Читать книгу Daring Her Seal - Anne Marsh, Anne Marsh - Страница 11

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FANTASY ISLAND LOOKED GOOD. Or maybe that was Ashley’s unwilling company.

Ashley had pointedly ignored him on their flight from Virginia to Belize. They’d hitched a ride on a military carrier, so it hadn’t been the kind of flight with peanuts and mile-high sex, which was too bad. She looked even better than the island, although he wasn’t stupid enough to say that out loud with any degree of sincerity. She still wanted his head on a platter for the we’re-married-for-real revelation he’d laid on her in Quantico. And, yeah, she was also sore about his making her come down to Belize. Too bad for her, because he liked pushing her buttons. She was cute as hell when she got mad.

She’d braided her hair back in a no-nonsense twist. The severe do, combined with her white T-shirt and khaki flight suit, shouldn’t have been sexy. Unfortunately for him, he appeared to find everything about her attractive. She was like fire and he couldn’t not touch.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this kind of curiosity about anything, but he felt it in spades around Ashley and never mind that dragging her out here topped the list of stupid things he’d done in his lifetime. Sure, he probably could have handled all this himself via a couple of quick phone calls—even if the registry department was waterlogged and sans roof—but what fun would have that been? So, instead, he’d blackmailed her onto the military transport and then called in a few favors for a helicopter to make the hop from Belize City to Fantasy Island. He must have left his brain in his last foxhole or stood too close to a mortar round. That was the only explanation.

As soon as the bird hit the landing pad and the rotors stopped, Ashley was out and striding down the path. She hadn’t even bothered grabbing her bag. He knew she didn’t want to be here, but he hadn’t realized she’d literally be running to check out their marriage ceremony. She was breaking all known speed records for tracking down a divorce and he didn’t think it was because she only had a week’s vacation time to spend on the island.

“You left your stuff,” he hollered after her, ignoring the resort staff already moving in to grab their duffels. Problem solved, although he usually preferred to handle his own gear, and not just because he usually packed ammo instead of swim trunks.

She tossed him a saucy look over her shoulder. “Make yourself useful, Brandon.”

“You want me to be your porter?” Like that was happening.

Screw it. He grabbed his own bag and hoofed it after her. He’d keep his stuff where he could see it, especially since he had a Glock and a few other toys cozied up with his skivvies. Fantasy Island should be safe as Fort Knox, but he hadn’t survived this long by taking chances. He owed Ashley that much, at least. The helicopter started back up. Guess their pilot wasn’t planning on sticking around.

She was already halfway down the path, speed walking as if she was competing for gold. Or maybe she just wanted to beat him to the front desk. Didn’t matter. She could win all the minor skirmishes she wanted, but he’d won their war. She was here. He fell in beside her.

“You’re a bad penny,” she announced, not taking her gaze off the path in front of her. It was getting close to sunset, and the sunlight was filtering through the palm trees. Monkeys chattered away overhead, and the birds yelled back. Kind of like him and Dixon really. Plenty of noise but no real conversation.

He shot her a grin. “I do keep turning up, don’t I?”

“What?” She gave him a hard look and he figured she was seconds away from elbowing him.

“Just thinking aloud,” he said, because that was the truth. “So you think they got the bloodstains out of the gravel yet?”

They both looked at the road where they’d taken down Marcos. Everything seemed normal.

Ashley didn’t stop her mad dash for freedom. “You’d better hope they don’t remember your pretty face or connect it with the disappearance of the Marcos bridal party.”

He honestly didn’t expect it to be an issue. The staff had been rotated out since their last covert visit and people tended to see what they wanted to see anyhow.

When they made it to reception, naturally Ashley wasn’t done fighting him. Since he’d booked the reservation, he ponied up his credit card—and she promptly whipped out hers. While they argued over who got the privilege of paying the bill, the stuffy guy at the front desk shoved wet towels and champagne drinks with ridiculous red cherries in their direction, as if cotton and alcohol could fix their relationship problems.

Not a chance in hell.

And honestly? It kind of bothered him that Ashley wouldn’t let him take care of her. Fantasy Island’s room rates were sky-high, and he didn’t know if she had that kind of cash. He’d planned on blackmailing her—not bleeding her dry.

