Fatal Heat

by Lisa Marie Rice

  She’d never felt a man this strong before.

  Her father, bless his soul, had been thin and stoop-shouldered, and was undoubtedly right this minute leafing through ancient history texts in heaven. And the men she dated were mainly fellow scientists. Nice guys, but nerds mostly.

  Nothing like this. Nothing at all.

  Even though he’d been in the chilly Pacific, he radiated heat and a very male kind of electricity she’d never encountered before but recognized instantly, as if a hundred years of female empowerment and her PhD had been suddenly stripped away, leaving a breathless female reacting to an alpha male.

  He was reacting, too, the merest hint of a stirring against her belly when Max barked and jumped them again.

  Paige moved away, lifting Max’s paws off them. “Down, boy,” she chided. “Down.” Looking up, she caught a fleeting expression cross his face, his eyes flaring. It was over so quickly she wondered whether she’d imagined the whole thing. But in the meantime, her pulse quickened and her mouth went dry.

  This was ridiculous and very unlike her.

  He was a neighbor—a wounded soldier, formerly under the command of her godfather—and he’d been jumped by her dog. He deserved better than a hormone-stricken woman rendered breathless by beefcake.

  She straightened, tilting her head back to look him straight in the eyes. Dark brown, very intense eyes. And highly intelligent ones, too. That shook her for a moment. She was totally unused to male intelligence as a sxmlgence aubset of muscle.

  Mostly, in her experience, male intelligence was linked to white lab coats. Definitely not huge expanses of tough, naked, tanned skin.

  “I’m really sorry, Lieutenant—”

  “Max,” he said, and her dog woofed.

  Why was he—oh! “Your name is Max, too?”

  “Like your dog.” He dipped his head, her hand still in his. “Maxwell Wright. Max for short.”

  “He’s Maximilian. Max for short.”

  She tugged and he let go of her hand. It felt like she’d been unplugged from some arcane power source. “Lieutenant Wright.” That had been the name Uncle Mel had said.

  Another expression crossed his face. Not of heat and amusement, but of grief. Deep, painful grief. She’d just lost her father. She understood grief, understood it in her bones.

  “Not lieutenant,” he said. “Not anymore.”

  Involuntarily, Paige looked down at his leg. With that leg—much thinner than the other one, crisscrossed with scars—he wouldn’t be an acting naval officer, no. One leg was brown and powerful, thickly muscled—the other pale, the muscles withered.

  And all those other scars. Surgical scars, mostly, white lines with tiny tucks on each side, crisscrossing his chest. One round puckered scar in his shoulder, which even she could see was a gunshot wound, looked to be older than the others.

  Her dog looked from one to the other while they were talking, brown eyes trained on his mistress and on his new best friend. He obviously decided all this talking was boring, and he hunched his shoulders, which is what he did before leaping.

  Paige gasped. The other Max, the human one, was going to get jumped again, knocked down again. “Max, no! Bad boy!”

  It was perfectly pointless because Max never obeyed. She stooped to grab ahold of his collar when human Max made another slight gesture with one big hand, and her Max relaxed.

  Amazing.

  Then she looked up again at the big man and realized just why Max had rethought his Jumping on Everyone is Fun philosophy. The man had “command” written all over him, just as Uncle Mel had. It was unthinkable that anyone, man or beast, would not obey him instantly.

  It must be a great trait to have, one she sadly lacked.

  Her Max whined, looking back and forth between them.

  Human Max scratched Max’s head, never averting his gaze from hers. It was unnerving, being watched so closely, particularly by a man who managed to project such a forceful personality even standing barefoot in the surf dressed only in swim trunks.

  Maybe it was all those muscles.

  She had to go. Though she felt almost mesmerized by the tall, silent, unsmiling man in front of her, she was going to be late for work if she stood around much longer, mooning over broad shoulders and an ability to hypnotize her notoriously unruly dog into a semblance of obedience.

  “So. Um . . . ” God. His eyes were so dark, so compelling . . . she almost stuck her hand out simply to feel that electric connection again. But that would be crazy.

