by Anne Marsh
“I’ll get you a tracking number,” she said.
Her mother’s short huff of disbelief echoed down the line as she correctly interpreted that promise. “You didn’t send it.”
“I will.” There. She was committed. Stockton awaited and her future was settled. That was carefully orchestrated plan number one.
“You know I just want what’s best for you.” Her mother took a deep breath. Laney had already heard the speech that followed—multiple times. She didn’t need or want to hear it again. No matter how well-intentioned her mother was, she and Laney didn’t always see eye to eye.
“Absolutely.” Laney counted to thirty, but relaxing was more challenging than she’d anticipated. After all, she was playing singleton on an island designed for couples. Gray’s face popped into her head. Maybe he could be convinced to play.
Danger.
Her mother wrapped up her phone check-in to take her next call. Laney wasn’t sure her final thanks even registered. Her own phone chirped a reminder that she had a spa appointment in fifteen minutes. She turned off the reminder and tossed the phone back into her bag.
No more massages.
Avoiding Gray? That should be carefully orchestrated plan number two. She had twelve nights left on Fantasy Island, and she’d scheduled approximately two hundred hours of yoga, kayaking and beach sprints. Hot sex wasn’t on that schedule.
And Gray wasn’t interested anyhow.
“Massages are not good for me,” she said aloud. Weren’t massages supposed to be relaxing? Instead, she was tense, which might have to do with the unwarranted attraction she’d felt for her masseuse. She flopped down on the sand, feet in the water, hoping a change in perspective would help. The palm tree overhead was sporting a bumper crop of coconuts. Given the way her week had gone, it was all too easy to imagine getting concussed by a falling coconut. She’d seen stranger things in the ER.
A crab scuttled up the side, pinchers waving. Closing her eyes, she replayed yesterday’s cabana scene, hoping for a better ending. Nope. Her humiliation was still complete. She’d tried to order a guy off a menu. That wasn’t her. And it hadn’t been fun. She made a mental note to tell Ashley that her recommendation sucked. Or, possibly, she simply sucked at having fun. She certainly needed more practice.
Cracking an eye, she glared at the crab that had paused halfway in its ascent. “I am officially the most boring, least fun person on the planet.”
The crab didn’t answer. It was probably a male.
It was certainly pretty enough to fit in. Fantasy Island had some of the most gorgeous men on staff that Laney had ever seen. Gray, for example, was supremely handsome if grumpy. He was also reserved, impossibly self-controlled and not much of a talker—but he had magic hands. She could attest to that. And, best of all, he would have been a temporary man. When Laney’s two weeks were up, she would have been able to board a plane and he would have stayed put, safely left behind on this teeny-tiny island and at least three thousand miles from her new trauma bay. That would have made him perfect because, after her failed engagement, she needed a break from commitment and notions of happily-ever-after.
The gentle tug on her foot was unexpected. She jerked upright, kicking out hard. Had the crab enlisted reinforcement from his crab buddies? Did they stock alligators on the island?
“It’s just me,” said a gruff male voice. Oh, God. She knew that voice. Its owner had figured prominently in some very racy dreams last night, saying You’re beautiful while the voice’s owner did wicked, wicked things with his fingers. She wasn’t sure which had been her favorite part.
“Why are you here?” She kicked out, splashing water at him. She’d liked him better in the dream, probably because she’d been saying sexy, smart stuff rather than staring at him with her mouth hanging open. In response to her complaint, he wrapped a big, warm hand around her ankle and gently tugged her foot to the ground.
“We need to discuss your need for the rough stuff.” Seconds later, a body followed the hand as Gray leaned up on his elbows. The man had no personal boundaries at all, because his world-class swim move put him between her legs and gave him a view of her bikini bottom that neither she nor the suit’s maker had ever intended. She hoped nothing had shifted. God, this was so not how she’d planned her day.
He eyed her prone position on the sand. “Enjoying the beach?”
