by Anne Marsh
With the guns and the danger. She didn’t like thinking about Mason getting hurt or being out there where things like Santiago Marcos happened on a daily basis. What she did know, though, was that she absolutely, 200 percent wanted to be the woman he came home to.
“We’ve got this,” she said finally. “Just as long as you swear you’ll always come home.”
“I promise.” His breath shuddered out, as if he’d been holding it and doing some waiting of his own. “And I accept your proposal, if it’s still good. I didn’t hear an expiration date, and you’re going to have to cut me some slack for being slow. Let me marry you and I’ll be the happiest goddamned SEAL ever.”
* * *
MADDIE TEARED UP. She stared at him and he could see—see—the tears welling up in her eyes. Crap. “You’re not supposed to cry.”
Not sure how to fix this, he hauled her close, letting her blubber all over his dress shirt. She already had his jacket and his heart. She could have everything else, too.
She pressed a hand against his chest. “You’re in uniform.”
“Yeah.” He looked back at her steadily. “This didn’t seem like a T-shirt affair, and you’re worth getting dressed up for.”
“Or naked,” she said hopefully.
“Or naked,” he agreed. He suddenly had a whole new appreciation for how the animals felt at the zoo. He’d liberated a palace’s worth once in the Middle East, busting the locks on the cages and letting the beasts free. It had seemed like the right thing to do, then and now, because with an entire sea of unfamiliar faces staring at him from an enormous purple tent, he felt the same way. Plus, he itched just looking at the clothes. This wasn’t his kind of scene.
What Maddie was wearing wasn’t so bad, however. Apparently, she’d lucked out in the bridesmaid sweepstakes this time. Her blueberry-pie-colored dress was made out of a floaty fabric that brushed the floor, and it had those skinny spaghetti straps that seemed too thin to hold up her gorgeous breasts. He had plans for those straps, like thumbing them off her shoulder. Not that he’d get too far, because the top of her dress was a little snug and they spilled over the top, tempting him to touch. She looked ravishing, even if her hair had been pinned up in an elaborate series of curls and braids. He’d probably stormed beaches in less time than it had taken to do her hair.
She sniffed.
He hadn’t fixed anything, hadn’t fixed them. “Don’t cry. I’ll make this right.”
White knighting was dangerous. He sucked at being a hero. He was also, apparently, a sucker for her curves. When she looked at him, her beautiful brown eyes gleaming with mischief, he felt it right down to the toes of his dress shoes.
“I’m happy,” she whispered, and then she launched herself at him again. “I love you, too.” When they finally came up for air, however, she’d thought of another question. “How did you get here?”
For a moment, his tongue got stuck and he felt more than a little light-headed. That happened when he was around Maddie. Nothing he could ever do would be enough to earn her love and the privilege of standing by her side. She was giving it to him, though, giving herself to him, and he planned to spend every minute of the next eighty years proving to her that she’d made the right call. She was his everything. It was that fucking simple, so he ought to be able to answer her question.
“Motorcycle.” He jerked a thumb toward the entrance of the fancy pavilion thingie. A guy in a uniform had offered to “Valet this for you, sir?” But he’d declined, because he liked to keep his lines of retreat open.
She glowed up at him as he steered her through the tent, where the reception he’d crashed was being held. Coming in uniform had its advantages, because the valets and the lady with the headset running the op hadn’t questioned him. He’d do whatever it took to keep that look of happiness on Maddie’s face. As they moved through the crowd of guests, he focused on the exit. He wanted to get her out of here. Partly because he wanted to find out what she had on under that dress, but more because he was ready to get on with them.
She elbowed him. “Are we leaving?”
“You want to go for a ride?” Say yes. He’d wait out the reception if that was what she wished, but they were definitely eloping when it was their turn. He wasn’t starring in any dinner-dance spectacle.
“Can I drive?” She looked up at him hopefully.
“The keys are in my pocket.” She looked good in his jacket. Maybe he could convince her to wear just the jacket later on. She fished in the pocket for the keys—and came up with both the keys and a little black box.
“That’s for you,” he said. That damn magazine article had better have been right, or he’d go hunt down the writer personally.
She opened the box. He’d spotted the ring in the jeweler’s window. It was bold and blingy, with enough carats to blind someone from across the room. The ring had pizzazz and it made him smile. Maybe he should have let her pick out her own ring. Waiting until she’d said yes might have been smart, too.
“I read on a blog that proposals should be memorable,” he said when she didn’t say anything. Her fingers patted the velvet sides, stroked over the stones. He didn’t hear a no. In fact, he didn’t hear anything at all.
She lifted her head and looked at him, a mixture of emotions on her face. Amusement, pleasure—and something he really hoped looked a whole lot like love.
“Then, go ahead and make it,” she said. She didn’t let go of the box, though. Or throw it at him. So he went for broke and dropped to one knee on the grass, taking the hand that wasn’t holding the ring box.
“Madeline Holmes, will you marry me? Not saying yes when you proposed to me was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. I shouldn’t have let you go.”
