by Roz Lee
Drew's arm tightened around her waist. There was no way to escape without causing a scene, and he knew it. Bree reined in her anger and watched the competition. She could hardly hear her own thoughts over the cheering crowd. The six couples forged ahead as if winning meant not having to swim back to Miami, rather than free drinks for the next twenty-four hours. Geez, what some people would do for free booze.
Drew spoke close to her ear. "We could win this thing. Want to give it a try? There's another round after this one."
None of these people would have a chance if Drew entered the competition. Holy hell. Just thinking about his mouth on her almost made her come. He had mastered the art of cunnilingus. She squeezed her thighs tight, remembering the feel of him between her legs, tasting, sucking, nipping, driving her toward an orgasm that threatened to set the ocean on fire. These people couldn't be very good, because all the women were able to keep their hands above their heads without any restraints. If Drew hadn't chained her to Andromeda's Rock, she would have wrapped her hands around his head and held his face prisoner against her pussy. She would have taken charge, prolonged the sweet pain. But Drew had taken that away from her. She'd had no choice but to come when and how he wanted her to.
God, what she wouldn't do for a gun right now. "Come with me."
"If you insist, darlin'." His grin and tone of voice said he'd heard more than she intended.
Bad word choice. "Get your mind out of the gutter, sailor." She tugged on his arm again, and this time he followed her toward the back of the crowd. She couldn't lose focus. Drew was making her crazy, and she had to make him understand. She pulled him out to the open deck and away from the doors. Why he chose to let her lead him, she didn't know. Maybe he thought she wanted to discuss entering the competition. Not in this lifetime.
"Look, Drew," she said, halting on a deserted section of deck and turning to him.
His hands landed on her hips, pulling her up against his erection. She narrowed her eyes. Her hands had come to rest at the crook of his elbows, and she pushed him back. "Unhand me, you perv."
He neither moved nor unhanded her. "Ah, come on, darlin'. Isn't it time we kissed and made up?"
"No, it isn't. Is that thing always primed?" She glanced at the bulge rising between their pressed-together hips.
"Only when you're around." He ground against her. "I'd have sent you flowers a long time ago if I'd known it would get you back in my arms this easily."
"There's nothing easy about it, Drew."
"Sure there is. All you have to do is lie back and let me do the all the work." He grinned.
Bree groaned and pushed again. This time, he let her go. "You're a Neanderthal,” she said. “Go find someone else to play with. I'm not interested."
His grin disappeared. His gaze searched her face, then swept over her body as if checking to see if she'd morphed into someone else.
Moisture pooled between her legs at the close scrutiny.
"I'm not interested in playing, Bree. Not with you or anyone else. If you think this is a game, you're wrong."
His voice had lowered to a range that sent tingles along her spine. She imagined it was the tone he used with a terrorist, right before he went in for the kill. "I… I know you don't think it's a game, but that's all it can be. And I don't want to play anymore."
He actually growled at her. She took a step back. He commanded his section of the deck, his body a wall of granite, all hard unyielding muscle covered with bronzed satin. She was acutely aware she'd be back in his arms before she could blink if he decided that was where he wanted her. Right now, he allowed her the illusion of distance.
"I don't think you understand, Drew. I'm not staying on the Lothario, at least not any longer than I have to. As soon as this assignment is over, I'm gone. I'm moving on. I don't know where. All I know is, I'm not happy doing this."
She stood silently under his gaze. His face gave nothing away, a skill she needed to learn if she was going to succeed with the DIA or the CIA. Drew would make a hell of a poker player.
"What the hell are you talking about?" His bellow took her by surprise, and she jumped another step back. "Do you think I'm going to let you go?"
The world took on a red haze. Blood rushed past her ears, drowning out the rush of water against the hull, the wind, the music coming from the lounge on the deck above.
