Risking It All. Stephanie Tyler

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      3

      THREE SEPARATE FIGHTS with three separate surfers, all of whom kept trying to drop in on his territory, and one broken board later, Cash cursed his way back into the boat. His using several different languages to mix together a nice, potent string of words made even the captain of the boat whistle in appreciation.

      “Haole, I think I need to start writing this stuff down,” he said. “The Wahines are getting to you.”

      “I need another board,” Cash demanded of no one in particular, grabbed one from the corner of the boat and started waxing it up. He was going to catch another ride if it killed him. And he was not going to think of women or wahines or whatever else they were called.

      “Surfboard climb up your ass on that ride, brah?” his friend and surfing buddy, Mike, asked as he jet skied up to the bow of the boat, tied it off and climbed aboard. “You seem uptight.”

      Mike was a native Hawaiian, lived, worked and raised a family on the main island and was always ready for some major surfing when Cash came calling. They’d been up since before dawn, searching for the perfect swells, and now, as the sun shone his mood only worsened.

      “Me? Uptight? Me?” Cash asked, before he threw the disk of sex wax across the boat.

      “Yeah. Just a touch.”

      You’re supposed to be pretending to be on vacation, dude, so chill the hell out. Don’t blow this.

      Cash shook his head, took a deep breath and got his shit together. “Sorry, man. It’s nothing. Nothing important.”

      It shouldn’t have mattered how upset Rina was about her film, because he had his own problems. Beyond that, he didn’t do the “oh you’re my savior” kind of thing. He left that part of the job to Justin and some of his other teammates who had that gift for helping women and coming out the hero. His chosen path of just steering clear always worked out best in his personal life. When he was on the job as a Navy SEAL, then sure, he needed to come out the hero, and so far, he’d been lucky.

      Beach bum my ass.

      Normally, it didn’t bother him when someone made assumptions about his life. And it especially shouldn’t have mattered what the hell Rina thought because it was his duty to get the tape and disappear from her life. But there was something about her, something that had stopped him from pulling his regular “come to bed with me and I’ll show you my stick” line of bullshit that seemed to get to most of the women who approached him.

      Then again, most of the women who approached him were looking for one thing and one thing only, portraying a big wave surfer for this current job didn’t discourage them. For the purpose of this mission, he was simply known as Cash, the rogue surfer, and no one but the DEA—and Justin, his partner in crime and SEAL team member—knew he was actually here as part of a Gray Ops mission to bust a major drug runner. And he’d screwed up majorly by letting his emotions get the better of him yesterday when he should’ve been picking Rina’s pockets.

      Gray or Black Ops missions were common enough in the Special Forces community. Usually, they didn’t involve a major Government Agency like the DEA, but one of Justin’s childhood friends who’d recently made agent had gotten him involved with an offer neither man wanted to refuse.

      The money was good, the experience and networking even better and the rush the best part of it all. Cash would stay with the SEALs as far as the teams could take him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in the military once he got sidelined. The higher up the ranks he climbed, the less action he was going to see—a fact of all military life, and he planned on keeping all his options open.

      Most of the women who hung around the beaches and weren’t serious surfers themselves weren’t looking for much more than a good tan and great sex, and that was fine by him. A lot of them were already taken, too, married or otherwise, and to them, Cash gave the impression of being a walking, talking vacation, twenty-four seven. He did nothing to try and change this perception of himself, because it didn’t matter. It was all part of the pattern.

      A pattern he blamed on his mother’s love for Johnny Cash, the singer. It was an ironic twist of fate, since her son wasn’t sure any woman would ever be able to walk the line for him. His mother hadn’t been able to for his father, and that betrayal always stayed with him.

      Rina didn’t fit that pattern at all. Dedicated. Determined. And those serious brown eyes that noticed everything. She was adorable, even when pissed off, her accent deepening.

      He flexed his hands as even now he thought about running them along the swell of her breasts until she said his name in a way that signaled passion, not annoyance.

      The fact that he was still bothered about her had him tossing and turning last night after he’d followed her back to her hotel, told him something was definitely up with this one. And that it went beyond needing to grab that tape she’d recorded at the surf shop. The one she’d likely ditched at her editing facilities before hitting the beach, but after Justin had moved onto other surveillance as per the DEA’s orders.

      He and Justin had come up with an alternate plan to grab the footage of the surf shop, once Cash assured him that Rina was a filmmaker and not any kind of undercover agent herself. Cash would run interference with Rina. Justin would grab the Bobo footage, as well as the footage of Cash. Which would mean getting the keys, since the industrial building that housed the documentary’s production offices would be a real bitch to break in to and attracting attention was not a main goal.

      There was no way Cash could be seen in that video, even if it did somehow hold the balance of her future as a professional filmmaker, like she’d said. He’d worked too hard to screw it up on something like that. Besides, he didn’t need the ego boost, no matter how hard she’d tried to sell him on the idea.

      The DEA would have his ass if he messed this up now, and his CO would take the rest and stomp it if Cash allowed a traceable image of himself on film that was possibly distributed worldwide.

      He didn’t remember being filmed yesterday, but then again, when he was being pulled into some of the biggest waves Pipe had to offer, he was more concerned with getting his adrenaline rush and coming out in one piece. Because his CO would kill him if he came back from vacation hurt. And really, he could understand that, since his job necessitated that he be ready for action at a moment’s notice.

      Still, putting himself—and keeping himself in danger was all part of the game to keep him sharp, to let the fear find him so he could conquer it over and over. He liked to meet life head on on a daily basis, to stay busy enough so he didn’t have to think about the one thing he refused to meet head on.

      Besides, it would be too big of a blow to his pride to let a wave—or anything else—take him down. He’d been battling them, and the stormy past they represented, for a while now, and as long as he could keep his head above water, he was winning.

      And he was all about winning.

      “Hey, can you take us to shore? There’s someone I’ve got to find,” he said to the captain of the small boat even as he muttered something about now he hated having a goddamned conscience under his breath. The day had been a bust, anyway. Nothing to see out here but waves, and unfortunately, waves weren’t the only thing he had left to find.

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