He was pretty sure that they had an audience watching them from the big purple tent—an audience with cell phones. They’d be starring front and center on YouTube, and that was okay by him. He wasn’t sure, however, how long he was supposed to spend on bended knee. The magazine article had been annoyingly vague on that part. He settled for tugging her down onto his thigh. She leaned into him and grinned.
“I was moving kind of fast.”
He smiled. Maddie only seemed to have two speeds: gung-ho and full steam ahead. She didn’t hold back, either, in bed or in matters of the heart. There was a lot he could learn from her. He’d made a mistake when he’d been eighteen, and he’d been scared of repeating it. Instead, he’d made a different mistake, letting go when he should have held on.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes?” He was pretty certain his heart was on his sleeve for everyone to see, and he needed to get this right.
“Yes, you can slide that pretty ring of yours on my finger.” She pressed a kiss against his mouth. “Does that mean I don’t have to buy you a ring?”
“Hell no.” He fished the ring out of the box, praying he didn’t drop it. He didn’t need a magazine article to know that fishing around in the grass for Maddie’s diamonds wasn’t the ending he was shooting for. “I insist on a ring.”
“All right.” Her smile promised the best kind of trouble. “We can negotiate where I put it later. When we don’t have an audience.”
His heart did a funny little flop. “I love you, sweetheart,” he repeated, because he couldn’t say it too much. “Tell me you know that.”
“I do.” She laced her fingers behind his head, hanging on to him for all she was worth. “And I’ll say that again anytime you want.”
Ladies, this is Maddie’s Mr. Fantasy Fodder reporting in. You’re going to have to share her with me, because now that my fantasy woman’s let me put a ring on her finger, we’ve got big plans. Maddie mentioned a few fantasies that need filling, and I’m honored to serve. Since she’s out wrangling a few wedding cakes for us to taste test, I’m taking over for the day, and I’ve got your quiz for
you.
How do you know you’ve met the woman of your dreams?
A) You walk up to the bar and order a Honey, I Dew martini in front of your entire SEAL team. Those boys have long memories, but there’s no reason not to make her happy. Plus, she ordered up a round of Leather and Lace shots for them.
B) You tell everyone you meet all about her. So much so that your lieutenant commander announces that if loose lips sank ships, you’ve taken out the entire US Navy. She’s basically like a supersmart, really sexy supermodel that took a chance on your dumb ass. Hello, who wouldn’t brag about that?
C) You know you need to wake up and kiss her first thing in the morning for the next fifty years—and the 18,000th kiss will be every bit as good as the first.
—MADDIE’s MASON, Kiss and Tulle
* * * * *
Watch for the next book in Anne Marsh’s series,
DARING HER SEAL, coming May 2016,
only from Harlequin Blaze!
Keep reading for an excerpt from PLAYING TO WIN by Taryn Leigh Taylor.
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Playing to Win
by Taryn Leigh Taylor
1
“QUIT SQUIRMING, HOL. You look totally porn-hot.”
Holly Evans glared at her friend and cameraman. “Well, thanks, Jay. I feel so much better now. After all, ‘porn-hot’ is just what we professional sportscasters aspire to, right, Corey?”
She immediately regretted throwing the question to the reporter setting up a few feet down the rubber-floored hallway. Corey Baniuk was Portland’s favorite on-the-scene sports authority...at least for now.
Rumor had it that Jim Purcell, the longtime sports anchor at Portland News Now, was contemplating retirement and that Corey had a lock on the in-studio position. That meant Holly’s dream job might soon be up for grabs—and Holly intended to do the grabbing. Provided she hadn’t screwed up all her credibility by playing Sports Reporter Barbie for the next three months, of course.
“Sure.” Corey shot her the familiar, good-natured grin that was a staple of both the six and eleven o’clock news. “Someone will be by to oil my chest any minute.”
His camera guy chuckled and heat prickled up Holly’s cheeks, no doubt rivaling the fire-engine-red color of her outfit. She forced a wan smile—small thanks for him taking the high road, but it was all she could muster. God, she envied him his conservative gray pinstripe suit. And he was even wearing a shirt under his jacket. She would give up her firstborn for a shirt.
“How did this happen?” she lamented in Jay Buchanan’s general direction. “I am an intelligent, educated woman who is passionate about all things sports.” She glanced down at her brazen skirt suit, but with her boobs pushed up to her chin, not much of it was visible to her.
Damn Victoria and all her secrets.
“When did I become the Hooters girl of broadcasting?”
Jay rolled his eyes. “Hey, you knew what you were signing up for. Hell, I’ll bet Lougheed had dollar signs circling his head when he saw your audition tape.”
Holly cringed at her friend’s choice of words. “It wasn’t an audition tape,” she protested weakly. “It was a favor for you. And a fight against injustice.”
When she’d agreed to shoot the joke video with Jay’s fledgling production company, she was aiming for satire, intending it to be biting commentary on how female sports reporters were perceived. It was an attempt to show people the stereotypes she fought against every day in pursuit of her dream. Instead, she was now the star of a bona fide viral video, sporting a teased-out helmet of blond hair and freezing her butt off while she pretended to be hockey-impaired.
