Under the Covers

by Roz Lee

  "Dinner at eight. I'll pick you up."

  Apparently, she hadn't been speaking English. Either that, or the man had a death wish. Bree fell back on the bed, letting her legs dangle to the floor. The woman in the overhead mirror was a stranger. She had Bree's blue eyes and red hair, but she was as pale as parchment. Bree traced a finger along her cheekbone. Was she losing her freckles? She rolled her head to the side so she could see the readout on the bedside clock. Still enough time to get some sun before Drew showed for dinner. It was useless to try and ditch him. Unless she hid in the engine room, he'd find her, so she might as well spend the afternoon mapping out her own plan of attack.

  A phone call to Wardrobe resulted in a white passenger-issue bikini delivered to her room. She wouldn't get any peace on deck wearing the crew's turquoise suit, and nude sunbathing was out of the question. Not that it wasn't allowed. The Lothario was clothing optional, except in a few of the nicer restaurants. But Bree wasn't about to lie around naked, especially on a ship loaded with sex-crazed passengers. This time of day, most of the passengers were busy with the organized activities, drinking away the afternoon in one of the bars, or in their cabins doing the horizontal mambo.

  She passed a couple who preferred to do their dancing outdoors, and a few nude sunbathers who were going to regret their decision later on, but otherwise the Odyssey deck was quiet. She claimed a chaise as far away from the others as she could find, pulled out her eReader and sunscreen, and ordered a margarita from a passing waiter.

  It didn't take long for the sun to lull her into a stupor. She tucked her eReader in her tote bag and flipped to her stomach. Stretched out with her arms pillowing her head, she was asleep in minutes.

  The tingling began at the base of her spine and continued upward to her nape. It was more an awareness of a touch than actual contact. Gooseflesh covered her skin and she shivered, despite the tropical heat. Her sun-drugged brain conjured the sweet kiss of the ocean breeze teasing her heated skin like a lover's caress. Her languid mind tried to grasp the image, tried to focus on the point of contact, but failed. It was too elusive, too ethereal.

  Her blood heated. Her heart pounded. She gasp as the phantom lover stroked her body with ghostly fingers, making her want, making her crave his touch. Lower… please… touch me there…. Her mind directed the unseen hand to fulfill her need.

  The breeze whispered feather soft across her nape, then back down her spine to trace along the top of her bikini bottom. "Yes," her inner voice cried out. A shudder racked her body as the imagined breeze slid along the sweat dampened creases where her thighs met her buttocks, then swept along the back of her legs, tickled the soles of her feet, across the pads of her toes, vanishing as suddenly as it had come.

  Warm, mint-scented air brushed against her nape, sending a bolt of desire to her womb. "Please," she silently begged her phantom lover. Her body strained toward the transcendent seducer, seeking the promised ecstasy.

  "You're going to burn," a soft voice whispered in her ear.

  She was already burning, from the inside out, her mind countered. Then, slowly, reality pushed against the curtain of sleep, letting in the harsh daylight and the harsher truth.

  It wasn't a dream.

  She'd know that voice anywhere. Drew. She forced her eyes open and blinked as his wide shoulders eclipsed the sun. A white feather held between two blunt fingertips brushed the length of her nose and across her lips before she could form a protest.

  "I hope you don't mind. I saw you on the monitor. I was afraid you were going to burn." His gaze swept the length of her body and back again, searing her skin with something more lethal than UV rays. "You've been out here for a while."

  She rolled and swung her feet to the deck, facing Drew. He looked like sin on a mission. He wore a crew-issue turquoise wrap that clung to his narrow hips. His bare legs, folded to allow him to sit, brushed against hers. The contact brought on a startling awareness. The ghostly lover of her dreams wasn't a ghost at all. It was Drew. Even while he'd teased her, her mind had conjured a lover from the depths of her desires, and that lover was also Drew. Pathetic.

  She jerked her gaze away from the physical embodiment of her dreams and focused on the horizon. "No peace. Not even in my sleep," she mumbled.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't want your pretty skin to get all red. Unless it's for a different reason."