  Paige wasn’t crazy. She was a staid scientist, normally totally immune to hormonal urges like wanting to hold a man’s strong hand after a few moments’ acquaintance. Max lifted a paw to her thigh, wetting her sundress. Time to go. “I’m really sorry my dog jumped you, um, lieutenant.”

  “Max,” he said, his voice so deep she was surprised the water they were in didn’t vibrate.

  “Max,” she repeated obediently. She tugged at her Max’s leash. “I try to train him, but as you can see, I’m not very successful. He wasn’t born with the obedience gene.” She shot a wry glance down at the dog by her side. Alas, Max wasn’t quelled at all to hear his faults described. His brown and tan tail wagged so fast it shot off drops of salt water.

  “What is he? Looks like some border collie in there.” The man’s big hand was scratching behind Max’s ears. Max knew they were talking about him, and his rump now moved together with his tail. He was in dog heaven.

  She sighed. “He’s a rescue and he’s a mix. Some border collie, sure. The guy at the pound said there ry said twas also some Labrador and German shepherd, too. He all but promised me that Max was bred for decorum and obedience.” With hindsight, Paige was astonished that a lightning bolt hadn’t shot down out of the sky to strike dead that helpful college student at the pound.

  Her dog grinned, tongue lolling out of his mouth, perfectly aware of the fact that neither decorum nor obedience was high on his list of doggy priorities.

  “Come on, big guy.” Paige nodded to her dog. “Walk’s over. Time to go back home. I have to go to work. Some of us work for a living, you know.”

  Her dog was very smart and had learned quite a few words. Pity stay, heel, and sit weren’t among them. But work, which meant she was leaving him locked up in her tiny backyard all day—well, he understood that word just fine.

  Max had perfected the art of emotional blackmail. The instant he heard the word work, he cowered, whining. Big brown eyes looked up beseechingly.

  Paige barely kept from rolling her eyes. She looked up at the tall dark man at her side. He wasn’t smiling, not exactly. But his features had lightened.

  “You’re probably thinking that I regularly take the whip to him, the way he’s reacting, when actually he’s spoiled to death. If it were up to him, my main job would be taking him for endless walks and feeding him. 24/7. But the fact is,” she switched her attention to her whining dog, raising her voice, “the fact is I’ve got a day job, which is what keeps someone in treats.”

  That was another word he recognized. He greeted it with a happy bark.

  She turned back to the tall soldier. “So, I apologize again for my unruly dog, and now we’ll get out of your hair.” She tugged at the leash and Max did his usual cowering act, as if she were the Angel of Death come to smite him. “Come on, Max. Playtime’s over.” She tugged again, walking backwards. Sometimes she had to literally drag him away from the beach, his paws leaving tracks in the sand. She’d gotten quite a few dirty looks from that.

  “He can stay with me.” The voice was low but his words carried.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He clearly doesn’t want to be locked up, not quite yet. And I—I have some free time. I’d be happy to take him for another walk. Keep him on the beach for a while longer.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She looked down at that scarred leg. When she looked back up at him, she saw calm in those dark eyes.

  “He won’t make me fall. I have good balan
ce. He caught me by surprise but it won’t happen again.”

  “I don’t know . . . he doesn’t tire easily,” she warned.

  That earned her a small smile. “Neither do I.”

  Well, no. If he’d been a Navy SEAL he could probably outlast her rambunctious dog.

  She looked at him carefully, not in any way hiding her scrutiny. He stood still for it, face remote and expressionless, and let her examine him.

  Paige had no idea who he was, really. Though she complained often about Max’s rambunctiousness and complete lack of obedience, he was a joy. On days when work was going badly, which was happening more and more often lately, coming home to Max was the one bright spot in her day.

  She loved him fiercely.