“Conducting an amphibious assault?” She yanked on her ankle.
His thumb stroked over her ankle. “Not today. This is an assault-free zone.”
Right. Not sure how to interpret that remark, she tried to scoot backward but Gray tugged her forward. He might not be much of a smiler, at least not around her, but there was no denying that he was a handsome bastard. She stared suspiciously at him, but his face gave nothing away.
“Do you ever crack a smile?” She blurted the words out and then flopped back on the sand. Wow. Talk about smooth. He let go of her foot, though, so she inched away. Maybe she could keep going until she hit Miami. Or possibly New York. That might be far enough. Because while he didn’t smile with his mouth, he did plenty of smiling with his eyes. Like now, for instance.
He stared at her for a moment, a dive mask and snorkel pushed back on top of his head. His dive shorty was partially unzipped and of course her eyes went straight to the vee of exposed chest. It wasn’t her fault that he was running around half-naked and wet.
“Move,” she ordered. There was only so much awkwardness and worrying about her bikini line she could take.
“You need to learn how to relax, sweetheart.” He stood up, waded out of the surf as if the tank strapped to his back was a featherweight, and holy hotness...his wet suit molded itself to every inch of him. And he had plenty of inches. His crotch was now on a level with her face.
“You’re staring.” Amusement colored his voice. He shrugged off the tank, dropping it onto the sand.
The drinks menu popped right back into her head as she stared at him, a list of erotic fantasies running through her mind on a decadent loop. Pick one. Pick them all. It was like opening a box of chocolates and, even though you knew you shouldn’t, you were tempted to choose your favorites before someone else came along and ate them. Gray was tough and hard with a side of wild. He wasn’t the kind of man you could tame. She’d stitched up his less honorable brethren in the ER chute, tagged and bagged them when they’d been picked off in drive-bys, and had close encounters with large-caliber guns fired too close and too fast. If those males were trouble, Gray was trouble of a different sort. He was disciplined, controlled, lethal. She hadn’t seen him coming, in more ways than one. He might be working as a masseuse now, but she’d bet her last dollar it was a recent career change. She understood wanting to reinvent yourself, but his body gave him away, a roadmap of where he’d been. The puckered three-inch scar on his right forearm was a parting gift from a knife. The cut had been deep, but stitched professionally. The thin line on the side of his jaw, however, had been left to heal on its own. He also had a bullet scar in his right calf, with two small puckered entrance and exit points from a close encounter with a large-caliber handgun.
When he dropped down onto the sand beside her, she went on the defensive. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
She knew she was being rude, but he simply gave her another crooked half smile. “I didn’t realize the bay was off-limits to the hired help.”
She eyed him again. Yep. He was still mostly naked and all wet. The parts exposed by the shorty were chiseled perfection. He tossed his snorkel and mask up behind him onto the sand and then tugged the zipper of the wet suit down farther. Yes, please.
Then he went in for the kill. “Besides, we’re seeing each other now on a regular basis, so you’d better not stand me up.”
She gaped before recovering. “I’m not late.” Yet.
He leaned back on his elbows, his arms brushing hers. Was the casual touch intentional? She had no idea, but the move pulled the edges of his wet suit farther apar
t. That was definitely a bullet scar on his left shoulder.
“How’d you get that?” She reached out instinctively, running her fingers over the scar. The skin was rough and slightly raised beneath her fingertips. Okay. Her feelings at the moment were completely unprofessional. She could admit it.
“It’s nothing.” He sounded as if he meant it.
“Since when is a bullet wound nothing? The bullet entered here.” She circled the mark on the front of his arm. “I’m thinking it was an armor-piercing round. .50 caliber. That’s not the kind of gun you usually find on the streets unless you’re hanging out in inner Los Angeles.”
He shrugged. “I got in the way.”
“You weren’t always a masseuse,” she said and then, when he didn’t say anything, “Where did Fantasy Island really find you?”