  There was no mistaking the reason he had in mind, and the spike of anger and annoyance his words brought on also brought a flush of heat to her skin.

  "That's better," Drew said. "I've got you thinking of ways to bring a lovely glow to your skin."

  "Just leave me alone. Please?" A faint recollection of her inner self, using that same word only minutes ago and breathlessly begging for something altogether different, flashed through her mind.

  His legs brushed hers as he scooted between the chairs. "Don't stay out too long. Dinner. Remember?"

  "Yeah, I remember."

  "Good." A strand of hair had worked its way free of her ponytail. He reached down and wrapped it around his finger. He gently tugged on it, then pulled his finger free. "I'll see you then."

  Bree watched him walk away, aware of the feminine heads that turned as he passed. Damn. She'd never met a more exasperating man than Drew Whitcomb, or a more desirable one. "Why me?" she muttered. Then she gathered her things and headed in the opposite direction. Thanks to Drew interrupting her nap, she knew exactly what she needed to do, and she had plenty of time to do it.

  ****

  Drew ducked into the first crew passage he ran across and flattened himself face forward against the wall. The chilled metal did nothing to cool his blood, or get it circulating back where it belonged. With a groan, he rolled over so his back was pressed against the wall. He sucked in a harsh breath as the cold steel met his heated skin from his shoulders to the small of his back.

  "Shit." The hissed expletive echoed around the empty chamber. He leaned his head against the wall and ran the fingers of both hands through his buzzed hair, gripping his skull as hard as he could. With any luck, his head would explode and put an end to his torment.

  Bree Stanton was going to be the death of him, one way, or another. Of that, he was certain. He'd die if he didn't have her soon, and she might kill him if he made a move in that direction. Then there was the probability that if he did manage to convince her to let him fuck her again, he might die from the wonder of being inside her tight, wet body.

  One way or another, he was a dead man.

  Drew bent forward and supported his torso on hands braced against his thighs. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, but at last his cock was returning to a less embarrassing state. There was no way to hide a boner in a pair of tight shorts, or under the short wraps the ship provided for the male crewmembers. Normally, it wouldn't bother him a bit to be seen with a raging hard-on. But on the Lothario, you might as well go ahead, whip it out and wave it around. Every woman on board was looking for a man, and their eyes always went directly south.

  He took a deep breath and straightened. Not so long ago, he’d been extremely happy with that quirk of the cruise ship. Where else could a man have as much sex as his parts could stand without fear of being branded a lecher? Nowhere. It was a sailor's dream come true, and he'd taken advantage of every opportunity. Until Bree came aboard.

  Tonight would tell the tale. Either she'd finally give in to what he knew they both wanted, or not. Either way, it was time to resolve their issues and move forward. Or move on.

  Chapter Two

  Bree sat across from Drew in the dimly lit alcove. She'd envisioned dinner in a more public place where everyone could see them, a place where she'd feel safe. Alone with Drew, secluded from the other diners by a solid wall on two sides, the bank of windows and a gossamer curtain on the other two sides did nothing to ease her anxiety. Agreeing to dine with him had been a mistake. She'd vowed to keep her distance from him, excepting necessary professional contact. That was the only way sh
e could preserve her sanity.

  "This is insane," she muttered.

  "Why is that?" Drew leaned against his crossed forearms, bringing his face too close to hers.

  She felt his heat from across the table, and like a moth with no brain, she wanted to get closer. Instead, she eased back in her chair. "You weren't supposed to hear that."

  "Couldn't help it. I have excellent hearing." His lips thinned in a smile that indicated he knew exactly how he affected her, and that it pleased him immensely.

  "Look, Drew. I should go." She looked around for an escape route. Some smart FBI agent I am. The only way out was to edge past Drew, and if he didn't want her to leave….

  "Giving up so soon? We just got here."