“You embarrassed the check-in guy,” he pointed out when they were finally being whisked away to their villa in a golf cart. Stuffy Guy had eventually stepped in and solved the argument by taking both their credit cards.

She gave him the look he’d decided to christen Code Yellow. If it worked for Homeland Security, it worked for him. She wasn’t ready to shove him out of the moving vehicle (Code Orange) or shoot him with his own weapon (Code Red), but neither was she volunteering to strip naked and fulfill all his sexual fantasies (Code Green). “We’re going to have one of those modern marriages, where everybody pulls his or her own weight. Got it?”

Somehow, he didn’t think that was really a question. “I made you come down here. I pay.”

“It’s not that simple, Brandon.”

“Maybe you should call me Mr. Brandon. We could take the nineteenth century approach to our marital union.” He kind of liked the sound of that but she huffed in response and drilled holes into the back of their driver’s head.

“Actually, I’m gonna call you Blackmailing Bastard,” she announced. The driver clearly didn’t care for their hostilities, because the golf cart hurtled along the path as though it was shooting for liftoff. Guess the guy wanted to dump them ASAP and Levi could hardly blame him.

When they reached the villa, Ashley bounded ahead while Levi grabbed the bags and discreetly tipped their driver. He had no idea how come his charming bride hadn’t cut that sexist gesture off at the pass, but he’d take it. As soon as he stepped inside, he spotted the enormous gift basket parked in the middle of a rose-covered bed. A single, really large bed.

Damn it. He hadn’t had the best of connections when he’d called the resort to book a last-minute room. Apparently, the words married and recently had gotten mistranslated along the way into I want hot sex in the honeymoon suite.

Ordinarily, he’d have been fine with the misunderstanding—he had no problem with a little opportunistic sex—but this was Dixon. Having actual intercourse with her was as likely as peace in the Middle East or the zombie apocalypse. They’d have to compromise, however, and hopefully she wasn’t a bed hog, because given what this place was costing him, he was not sleeping on the daybed, the floor or anyplace else that didn’t offer a million-dollar mattress.

“Someone thinks we’re on our honeymoon.” She poked the basket and he had no idea how to interpret the strange look on her face. Ashley being Ashley, though, he figured she’d tell him exactly what she was thinking and then follow it up with multistep directions on how to do exactly what she wanted.

“Technically not wrong,” he pointed out. “What did we score?”

She smiled. Slowly. Yeah, he might be newly married but he already knew he was in trouble here—and that was before she started pulling stuff out of the gift basket as if she was unloading cans of Campbell’s from a grocery bag.

“We’ve got edible panties. Edible boxers.” She arched an eyebrow. “Which probably offers more calories than your average woman consumes in a day, so you’ll excuse me if I’m not feeling hungry.”

She might not be, but he suddenly was. He dropped down onto the bed, shoving rose petals out of the way. “Are you playing show and tell?”

“You first.” She snorted. “Some of this stuff should come with directions or an operating manual.”

“Novice.” He flicked her knee with his fingers.

“Because you’re an expert with—” she squinted “—chocolate body butter?”

Not yet, but he could be. Licking the stuff off Ashley’s body suddenly didn’t seem half bad.

“We also have a pair of his and hers nipple clamps.” She waved something around that looked like a medieval torture device in miniature. Or an eyelash curler. Apparently he hadn’t seen everything in his bachelor days. “You could be a gentleman and volunteer to go first.”

“Not a chance in hell.” Not that he didn’t like the mental image of him touching her nipples, but pain wasn’t his thing. “Your boobs are too pretty to mark up.”

She made a face he’d seen a dozen times in the field. He razzed her and she gave it right back. “Flatterer. You just like me for my boobs.”

“And I’d like to keep mine in one piece,” he said, grimacing slightly. Contrary to what she seemed to believe, he actually did have limits. Plus he truly did like more about her than her lovely anatomy. She was a damned good agent. He respected the way she single-mindedly went after her targets and showed no mercy. She knew her way around a gun. And she didn’t hesitate to get dirty. Really dirty. There were four good reasons right there to like Ashley.

