked overhead, followed by the low, echoing boom of thunder. The storms that had been rolling in all afternoon, dark purple streaks on the horizon, were finally there. Raindrops hit the French doors, tap-dancing on the glass.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected after the good-night kiss he’d given her, but sleeping alone hadn’t been on her mental list. She hadn’t expected a repeat of San Diego’s hot sex—even if she’d been hoping—but the bed was a big one. The couch, on the other hand, was of the love seat variety. He couldn’t possibly fit. She should check on him, make sure he was comfortable. Since she was up and all. She looked at her phone. Her cousin had noticed her absence and was predictably frantic. Since Mia couldn’t teleport to the cruise ship, she settled for texting a few vague assurances that all was right in Mia land.