He turned his head and looked at her. Part of her, the weak part, wished she was more toned, ten pounds thinner, or even wearing something besides her basic black two-piece swimsuit that tied on the sides with two sets of strings for extra security. The rest of her figured he could take her or leave her. He was a risk, and she was a woman who played it safe. He didn’t seem to mind her less-than-perfect body, though. His expression was heated and more than a little interested, and all her pent-up urges came surging back to life.
“Come on.” He got to his feet and reached down a hand to tug her upright. “I owe you a massage and I know you like to stick to your schedule.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having a schedule,” she protested.
He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t let go of her hand. “You schedule your day in fifteen-minute increments.”
“How do you know that?”
He shrugged. “I may have looked at your phone.”
“It’s password-protected.” Or had been. She gave him a look that’d had recalcitrant patients lying back down.
“You picked an easy password to crack.” There was a definite note of accusation in his voice.
“You’re saying it’s my fault you hacked my phone?”
“Not exactly. I’m saying you should pick a stronger password.”
“Or keep my phone out of your hands,” she muttered. It should have bothered her more than it did, knowing he’d read her schedule. What else had he read? The expression on his face didn’t give anything away, and it wasn’t as if she had US national secrets or even embarrassing photos stored on her device. “No phones in the spa,” he reminded her. He sounded like a hard-ass, but she was pretty sure that was a twinkle she saw in his brown eyes. Plus, it was hard to take him seriously when he was wearing a wet suit. Half a wet suit. “Come on.”
“Where are we going? Don’t you need to take care of your tank?” she asked, falling into step beside him, anyhow. When he let go of her hand, she fought the urge to tangle her fingers back up with his. Helping her to her feet was just him being polite. Maybe it was something all of the island staff did or maybe, God forbid, he’d thought she was stuck on the sand. Or just really out of shape.
“I’ll come back for the tank later. You have an appointment for a massage.” He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get them back to the resort, picking a path that winded its way through a coconut grove.
“I was planning on canceling.” Confession was good for the soul, right?
“Why?”
Because she wasn’t stupid. Because she had chemistry with him and had practically propositioned him yesterday, which now topped her list of Most Embarrassing Moments Ever.
He gave her a sidelong look when she didn’t answer right away. “Give me one reason. A good reason.”
“And you’ll let me cancel?” Somehow, she didn’t think he’d make it that easy. For whatever reason, he enjoyed teasing her. She couldn’t quite interpret the expression on his face, either. There was something more than heat in his eyes. He looked possessive. Because maybe he had some fantasies, too, and they involved him letting her do certain things. Or not letting her...and wasn’t that an interesting thought?
They crunched up the path in silence for the next minute. Or, rather, she crunched and he walked silently. The man had serious ninja skills.
“Absolutely not,” he said finally, as the resort appeared through the palm trees. “You’re on the books for a massage today, and I know you like to stick to schedule.”
The walk was shorter than she would have liked, the massage cabanas by the edge of the pool too close. Worse, the pristine white sheets tucked over the padded beds gave her all sorts of tantalizing ideas that Mr. Tall, Dark and Sexy striding along beside her didn’t squash. He’d shoved his wet suit down to his waist and the elastic band of some kind of European swimwear was peeking out—Speedo? She hitched in a breath, trying to calm her racing heart. But unfortunately, the water droplets disappearing down his flat stomach didn’t make looking away any easier.
Nope. She was definitely in no condition for a massage. “I’m wet.”
“You’ll dry.” He didn’t look concerned.
But spa etiquette said she was supposed to shower beforehand. She’d read the rules. Of course, she was also pretty damn sure he was no career spa tech. Plus, he was a lousy hotel employee. He had no personal boundaries, and he hadn’t tried to upsell her once on his services.
He pointed to the towel hut by the pool. “Problem solved.”
She just bet. Still, a towel wasn’t a bad idea. Her bikini was nowhere near enough fabric between her and Gray.
“Stay here,” she ordered and brushed past him to approach the counter. To her surprise, he did.