  Though Max was a friendly dog, he’d had several unexpectedly hostile reactions to men. One, a colleague, had turned out to be a wife beater; another, a drunk; and one notable evening, he’d growled at a perfectly normal banker who’d come to pick her up for dinner. Max’s acumen was better than her own because it took her an entire dinner to realize the banker was a jerk. When he took her home, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and it was only when Max growled—showing sharp, white teeth—that he had backed off.

  So she trusted Max’s reactions and what she was seeing now was trust and liking. His mouth was open in one of his exasperating, slobbering grins as he watched the dynamic between her and the human Max, tail wagging furiously.

  He was actually closer to human Max than to her because though the man was standing utterly still, one hand was still scratching behind Max’s ears.

  Small Max was a slut for attention, but he wouldn’t be reacting this way if Big Max were giving off bad human vibes.

  “He’s very important to me,” she said finally, still watching the man’s deep brown eyes, unwavering and intelligent.

  His head dipped. “Understood. He’ll be safe with me.” Max gave a sharp, happy bark. Her dog couldn’t possibly know what they were discussing but as far as he was concerned, every minute not spent in her tiny backyard and in the presence of his mistress and a new best friend was a happy minute.

  Paige sighed. The decision was made, she was just stalling.

  “OK.” She handed him the walking-with-Max equipment. Leash. Something less fun than the leash. “That’s the pooper-scooper.” She eyed him suspiciously. “You know how it works?”

  He turned it over in his hands, biting his lips against what looked like a smile. “No, but it looks pretty straightforward. I think I can figure it out.”

  She glanced at her watch and winced. Ouch. She had to hurry if she was going to be at work on time. Plus she was hoping for Silvia’s call. “I’ll meet you at your door in twenty minutes and hand you Max’s food bowls, some dog food, and a Milk Bone.” Max barked at the sound of his favourite words of all time. “If you give me your cell number I’ll program it into my cell and I’ll give you my number when I bring you Max’s stuff, so you can call if anything happens.”

  “You can give it to me now,” he said.

  He was naked except for swim trunks. “But you don’t have your cell with you.”

  “I can remember a ten-digit number. Trust me.”

  She gave him her number and, sure enough, he repeated it back to her perfectly. Whatever his wounds were, they certainly hadn’t damaged his brain.

  He could contact her if Max got to be too much of a handful. And she had to give him a fallback option. “I’ll give you the key to my backyard when I stop by. If you get tired of him, just open the gate and make him walk through. He’ll drag his feet and look heartsick, but just ignore him.” She gave her dog a quelling look which he happily ignored. Some slobber fell to the sand. “He can get really annoying.”

  The man went very still. “You don’t know me and you’re going to give me the key to your backyard?”

  Paige smiled. 00">Paiiled. “First of all, I’m leaving you Max, and he is much more precious to me than the backyard I’m too busy to care for, and where Max digs up all the plants anyway. There’s nothing there to steal, not even flowers. And Uncle Mel sent you here. My godfather. Uncle Mel more or less walks on water as far as I’m concerned. If you were a serial killer, he’d have let me know.”

  His face had turned somber. “Not a serial killer, promise.”

  If he was a serial killer, he was a lonely one. Paige recognized loneliness and she was seeing it right in front of her. He was so lonely, even the company of her wildly rambunctious dog was welcome.

  “Okay,” she said softly. “I’ll drop the things off and I’ll see you tonight. And as a thank-you for taking care of my dog, I’ll even cook you dinner.”

  Dinner was definitely a word Max recognized. He gave an excited bark.

  “I second the motion,” the other Max said in his deep, sexy voice.

  Chapter Two

  Man, Cookie Lady was fucking gorgeous.

  Max was really glad he’d seen her first on the beach, loose and relaxed, because when she stopped by to leave keys and food for the dog, she was all wrapped up tightly in Corporate Woman gear and seemed another woman entirely.

  That luscious golden-brown hair pulled back tightly into a French braid. Conservative dark suit. Sensible shoes. Briefcase. Glasses. Nothing at all like the laughing woman in a sundress and sandals, hair loose around her shoulders, playing with her dog.