"Let me?" She took a step forward, then another until she was toe to toe with him. "Don't think for a minute you have any say in what I do or don't do. Just because you checked out of reality doesn't mean I'm going to. You can stay here for the rest of your life, running around in circles on this floating singles club, but I want more out of life. I want to live. I want to make a difference. Maybe you've had all that you want already. Maybe you're content to watch these stupid contests, day in and day out. Maybe you like being a glorified guard dog. But I'm sick of it. And let me make this clear. I'll even use words you understand." She poked a finger into his chest, punctuating each word by digging her fingernail into his sternum. "You. Can't. Stop. Me."
Chapter Six
His cabin smelled like a funeral parlor. From the looks of it, Barbie was the proprietor. No wonder Bree had been pissed. His cabin was three times the size of hers, and the floral scents all mixed together were enough to turn his stomach. Or maybe that was a result of Bree's tirade on deck. She'd unwittingly gouged at the very thing that was eating him up inside.
Drew pulled a beer from the mini-fridge under his desk and moved the carnation arrangement to the floor so he could sit without pink petals in his face.
His buddy Sean seemed happy enough on dry land, using the security business they'd built together as a cover for supervising DIA operations in the Caribbean. Of course, he had Celeste with him. Once, Drew had thought he could be happy anywhere as long as he had Celeste in his bed, but one night with her had changed that. She was Sean's, and once he realized that, it had been surprisingly easy to let her go.
He still got a cramp in his gut when he thought about Celeste on her knees, offering herself to Sean, but he was pretty sure it had more to do with the whole Dom/Sub thing than her loving Sean more than she loved him.
He propped his feet on the edge of the desk and took a long drag on his beer. He liked his women willing. What man didn't? But he wasn't into domination, at least not the kind Sean was into. He liked to make a woman feel good. God, there wasn't anything more arousing than a woman in the throes of passion. The way they moved, the way they smelled, the sounds they made….
Images of Bree filled his mind and his groin grew heavy, anchoring him to the chair. Christ. His feet hit the floor as he tossed the empty beer can into the wastebasket. He adjusted his cock and braced his elbows on his knees. His shoulders slumped, and his neck refused to support his throbbing head. When his old boss at the DIA contacted him shortly after Celeste had made her choice, Drew didn’t think twice about going back to his old life. It didn't take a genius to figure out why his current situation felt wrong. He'd built a career on being an expert liar, but he'd never had to lie to someone who mattered. Until now.
Jesus, what was he going to do? In the last few months, he'd lost the woman he'd loved for years, he'd slunk back into the dark world of espionage, and the one woman who really mattered hated his guts. And when she found out what he was really up to, she'd kill him. He was the screw-up his father thought he was, after all.
Funny, he'd never believed it. Not really. Hell, he'd graduated Annapolis at the top of his class. He'd made it through SEAL training and paid his dues with the Navy. After that, he'd had enough of following in the old man's footsteps. Everywhere he went, he wasn't Drew Whitcomb, Navy SEAL. He was Andrew Whitcomb the Fourth, son of Admiral Whitcomb, and as such, expected to play the political game. No way was he going to spend his life in a starched uniform, stuck behind a desk at the Pentagon, playing nice with the Washington brass. He'd rather swim with sharks.
Now look at him. He was leading a double life and lying to
the woman he loved. If that wasn't fucked up, he didn't know what was.
He'd made a shitload of money in the last five years, designing security systems and protocols for the richest of the world's rich, but money had never been an issue. His family was loaded, always had been. He had trust funds up the wazoo. But ever since he'd put on his first superhero cape when he was a kid, he'd known he wasn't the kind of person to sit around and watch others have all the fun.