  He knew how to push her buttons. She stiffened her spine. No way was she going to let him have the satisfaction of seeing her quit. "So we did. I'm hungry. Let's order and see if we can get through one meal without tearing the hide off each other."

  Drew rubbed a hand over the scratch marks on his chest, the ones she'd put there. "I'd like that. Don't think I could stand to lose much more of my hide."

  Bree raised her menu to hide her flaming face. She hadn't meant to claw him, but when he kissed her, she couldn't be responsible for her actions. All the more reason to stay far away from Drew. "Sorry about that."

  "Don't be. I think I'm starting to like being mauled by you."

  A lump formed in her throat and sank to her stomach. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "I know you didn't. You just lose control."

  "I do not lose control." Heat smoldered, and Bree squirmed in her chair. Drew leaned in close enough that she could smell his masculine scent. Someone should bottle that scent. There wasn't a woman on the planet who could resist it. She closed her eyes and did her best to lean away from him without looking like she was running scared. Which she was.

  "What would you call it? You bite. You scratch. Sounds out of control to me."

  "Maybe I meant to do those things."

  He stared out the window for a few seconds as he considered her comment. Finally, he turned back to her and smiled. "No. I don't think so."

  Bree shrugged. "Think what you will. Even if I did lose control, and I'm not saying I did, it wouldn't be gentlemanly of you to bring it up."

  He leaned back in his chair and lifted his menu. "Who said I was a gentleman?"

  A waiter in a Lothario Tuxedo with shiny black spandex pants, white cuffs around his wrists and a white bow tie at his neck, arrived to take their order. Before she opened her mouth, Drew proceeded to order for them both. The waiter took her menu and left. She glared at Drew.

  "What?" he asked.

  "I'm perfectly capable of ordering for myself."

  "I doubt that. Are you on a diet or something? You're losing weight."

  "Oh my god! You did not just say that."

  "Say what?"

  "It's none of your business if I lose weight or not."

  "I like the way you are. I like a woman with something to hang onto."

  Bree couldn't help it. Her mouth flapped like a fish out of water as she tried to form words. No matter how hard she tried, her brain and her vocal chords couldn't connect. Drew's eyes sparkled with laughter, and the way he pressed his lips together told her he was having a hard time keeping it from spilling out.

  The waiter returned with a basket of bread. Drew flicked the napkin aside, lifted one steaming roll and held it out toward her. "Want a roll?" His eyes twinkled. "I'll spread the butter."

  His lips formed the simple words, but his inflection made it sound like he was thinking of an altogether different kind of roll, one that involved naked bodies on a mattress and hands spreading.... Bree tossed her napkin on the table and stood. If she sprinted, she could get past him. He wouldn't dare make a scene in the restaurant. She'd be free. Free of his pheromones. Free of his innuendo. Free of her insane desire to take him up on everything he was offering.

  She made it as far as the door leading to the outside deck before he caught up to her. "Go away, Drew."

  He matched his stride to hers. "No. I thought you wanted this. Wanted to have no-strings sex. You knew that's what tonight was about before you agreed to come. So what's wrong?"

  "I made a mistake."

  "Wait." He wrapped one hand around her upper arm and pulled her to a stop. "Let's talk about this."

  Bree jerked to a halt, closed her eyes while she counted to ten, and finally swung around to face him. "No talk." She put both hands on his chest and pushed him backward toward the railing. Her hands were all over him, touching, promising. He picked up on her intent and let her maneuver him so his back pressed against the wooden rail. Bree molded her body to his. "Let me," she breathed against his neck as her left hand slid along the length of his erection. He was hard and ready, and she almost forgot her purpose as he grew even harder beneath her hand.

  "I'm all yours, Sugar." Drew's hands gripped the rail behind him. Almost perfect. Bree trailed her lips along his right shoulder, nipping and tasting all the while her hand spanned the hard muscles of his upper arm. Her fingernails bit into his biceps, then glided along the ribbons of iron in his forearm. He made no protest as her fingers closed around his wrist and guided his hand to clasp the upright in the railing.

