Wicked Secrets. Anne Marsh

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      TAG JOHNSON WAS still a pain in her ass. He was also drop-dead gorgeous. She wasn’t active duty anymore. He was. The possibility he might—just possibly—outrank her galled her. She was almost certain he was teasing her.

      Almost.

      Big and built, he filled out a T-shirt in ways that had her libido sitting up and taking notice. Maybe it was the hint of mischief crinkling the corners of his eyes, or maybe it had something to do with his hands...yeah, his hands definitely got her going. The words tough and capable came to mind watching him work a wrench. A dive watch flashed on his wrist as he gave some unidentifiable piece of boat motor one last, hard twist and then transferred his gaze to her, thumbing his sunglasses up.

      She grinned. At least she had his attention now. Taking backseat to a boat engine wasn’t acceptable. She’d always had a competitive streak, and her drive to be the best had helped propel her to success in the Army. Part of it was a pilot thing—who could fly farthest, fastest, lowest. Get a bunch of aviators together, and the adjective didn’t matter. She’d out-flown, out-landed, and out-shot every one of them.

      Her competitive drive had been the reason why she’d met Tag in the first place. Four years ago, she’d been back stateside for a few weeks of R & R following a challenging deployment. After several weeks of parking her butt in San Diego, she’d been looking at another government-sponsored trip back to the sandbox. She’d been living dangerously for years, so sending a round of drinks over to Tag’s table had seemed tame in comparison. When the waitress had brought the Mia-sponsored bonus round to his table, he’d raised his beer, laughing. See? Everyone liked a free drink. Nonetheless, she’d been completely unprepared for the bolt of pure heat shooting through her and making her think, for the first time, about indulging in the kind of one-night quickie her team boasted about. Logically, most of her guys’ chatter about hookups and amazing blow-your-mind sex had to be just that. Chatter. Hot air. Pure fiction. Except she’d looked at Tag, and he’d stared back at her, his hazel eyes promising just one thing.

      Hot.

      Dirty.

      Sex.

      He’d made good on all those unspoken promises. They’d had just seven hours because he’d had orders to deploy in the morning. Approximately four hundred and eighteen minutes of being skin to skin with him because it had taken her two whole minutes to shuck her uniform and boots. He’d been inside her ten minutes after they’d both gotten naked, and she hadn’t minded. She had, in fact, ordered him to hurry the hell up and get inside me now.

      Now she stared at him as if she’d lost her ever-loving mind. Darn it. Her unfathomable attraction to him was definitely best kept on the down low.

      “Earth to Mia.” His husky drawl stirred more memories. He’d called her by her first name at the Star Bar, as well. She hadn’t protested, despite them both knowing she outranked him. The evidence had been right there on her uniform shirt. But in her hotel room, she’d been Mia and he’d been Tag. Two people giving in to chemistry and a need for closeness before duty called and they went their separate ways.

      Tag’s boat rocked up and down with each small wave lapping at the beach. A familiar curl of nausea started in the pit of her stomach, so she transferred her gaze from the boat to the horizon. Throwing up on his boat would be way too humiliating.

      “Are you pulling rank on me?” He was out of uniform, so she couldn’t be certain he truly outranked her. Still, he’d struck her as a straight shooter, and she didn’t think he’d bullshit her.

      “I made Senior Petty Officer Naval Air Crewman last year.”

      He’d done well, but she wasn’t surprised. He’d had drive. She’d certainly never had a better orgasm.

      He kept on talking, or, at least, his mouth went right on moving, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his eyes assessed her bikini getup, for which she definitely had to kill her cousin now. Whatever words came out, however, were lost on her as she swallowed the nausea. Her last deployment had ended with a bang, literally. While the outward damage from the concussion grenade had healed, she’d been left with an excruciating susceptibility to motion sickness. It was a good thing she’d abandoned her desire for a career as a pirouetting ballerina at the age of four.

      He paused and looked at her. “You cashed out?”

      His question, she decided, wasn’t judgmental—more curious, which was a nice change. Justifying her decision to leave military service got old, as did correcting other people’s misconceptions about why she’d joined in the first place. Sure the GI bill was a nice bonus, but she’d wanted to serve. Her father had. Her three brothers had. And she had. She got tired of people assuming she was parked in the waiting room of the VA because she was a wife or daughter.

      “I’m done,” she admitted.

      He nodded, then turned and tossed something toward his toolbox. Instinctively, when metal hit metal with a loud bang, she dropped to a crouch. Incoming. Rapidly, she assessed her options for cover, mentally narrowing down the direction of the shot fired. The world telescoped to a strip of sand and the whoosh of water in her ears as she tried to pinpoint the source of the danger. The beach was still quiet and peaceful, except for her ladies sending up a rousing cheer as someone proposed a toast.

      A curse floated overhead, and then Tag dropped over the side.

      “Sorry.” СКАЧАТЬ