  She had pulled a reverse Marian the Librarian, buttoning up, but it was too late because Max had already seen the skimpy-sundress, bare-legs, hair-down, glasses-off version, and it was stunning.

  Noticing women was something new. In the Sandbox and after getting blown up, and while being put back together again, he hadn’t desired anyone. There wasn’t anyone to desire in the field, and in the hospital, man, you do not get a hard-on for the lady who cleans your bedpan and wipes your butt.

  And besides, this past year, not much was working south of the border, including his legs.

  But his legs—or one leg, at least—were now working, and everything else came back online, in one big rush this morning. On a beach. While wearing swim trunks that outlined him just fine.

  Shit, that was close. Standing there in the surf with this beautiful, laughing woman who was trying and failing to show contrition for her dog—so close he could smell something flowery over the brine of the ocean, so close he could see the green flecks in her blue eyes, so close he could touch that clear, lightly-tanned skin . . . he had to curl his hands into fists.

  Not reaching out and touching her? Well, it took a SEAL’s self-discipline. Because what he wanted more than anything was to go with the rush of hormones suddenly flooding his system. Pull her down in the gently whooshing early-morning surf and roll right on top of her.

  He could feel it, he could almost taste it. Just pulling her down with him, lifting that light skirt, hand smoothing up her thighs, ripping off her panties and losing them in the surf, putting his hand between her legs . . .

  His long-dormant dick had lengthened and thickened and was well on its way to rising, ready to celebrate breaking its two-year dry spell. He had to will all the blood that had gone AWOL from his head to scramble down to his cock all the way back up, so he could make rational conversation with her without scaring her off.

  He hadn’t had sex in so long, the desire was as intense as when he’d been a kid with a perpetual hard-on. Hot desire prickled in his veins, made his hands tingle, and filled his chest with heat.

  But when he’d been a randy teenager, just about any female who didn’t make you run screaming from her—and who had the right plumbing—would do.

  This time those intense feelings were focused tightly on her. Paige Waring. Cookie Lady. Mistress of Max. Pretty and laughing and luscious.

  And then the kicker. A real shock. An invitation to dinner! And sex afterward!

  It had been like a punch to the chest, even though the small part of his brain that was still capable of rational thought realized that a dinner invitation wasn’t an invitatio
n to sex. That was just dickful thinking.

  It was a pity invite. For the crippled soldier, all alone.

  Didn’t matter.

  He didn’t feel like a crippled soldier now. Now he felt like a man with a mission. To get the delectable Paige Waring into his bed just as fast as was humanly possible. And since there wasn’t a limit on his time because he wasn’t on active duty anymore—his heart gave its usual sharp pump at the thought—he was going to keep her there a long, long time. Because man, sex was back. Big time.

  The dog tugged at his leash, dancing in the waves. He wanted to play.

  Well, so did Max. After two years of misery and pain, he was ready to play again.

  It was hard to keep Max out of her mind. The human Max, Maxwell—not her furry friend.

  Paige had an incredibly frustrating day, trying to piece together corrupted research files from the Argentina Research Station and waiting for her friend Silvia, who worked there, to contact her.

  The Argentina research project was interesting, and a little creepy. As a plant geneticist, Paige was fascinated by what nature could do all on its own. But now her company, GenPlant Laboratories—an offshoot of a major food multinational—had spliced a human growth hormone gene into corn, creating a new variety, HGHM-1, intending to produce a type of corn that grew so quickly you could have three crops a year, each crop double the tonnage.

  Their research fields were in a vast company landholding four hundred miles south of Buenos Aires and one of her best friends, Silvia Ramirez, was the local project leader.

  They’d been playing phone tag for days. Silvia had sent a file of preliminary results, but the file had somehow become corrupted, almost impossible to reconstitute.

  Without the files and without Silvia to help her, Paige was stymied. HGHM-1 was the company’s top priority at the moment, and she didn’t have any other urgent projects which needed her attention.

  So Paige spent all day with basically nothing to do but think of her new neighbor. Not obsessing really. Just . . . thinking about him.