It had caught the attention of Ron Lougheed, the GM of Portland’s professional hockey team, and the ditzy routine was now, sadly, the best on-camera experience she’d been offered since she’d graduated broadcasting school.
“No one cares what it was. What the Women’s Hockey Network is, is a YouTube sensation! People are eating it up and coming back for seconds. To the suits, you’re the living, breathing, high-heel-wearing crowbar they’re gonna use to pry into the coveted female demographic.”
“And they somehow figure short skirts are going to help me accomplish that lofty goal?” she asked snidely, tugging said skirt back down her thighs.
“Hell, no! That’s to keep the guys interested while you’re talking about girly stuff like player hairdos.”
With a deep breath of arena—rubber and concrete and sweat and ice—Holly called upon the stupid yoga class she’d suffered through two years ago at her best friend Paige’s behest. Something about a mind/body connection, and inner peace, and deep breaths, and—ah, screw it.
Time to suck it up, Princess.
Jay was right. She’d accepted the job as the Portland Storm’s web reporter for the duration of their play-off run, and if dressing like someone’s too-slutty-to-acknowledge cousin was the price of breaking into her dream career, then that’s what she’d do. She gave a determined nod at the thought, slamming a mental door on the last remnants of her doubt.
The buzzer sounded to hail the end of the game, and Holly’s newly minted courage took a nosedive. This was it. Her debut.
She watched with mounting nerves as twenty massive men in skates and full equipment stalked toward her.
And speaking of porn-hot...
There he was: Luke Maguire, team captain, number eighteen, a premier left-winger with a career-best thirty-seven goals in the regular season this year. Not to mention sexy as hell and in possession of all of his teeth—no rare feat after six years in professional hockey. The man looked incredible, all tall and sweaty and pissed off over the loss of their first play-off game against Colorado.
When she caught his eye, she was torn somewhere between lust and duty. Then his gaze dropped to the straining top button of her suit jacket, and she felt extreme mortification enter the mix. He slowed his pace, lifted his beautiful blue eyes from her cleavage to her face and stepped out of the single-file line of burly hockey players to take a question. From her.
This was it. Her big moment. Thirty seconds with one of the elite players of the game. But instead of being able to ask something pertinent, like his thoughts on the lackluster performance of the Storm’s players, or his musings on the unprecedented twenty penalty minutes they’d accrued, she was contractually obligated to say:
“This is Holly Evans of the Women’s Hockey Network, and with me tonight is the captain of the Portland Storm, Luke Maguire! Luke, it’s play-off season, a time when superstitions run rampant and hockey players all over the league stop shaving, even though a recent study shows that women prefer the clean-shaven look to a full beard by a margin of almost four to one. Do you think tonight’s loss had anything to do with the fact that you chose to shave today, and do you plan on reconsidering your stance on facial hair as the play-offs progress?”
One straight, brown eyebrow crooked up, the only indication he’d even heard her “question.” (She was willing to concede that she was using the term loosely.) Then he grabbed the logoed towel some Sports Nation lackey had slung on his shoulder, wiped the sweat from his face and turned and walked away.
* * *
“BUCK UP, CAP. Why so do
wn?”
Luke took a deep breath and started pulling off the tape wound around his socks and shin pads. “You mean aside from getting shut out in our own building, setting a franchise record in penalty minutes and the looming press conference I have to spend assuring reporters that we know we sucked out there?”
As far as Luke was concerned, the only upside to their spectacular 5–0 loss to Colorado was that Coach Taggert had been so pissed that he’d refused post-game media access to the dressing room. At least they could shower, change and lick their wounds in relative peace.
Brett Sillinger, the Storm’s eighth-round draft pick, ran a hand through his sweaty curls. “Well, sure. When you put it that way. But look at the bright side! We’re loaded, and women throw themselves at us! We’ve got the best goddamn job in the world, bar none. And we’re in the play-offs, baby!”
Luke’s stomach lurched. “Trust me, rookie, I know we’re in the play-offs.”
Did he ever. It was a pretty big deal to some very rich people in some very high places, people who were...eager to see the team perform well in the franchise’s first run for the cup since joining the league five years ago. That fact had been made abundantly—and repeatedly—clear to him in the month since they’d clinched their play-off spot.
It was also Luke’s first time in the play-offs since the worst night of his life. Three years had passed, but the wound was still as fresh as ever.
He shoved the nightmarish memory back into the mental penalty box where it belonged, barely aware he’d reached for his helmet until he caught himself brushing his thumb across the number ten sticker he’d placed inside it—a talisman to keep him focused. With a sigh, he reached up and set his helmet on the shelf above his head.
He was the team captain now, he reminded himself. He had a job to do and he couldn’t afford to wallow in personal issues. You couldn’t lead a team to victory if they didn’t trust you to take care of business. And yet he didn’t seem to be leading the team anywhere but to an early play-off exit. They all needed to get their heads out of their asses.
