Wicked Nights. Anne Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ bikini, she looked remarkably sure. He definitely needed to date more—or at all—because he was fairly certain he was staring. And that he’d noticed exactly where her bikini top had left pale white lines on her shoulders. She had freckles, too, and lots and lots of bare, smooth skin.

      Except for her right knee.

      She took a step, staggered slightly when the wake from a passing boat rocked the deck, then righted herself. If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he’d have missed the lightning-fast correction. Her knee was the only part of her that wasn’t tanned perfection. The ridges of scar tissue were nothing gruesome—he’d seen far worse during his military career—and the lines were white. He put a hand out to steady her and then pulled it back. Yeah. The look in her eyes said she didn’t want help. He’d seen the same look on the faces of plenty of soldiers. He understood wanting—no, needing—to do things alone. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have his own gremlins riding his back, which was one of many reasons he wanted to bring more veterans and former teammates on board at Deep Dive. Sometimes, a guy needed a job and a place to work through his shit.

      “You can’t stop me,” she said, her hands tightening on her hips.

      He shook his head. “Honey, that’s where you’re wrong.”

      She smiled at him. “I’m going to win.”

      “You’re so certain?”

      “You like to be in charge.” Her eyes narrowed accusingly as she went off on one of those Piper tangents he’d never been able to follow. Jesus. Yes, of course he did. The expression on her face said she did, too. Which was too bad for her because, not only was he good at it, he held all the cards here. Instead of responding, he shot her a look.

      She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so, Cal.”

      She said his name with the same tone of mocking disgust his SEAL teammates had used when trash talking each other, except her voice held a note of sincerity. He’d seen her breasts. Hell, he’d touched her skin, even if it was only the brush of his fingers against the back of her neck, so it was okay. She could call him anything she wanted, because names didn’t bother him. Actions mattered. Not words.

      “What are you going to do about it?”

      “Win,” she said so sweetly his teeth hurt. “That’s what I’m going to do, Cal.”

      Not in his lifetime. “I’ve got you seriously outgunned here.”

      “Bet me,” she said in the same tone.

      He observed her cautiously. Trouble had just shown up on this mission. The playful sparkle in her eyes telegraphed the message loud and clear. Since the only thing she had to be happy about was his leaving the field to her, and he had no intention of doing that, she clearly believed she’d come up with an alternative plan.

      “Uh-huh,” he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in. “What are we betting about?”

      “The outcome of the contract negotiations,” she clarified, smiling up at him.

      “There’s only one possible outcome.” He dismissed her words with a quick nod. “Deep Dive wins.”

      “That’s what you think.” She shrugged casually, clearly baiting her trap.

      He’d play.

      “It’s a fact.” Unexpectedly, he didn’t want to see her get hurt. If she pulled back now, quietly, she could avoid the agony of defeat and all that. Hell, he almost qualified as a gentleman.

      “Then, beat me, fair and square.” She shot him a fierce grin. “I’ll bid. You’ll bid.”

      “I’m not betting you about this.”

      “Why not?” She leaned forward, bracing her arms on either side of him, on the edge of the dive boat. She wasn’t a tall woman and she was careful not to touch him, but somehow she’d turned the tables on him. Again not surprising. Piper had made a career out of shocking him. “Maybe you’re just chicken. Put your money where your mouth is, Brennan. Bet me.”

      “You’re not betting money.” He wouldn’t take her money anyhow. He was almost certain Piper’s cash flow left something to be desired. He wanted to beat her, not bankrupt her.

      She leaned closer. He tried to pretend her bikini-covered breasts weren’t brushing his chest, that her top and his T-shirt were more than enough fabric to keep his imagination from rioting. Piper’s breasts were a sweet handful, curvy tops spilling over the edge of her bikini. When she’d been a platform diver, her swimsuit tops had been engineered to compress and create a smooth, sleek line. This top was something else. Feminine. Tempting. And yet—this was Piper. He didn’t like her, he reminded himself. She didn’t like him, even if she loved pushing his buttons. So where had this chemistry come from?

      “You’re scared.” She sounded smug. “We both know I’m winning this one.”

      And...buttons pushed. “Am not.”

      Great. He’d regressed to being a three-year-old, except for the part of him that was clearly an adult and wanted to show Piper how much he appreciated her bikini top. Which he wasn’t going to do.

      A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He knew that smile. He was in so much trouble here. “Are. Too.” She underscored each word with a not-so-subtle poke in his chest.

      He captured her fingers in his before she could drill holes into his heart. The words flew out of his mouth before he could think about it.

      “Business, Piper. This is strictly business.”

      “Uh-huh.” She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret and—he wasn’t sure, but did she check him out as she pulled away? Getting a read on Piper was frustrating. “You keep telling yourself that.”

       2

      DISCOVERY ISLAND HAD bars for tourists (all with kitschy names like Devil’s Wine and Beer and Skittles) and then there were the places for residents. Diver’s Haven was mostly a local scene since the bar was tucked off the main boardwalk. It wasn’t precisely a hole-in-the-wall, but the place hadn’t exactly earned a prime spot in the local food and wine department, either. It did, however, have cold beer and satellite TV. Tonight, Cal appreciated both. Going head-to-head earlier with Piper had been the icing on a frustrating day of broken equipment, canceled dives and a boat engine leaking enough oil to re-create the Exxon Valdez.

      The bar propping him up was made from salvaged driftwood, an artistic touch he’d always suspected had been Big Petey, the bar’s owner, being cheap rather than fashion-forward, given the booths with cracked vinyl seats. Neon lights in the window advertised brands Big Petey had no intention of stocking and the jukebox worked intermittently, rather like its owner. Big Petey also extended credit to anyone and everyone and had more dishwashers than he did bar glasses because he was incapable of turning down a job seeker. Big Petey was a good man, and he’d never seemed to mind Cal wasn’t much of a drinker.

      Cal had a one-beer limit. Alcohol wasn’t advisable when training, and he wanted his head back in the game. Plus, he’d seen more than one good soldier СКАЧАТЬ