“And here we have our pièce de résistance—” She pulled an enormous purple dildo out of the bottom of the basket. “Apparently the resort staff isn’t sure there’s enough of you to keep me happy and have thoughtfully provided us with Purple Monster. Catch.”

Karma was a bitch. Levi caught the dildo automatically, then looked at what he had in his hand. Yep. Twelve inches of battery-operated love machine. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Examined the toy again. It definitely merited a second glance because he was pretty sure fitting that much latex in anyone was an anatomical impossibility. Still, his brain did its best to imagine all sorts of scenarios involving Ashley, twelve inches of purple penis and himself.

“Enjoy,” she said wryly. “I’m going to get a drink at the bar.”

* * *

PLENTY OF ADJECTIVES described Levi. Infuriating came to mind. Along with stubborn, pain in her ass, aggravating, and...sexy. Her SEAL was hot. When he flashed her that devilish grin, she was torn between hitting him—and kissing him. Which was going to be her little secret. The look on his face when she’d tossed him that dildo had been pretty priceless. Too bad her phone had been across the room, because a picture of him holding the purple monster would have been ideal counter-blackmail material—which she needed desperately because he was a sneaky, conniving, underhanded bastard. He hadn’t given her a choice about coming here, and that pissed her off. She wasn’t his beck-and-call girl—or his wife, no matter what a piece of paper might say—and the faster he understood that, the better.

Fortunately, the bar was right where she’d left it on her last visit to Fantasy Island. Although her flight suit and boots weren’t resort wear, she needed to get out of the villa.

Maybe she should head back to the front desk and see if she could score a second room, because putting some space between her and her irritatingly hot SEAL seemed prudent. Plus if he was going to insist on paying for their stay here, she had a golden opportunity for some good, old-fashioned revenge. She’d run up so many room charges that his credit card would demand a cease-fire. She could host an open bar and clean out the gift shop—if there was anything left to buy after all the welcome gifts that had been stockpiled for them in the room.

God. She couldn’t hold back a laugh as she recalled his expression when she’d unpacked the basket. She’d half suspected that he’d ordered the stuff just to get a rise out of her, but the purple dildo had surprised him.

Not that she was usually into toys—and the twelve inches of that particular device were just too optimistic—but she could have been convinced. No. Bad libido. No convincing, no weakening, and no flirting with the enemy.

She’d gotten her boots off, her pants rolled up and her feet in the sand when Levi showed up a half hour later. Frankly, she was surprised he’d taken as long as he had. The man enjoyed torturing her and he definitely enjoyed a beer, so her presence at the resort’s tiki bar was win-win for him. He was hard to miss where he stood in the bar’s entrance, scanning the place for her. Six feet of hard, brawny SEAL made quite the impression.

And the way he sauntered across the bar toward her made her want to fan herself. The man was hot. He practically prowled, his movements powerful and self-assured as he came toward her. When he dropped onto the swing seat next to hers, the close-up was even better and since he hadn’t opened his mouth yet? She could still enjoy the view. Almost immediately, he started whistling obnoxiously, his hip bumping hers every time he rocked his swing forward.

“Go away,” she said.

Naturally, he grinned and moved closer. Maybe she should try negative reinforcement. If she demanded he sit in her lap, would he run toward the opposite end of the island?

“Not feeling friendly?” He made a face and yanked the lime out of the longneck the bartender slid over the counter. He took a long pull, the muscles of his throat working. Not that she was staring or anything, but ignoring Levi just wasn’t possible.

“I’m not in the mood for your shit,” she admitted.

“You want to talk next steps? Review the plan?” He leaned back against the bar, staring out at the beach. It was dark now, but there were plenty of stars visible in the sky and just enough light to make out the small waves washing up on the sand. If she’d actually been here on her honeymoon, it would have been perfect. Instead, she got Levi. Go figure.

“I’ve already got a plan.” As if she’d leave something this important to Levi. “I checked with the manager. Told him we had some questions about our ceremony and needed copies of the paperwork. He’s got the wedding coordinator coming in two days and he’ll call the minister for us tomorrow.”

Levi grinned at her over his beer. “In that big of a hurry to be rid of me, huh?”

“You really want to be married to me until death do us part?”

He threw up a hand. “You can stop right there. I’ve seen you with a gun.”

She snorted. “You’re the better shot.”