He lurched to his feet and crossed to the tiny balcony. Fresh salt-tinged air buffeted his face. His family would be pissed when they found out he'd gone back to the DIA. Particularly the Admiral. He'd get over it, or he wouldn't. Drew couldn't let that matter to him. You'd think an Admiral would recognize the service DIA operatives did for their country, but not Admiral Whitcomb. Drew tried to tell himself his father only wanted his son safe, but hell, these days you weren't even safe in the Pentagon. No way was he going to sit behind a desk and wait for the bad guys to come for him. He'd rather hunt them down. If that made him a control freak, then so be it. In that, he and his father were very much alike.
It hurt like hell to think about his mother's reaction. Before he took his present job, she'd worried constantly about him, never knowing where he was or what kind of danger he faced. She'd applauded his decision to leave the DIA, but not necessarily his decision to leave public service. She wanted the best for her firstborn, and probably had visions of him in the White House or some such shit. But she also wanted him happy, and he wasn't.
His little brother, Rand, could fill the familial shoes, or maybe even his sister, Cammie. Both inherited more smile-and-shake-hands genes than he had. And from what he heard through the family grapevine, either or both of them had political genius in spades. He wouldn't mind being the brother of the President, but actually aspiring to the office? Hell no. He shook his head to clear the ridiculous image in his brain. Was it possible his little brother or sister was that ambitious? He didn't know enough about them to judge. He'd left home when they were both little, and his life since then had kept him at a distance.
He was on his own now. When this mission was over he'd be assigned to a new team, but it took years to build the kind of trust he had with Sean and Celeste. Could he find that again? His life would depend on it.
He stepped back into his cabin and stopped short. How the hell had he forgotten about Bree? Shit. He'd be leaving Bree behind too. He sank to the edge of the bed. She said she was moving on – but to where? He'd just found her, and he had no intention of letting her go, no matter what she said. Hell, she wouldn't be content as the little woman, patiently waiting for her spook of a husband to reappear in her life. She was too much like him for that. She thrived on excitement, on the thrill of the chase. She was good at her job, and he had no doubt she'd complete this mission successfully. Then what? Where would she go? If the FBI wasn't enough excitement for her, what was?
He had plenty of questions, and not a single satisfying answer. All he knew for sure was he couldn't let Bree Stanton go. How he was going to keep her, he hadn't a clue.
****
Bree reviewed the report sent from her superior at the FBI and cursed. Still nothing on Vernon Cannon. At this rate, she'd be on this floating rust bucket until retirement age. She clicked through the reports she'd received over the last few months, isolating the bits and pieces of information into a separate file. There had to be something there. Every attack on the Lothario had been more severe than the previous one. The last time, Cannon had arranged to kidnap and hold for ransom the wives of the ship's owners. Where would he go from there? If he intended to escalate the next attack—and she knew in her gut there would be one—well, obsessed people didn't just forget their obsession and move on. She had to figure out what he'd do next. Otherwise, they'd be scraping rust off her, too.
Bleary eyed, she shut down the computer and said goodnight to the underling who had the overnight shift watching the security monitors. She needed air. Lots of it. For once, she took the elevator to the Mediterranean deck. Air. Food. Drink. That's what she needed, and not necessarily in that order.
Tonight was oldies night, and a band played slow love songs for the dancers on the deck below. This was one of her favorite times on the ship. The party going on now was nothing like the wild mixers on the first night of the cruise. After days at sea, many of the passengers paired off, so this event was for lovers. Special alcoves were set up around the pools where couples could have some privacy while they 'danced' to the music. Still, some preferred to do their dancing in plain sight of whoever might walk by. A few people stood at the rail nearby, watching the dancers from above.
She claimed a lounge chair along the port-side rail, stretched out and closed her eyes. Sheets of Plexiglas shielded this portion of the deck from the stiff winds as the ship cut through the ink-black night. She inhaled deeply. The soft, moist air filled her lungs, taking a day's worth of worry with it when it left. For the first time in days, she was aware of the tension in every muscle of her body. No wonder she hadn't slept well. She dredged up a relaxation technique she'd learned in her college years when finals kept her tied in knots and unable to sleep.