  Bree worked the fingers of her left hand underneath his sarong and cupped his balls. "Christ," he hissed as she scraped her fingernails over his scrotum. It was the distraction she needed. He never noticed her right hand had ceased to stroke his arm. He didn't hear the faint jingling of steel. He didn't register the cold metal banding his wrist until the cuff closed with an unmistakable click, first around his wrist, then around the railing.

  Bree smiled against his heaving chest. Then, in a move a magician would be proud of, she fisted her fingers around Drew's sarong. As she stepped out of his reach, she took the scrap of turquoise material with her.

  Drew cursed, then jerked against the restraint like a lion with his paw in a trap. "Bree," his voice warned. "Let me go. Now."

  "I don't think so." Putting the handcuffs in the back of her panties had been a stroke of genius. Uncomfortable, but genius. A woman never knew when restraints would come in handy. Like now.

  She stood just out of his reach as he continued to jerk against the handcuff securing him to the ship's railing. God, he was something to look at. All bronzed skin, from head to toe, and even held captive, his erection hadn't waned. She let her eyes linger there until she realized he was still struggling to get free. "Drew. Stop. You're only going to hurt yourself." An angry red line was already forming around his wrist. She felt bad about injuring him again, but not bad enough to free him.

  "Let. Me. Go." He stilled.

  She'd never seen a more determined look before, but she'd made up her mind, and she wasn't going to back down now. She had to make him listen. Since apparently there was no cure for her Drew addiction, he needed to understand why she wasn't going to give in again. Maybe then, he'd leave her alone.

  "No. Listen to me. I'm not going to sleep with you. I'm not the one you want. I won't be your plaything any longer." It was a threat she wasn't at all sure she could stick to, but she had good intentions. Maybe Drew would take the hint. Not keep after her. She was reasonably certain she wouldn't hunt him down and beg for sex. "Then there's the caveman attitude you've adopted."

  He stopped fighting against the restraint and turned his attention to her. "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about the way you ordered me around today. 'Take time off. Have dinner with me. You're going to burn’," she quoted.

  "Well, you were going to burn, and you needed the time off, and to eat. I don't see anything wrong with wanting to take care of you."

  "I don't need you to take care of me, Drew. I'm a big girl now. I carry a gun, and I know how to use it. Don't make me use it on you."

  "You wouldn't."

  "I don't want to, but don't push me." His erection withered, and she knew she finally had h
is full attention. "We had some great sex. I won't deny that, but the operative word is had. It's in the past, Drew."

  "It doesn't have to be." He tugged on the handcuff again. "Let me go and we'll talk about this, about us, like civilized people."

  "I'm through talking." Bree walked away. If Drew continued to bellow like that, it wouldn't be any time at all before someone came to find out what all the yelling was about. She stuffed his sarong in the first trashcan she walked past, wondering how long it would take Drew to notice the house phone within his reach—if he stretched a bit.

  ****

  Drew covered his junk with his free hand while his client, Richard Wolfe, freed his other hand. He'd spent half of the last twenty minutes cursing Bree Stanton, and the other half plotting his revenge. His training had finally kicked in, and he'd taken stock of his surroundings. At least the hellcat had left him within reach of a house phone.

  "Fallon is bringing a sarong," Richard said.

  "Can't she hurry up?" Drew wanted to massage his wrist, but that would mean he'd have to use his other hand, and that wasn't an option. A crowd had begun to gather shortly after he made the phone call, and no amount of cursing on his part had convinced them to move on.

  "I'm not sure she wants to. When I told her you were handcuffed to the railing, she was pretty sure only one person on this ship could have accomplished that. She was equally sure you deserved it." Richard held up the handcuffs. Drew reached for them. "Want to talk about it?"

  "Hell, no, I don't want to talk about it." He threw the cuffs overboard.

  "You're going to have to learn to get along with her, Drew. She isn't going anywhere until this thing with Vernon Cannon is over."

  "We get along fine."

  Richard gave Drew an assessing look. "Really? This is what you consider getting along?"