Computers were her strength, but Levi could make shots that should have been physically impossible.

“I’m not planning on shooting you,” he said dryly, but his eyes twinkled at her. And...was that a hint of a dimple in his cheek?

God. He could be so cute.

“That’s my point.” She took a pull on her own beer. “You wouldn’t last a month at being married. In fact, I bet you wouldn’t stick it out a week before you hit the road and ran.”

He shrugged. “It would depend. Are you planning on being a good wife in this hypothetical scenario of ours?”

She saw red. “That sounds like code for putting out every night.”

“At least.” He grinned at her again. “In fact, since we’re married, we should take advantage of each other.”

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Like you really want to have sex with me after blackmailing me. That would be a new low, even for you.”

He shrugged his shoulders again and then, shoot, his eyes lit up. “I’m up for it if you are,” he taunted.

Even if he hadn’t blackmailed her into coming with him, Levi’s pretty package was wasted on her. He was the sexual equivalent of the loaner sweatshirt that got passed around when a girl was cold. Every female had had a piece of him, so no way was she sleeping with him, too. “No sex,” she said firmly.

In addition, if it turned out that they really were married, she wasn’t risking an easy annulment, so it was better to make her position clear now. Before she finished her cocktail and returned to their villa to deal with the one-bed-and-a-basketful-of-sex-toys situation. Mr. Manwhore might be the last SEAL on earth she’d sleep with, but she wouldn’t put it past him to pursue her. He liked sex, and their ostensible marriage would put a crimp on anyone’s style.

“Okay,” he said agreeably.

Right. She snorted and he looked at her.

“Like you could go a week without having sex.”

“I absolutely can.” He sounded confident. She’d give him that.

She, on the other hand, was hyperaware of his long, powerful legs stretched out in the sand next to hers. He was still wearing his BDUs and combat boots, and for no particular reason, the sight of him ready for anything got her going. Or maybe it was just that he was a gorgeous, available jerk and she’d been without a boyfriend for too long.

“Pull the other one,” she said dryly. “I’ve seen you in action, remember, and going without sex while you’re out in the field doesn’t count.”

“You think I’m going to cheat on you while we’re married?” He managed to sound surprised, but it wasn’t like he was the poster child for monogamy.

“We’re not really married. Anything we do doesn’t count.” She wasn’t sure she really meant that, but there was no point in setting herself up for disappointment with Levi.

“I keep my promises.” He set his beer bottle back on the bar with a small click and leaned forward—surprise—to take her hand, his calloused fingers threading through hers in a rough-tender caress that was inexplicably good. His thumb found a sensitive spot in her palm and rubbed. Okay. Maybe she was the one who wouldn’t make it a week.

Which was undoubtedly his point.

“I dare you,” she blurted out, her mouth rushing ahead of her brain. “No sex for one week.”

“Sure.” He nodded agreeably. “You said the sex shop’s closed, so no worries.”

She’d never thought he would take advantage of their possibly married state. He wasn’t that kind of guy. They were plenty clear on that particular point—it was just everything else they disagreed about.

“But,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “If I take your dare, you take mine.”

Her hand shot up. “No. I’m done negotiating with you.”

Of course he kept right on talking as if she hadn’t said anything. “For each night I go without sex, I get to choose a drink for you from Fantasy Island’s cocktail menu.”

She really, really needed to ignore the pulse of heat that suggestion generated in her belly. And lower. This was Levi. She didn’t even like him, but apparently her body thought angry sex was something she should try at least once in her life. Preferably tonight.

He watched her calmly, but there was no mistaking the tension in his big body. He had her and he knew it. The problem with having worked with Levi in the field was that he’d learned things about her, like the way she responded to a challenge. Jesus. Emotionally, it made her feel like a five-year-old—when parts of her definitely were all adult around him—but she just couldn’t walk away from a dare.

“You want to get me drunk?” Somehow, she didn’t think he was talking about alcohol.

His teeth flashed as he snagged the drinks menu from the bar and waggled it in front of her. “We both know I’m talking about the other menu, babe. The secret menu, where the drink names are code for sexy stuff. Pink Panties. Angel’s Tit. Tie Me to the Bedpost. I pick the drink. You do the deed.”