The guy staffing the towel hut wore the loose linen pants and shirt that was the staff uniform. He wasn’t as big as Gray, but there was no mistaking the same kind of ripped muscles. Fantasy Island clearly believed in stocking up on the eye candy. The Pool Boy model apparently came standard issue with hazel eyes and dark blond hair growing out of a buzz cut. He watched her approach, a big grin stretching his face. He was the kind of guy you found yourself smiling back at, even if she had just objectified him in her head. Since even wonder boy behind the counter couldn’t read minds, she cut herself some slack on that one.
“A towel, please,” she said, stepping up to the counter.
He grinned again. “You can have whatever you want, sugar.”
Uh-huh. He was trouble, too. He might not have been as hot as her masseuse, but he was still a pretty impressive specimen. Muscled, with that air of awareness that said he’d be in motion, doing stuff, if there was threat. Probably while the rest of them were still gaping. He and Gray had that in common. Also, like Gray, he came accessorized with bullet scars, one through the palm of his hand and another on his forearm. “I want a towel. Levi.” She read his name off his tag. God, even his name was cute. Don’t smile. She knew his type. Give him an inch and he’d think he could have her panties off her faster than she could lick her lips.
“Nothing else...for now?” When she shook her head, he reached beneath the counter and grabbed a towel. A third scar from what appeared to be a .22 caliber bullet snaked across the back of his hand in a jagged line. His eyes followed hers, and he shifted his injured hand beneath the towel.
“Where did you serve?” Her inner doctor kicked in. Based on the extensive scarring, she’d guess field dressing.
He gave her yet another flirtatious grin. Defensive maneuver. “Right here, waiting for you.”
She rolled her eyes. Did he really think that kind of cheesy line would work on her? Still, his scars were none of her business. She took the towel and retreated to where Gray waited for her by the side of the pool.
“Are battle scars a job prerequisite around here?”
He was back to being poker-faced. “Do you have a soldier fantasy?”
Damn it. She hated blushing. So what if she’d daydreamed once or twice about welcoming her man home? It was none of Gray’s business. Deflect.
“I’m a trauma surgeon, and I’ve staffed the ER. Patients don’t always tell the truth about how they go
t injured. My patients lied about everything and anything.”
“Maybe you asked too many questions. Maybe the towel boy’s embarrassed about how he got injured.” His hand cupped her elbow, guiding her toward a massage cabana, a heavy weight against her skin. Sure. Confident. Would he position her that effortlessly in bed?
“How do you know how he got injured?”
He gave her a look. “Guys talk.”
“You mean you swap fishing stories. War stories. Who has the biggest dick. Etcetera. Oh, and just FYI...whatever he told you, it’s likely exaggerated. All guys do it.”
He pulled aside the curtain hanging over the door to the cabana. “Inside.”
Uh-oh. She probably shouldn’t have mentioned the size of his penis. Or thought about soldier fantasies. “Is it safe to be alone with you?”
The muscles in his jaw tightened. “Yes, but I exaggerate.”
* * *
“DOES EVERYONE LIE to you?” Gray snapped open the towel while he waited for Laney’s answer. Still warm from the laundry, the high-end cotton smelled like some kind of flower. It was a good smell, way nicer than what he usually encountered in the field. There were definite perks to going undercover at a resort. While she’d grabbed towels from Levi, he’d detoured briefly to strip out of his wet suit and into the spa uniform. He had no idea how the real masseuse handled spending his days in white linen. The stuff wrinkled and was hell on the tough-guy image.
She didn’t take the hint to lie down, standing in the center of the massage cabana, chewing on her bottom lip. Since he estimated she was ten seconds from bolting, the towel he wrapped around her was excellent insurance. Maybe he could trade the cotton in for some nice ropes. Or silk ties. He’d bet she’d enjoy the slide of silk against her skin, the gentle tug whenever she moved reminding her that she’d given control to him. He’d enjoy it, too.