Beginning with her toes and working her way up to her neck, she focused on each muscle group, willing the tension away, until she lay as limp as a becalmed sail. She slipped into a deep sleep, lulled by an old love song and the gentle motion of the ship beneath her.
She woke slowly, vaguely aware first of the quiet. Beyond the wind whipping her hair, the music had stopped. Without opening her eyes, she knew it had to be early morning, the only time the ship was truly quiet. How long had she slept? She shifted, testing muscles stiff from lying in one position for hours. A cool breeze teased her toes and her face, but the rest of her was toasty warm. Someone had covered her with a blanket, even tucked it in so it wouldn't fly away in the constant wind on deck. Her heart kicked against her ribcage as she bolted upright, looking around for the one person she knew who would have done such a thing.
Drew lounged on the chair beside her, his eyes closed and his body relaxed, yet taut, as only someone in complete control could manage.
"Good morning." His lips moved, but other than that, he didn't even bat an eyelash. "Are you hungry?"
Her stomach growled, answering for itself. Drew turned his head, opened one eye, looked her over and returned to his repose. "Breakfast will be here in a few minutes."
What was she supposed to say to that? "Thank you," rolled off her dry lips. "For the blanket. For breakfast. You didn't…?"
"Yes, I did. No need to thank me. I'll always take care of you. You should know that right from the beginning."
Her mouth felt like the Sahara. She tried to generate enough spit to ask what he meant by the beginning, but two stewards arrived with a tray laden with a breakfast fit for the gods.
Bree excused herself and ran to the nearest restroom. Her face was chapped and dry from sleeping outdoors, and her hair looked like a fright wig. She felt better than she looked, that was for sure. She did what she could to tame her hair, splashed some water on her face, and headed back to face Drew. He deserved to have to look at her in her present state, if only because of all the sleep she'd lost over the last few weeks thinking about him. Even last night, she'd dreamed of his hands on her, stroking, arousing.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Oh god! Had he touched her while she slept? She leaned against the bulkhead and took stock. No. Her body always hummed for hours, days even, after being with Drew. She felt none of that now. Only rested, and a little annoyed at herself for falling asleep on deck, and annoyed at Drew for not waking her up and making her body hum. Shit. She had it bad.
Bree approached the cozy breakfast set-up, aware the scowl she wore was only a mask for what she really felt. She wanted Drew. She'd entertained all manner of fantasies since the last time they were together. He'd restrained her, something she never thought she'd willingly allow, and then he took her to heights of arousal beyond her imagining.
He was like a mind-altering drug, addictive as hell.
To hell with her convictions and good intentions. Besides, it was too late to save her heart. It was going to be broken, no matter what, so she might as well enjoy the time she had left with Drew.
She needed a fix, and she was going to get one.
****
Damned if she wasn't sexy as hell, all rumpled and wind-tossed. It had taken everything noble in him last night not to scoop her up and take her to his bed, but she'd looked so damned vulnerable sleeping like a ragdoll on the hard chaise. Instead, he took the chair beside her, thinking she'd awaken and he could apologize, again, for his behavior. But it soon became apparent she was out for the night. Pirates could have taken the ship, and she would have slept through it. He knew she'd be pissed if she woke in his bed, so he'd asked for a blanket, covered her and kept vigil beside her. He was well aware not everyone onboard had his scruples. Such as they were.
Now that she was awake, he had a headache in both heads, neither of which was likely to go away anytime soon.
"You look—"
"Like hell," she finished for him.
"I was going to say something more flattering, but yeah, you've looked better."
"Well, thanks, Drew. You're a prince among men." She pulled her blanket around her and sat. "Seriously, thanks for the blanket and the food."
He watched helplessly as she drained her water glass. He offered his and she drained it too. Soft morning light glinted off the glass and bathed her features in a warm glow. He wanted to see that glow every morning on the pillow beside his. That alone would be reason enough to wake every day. "Want some coffee now?"
