Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (14 page)

I really shouldn’t have said that. I can practically see the words hanging in the air between us, comic book style, decorated with tiny lethal kapows and ba-booms. I blame Lilah and my sad, lonely libido for the suggestion. The next thing, though? That’s all my fault.

I give into temptation and nip his bottom lip. He was never a fan of biting, and that hasn’t changed. He pulls his head back fast. Fortunately, I have him trapped. He’s too much of a gentleman to dump me off his lap, and the steering column and all the other driving doohickeys conspire to keep him pinned in place.

So he glares, quite impressively. The man has a gorgeous frowny face. “What are you doing?”

If he has to ask, I’m not doing it right.

“Having fun?” Okay, I’m actually killing two birds with one stone. It’s not something I’m proud of, but Lilah will be skulking about soon, snapping a few pictures because she’s tracking me with her Find My Friends app. I strongly suspect that the celebrity gossip sites also have us in their sights, pun intended. “And we haven’t even got to the ice cream yet.”

He points over my shoulder. “Then you should be ecstatic, because the ice cream is fifty feet away at twelve o’clock.”

“Not what I’m in the mood for at this precise second, but kudos on the excellent navigating job.”

See? He really is a miracle worker. Maybe it’s something they teach in the Navy? Because, God… he slides his hands down my back and I arch into his touch. Mmmm-hmmm, he still knows where all my best spots are, the places where I ache and where to touch me so I melt for him. Or maybe it’s just instinct on his part? Whatever woman gets him next is lucky. I feel like I should send her a congratulatory card.
You’ve won the grand prize in the man lottery!
Except… I kind of want to rip her hair out, too. I mean, I suspect that’s way harder to do (sans scissors) than I expect, but Ro feels fantastic and right now I’m not in a sharing mood. I’d kind of like him to retreat to a monastery after we formalize our break up, where he can brood in manly silence for the next fifty or sixty years. He doesn’t get to be
friends
with anyone else ever again. That’s my new rule.

Another car pulls in beside us, breaking the spell. Huh. Now that I’m not so distracted, I realize that we’re not stopped randomly on the side of the road. We are, in fact, at the ice cream place. Also? Minivans turn out to be really, really loud on gravel, especially when the mom behind the wheel is hauling half a kindergarten, or at least it sure sounds that way when the van door slides open.

He sighs. I’m sure he sounds far too much like the harried mom marshaling her troops next door. “Friends with benefits, huh?”

“Limited time offer and now off the table. Forget I said anything.” I slide off his lap. Today’s plan called for ice cream, not orgasms for two in the front seat of the Jeep. Plus, even if we both wanted to take
friends
to a whole new level, Ro needs to invest in a vehicle with more seat room.

By the time we get out, the ice cream place is mobbed. Literally. The newly arrived kindergarten horde swarms the counter, so we hang back for a moment while the mom-in-charge wrangles a seemingly endless number of cones. Ro gets in line just in time to catch a cone that slips from her grasp when she whirls around to repeat the verbal headcount she seems to call out every thirty seconds. Her words are like a lighthouse beam—steady, safe, and slightly annoying.

“Thanks.” She shoots him a grateful look as he hands the rescued cone off to the grubby five-year-old recipient.

He responds with that half-smile, the one that’s full of amusement and says he can handle all of her problems and that he won’t mind one teeny-tiny bit. He’s such a nice guy. So even though that’s
my
look he’s giving this other woman, I let her borrow him for a few minutes. I read somewhere that Karma keeps track of nice stuff like that, so I’m hoping I’m one up.

While Ro’s fixing the world’s problems (or at least one mom’s), I order for us. The ice cream shack has three choices: chocolate, vanilla, or swirl. Since Ro is otherwise occupied, I make a command decision and get us matching brown-and-white cones. This is like having the best of both worlds, ice cream for indecisive people, and yes—twist is my favorite flavor. No hard choices required.

The guy at the counter takes my order and then pauses. He recognizes me. His eyes kinda widen and then his gaze drops—wait for it—to my boobs. I’m not sure if he expects me to wear a name tag or just to prance around in the underwear I design, but then he whips his eyes back to my face.

“Hey,” he starts, and I know what’s coming next. I’ve already pasted the appropriate smile on my face. “Aren’t you Hindi from
Lingerie Stars
?”

He pulls the handle to start our first cone while he asks, which means his gaze is pinned to my face and not watching the stream of frozen goodness.

“That’s me.” I beam him a smile. “Do you watch?”

“Team Hindi,” he gets out. “That’s me.”

You never want to assume that someone’s a fan. Sometimes, people just like to tell you what a lousy job you do and how they always change the channel as soon as you come on. I’m not going to lie—I prefer the viewers who think I walk on water. They’re the easiest to please, even if their requests can border on the bizarre. I’ve autographed more bras, tits, and asses than I care to remember. Cone Guy gapes and my cone channels the Leaning Tower of Pisa and lists abruptly to the left.

He hands off the lopsided cone and starts the next one. A minute later, I’m trying to sign the random scrap of paper he thrusts at me and my fingers are all sticky. Naturally, that’s when a wet napkin appears over my shoulder. Ro to the rescue yet again.

For a minute, I fantasize that it’s his mouth licking me clean—or dirty—but the napkin’s too cold and just a little scratchy, because this place isn’t of the spare-no-expense mindset when it comes to paper goods.

After we’ve got me cleaned up, we collect our cones and stroll over to a picnic table down by the water’s edge. Ice cream and a view—what more can you ask for? The water’s that gorgeous light aqua color and when I look left, all I see are palm trees and white sand. Look right, and it’s more of the same. It’s like we’re licking cones in paradise.

I don’t see Lilah, but I gave her the heads up about our outing and she thought it sounded promising. She claims the Find My Friends app will let her shadow me and get the shots we need. I ignore the twinge of guilt and make a production of licking my cone like it’s dick-flavored and I’m a porn star. I’m even sort of discreet, although the kindergarten mom still shoots me a dirty look as she herds her small tribe back to the minivan. I bet she has fantasies of keying the Jeep or catapulting me over the ocean from a cannon. At any rate, Lilah should have the shots she needs to start seeding the celebrity gossip sites.

When my phone buzzes, I half expect it to be her. See me juggling the cone as I lunge for the device in my purse? Decorating myself and the table with half-melted ice cream because I’m smooth like that? Ro gets his rescue on for the third time in an hour and takes the cone from me so I can spelunk successfully inside my bag. He takes a gigantic, man-sized bite off the top of it too, rather than licking it down, which just goes to show he has no idea that ice cream is code for oral.

“Important call?” He takes another bite, sounding amused rather than suspicious and that makes me feel bad.

I look down at the screen, trying not to look too interested. And… bingo. We’ve got our first bite. The Internet officially knows that I’m in Florida “for personal reasons” and multiple gossip sites are speculating wildly about just what those reasons might be. Guesses include childbirth, a hot fling with a nubile eighteen-year-old model, and rehab. Later tonight Lilah will sow a few more seeds and upload some carefully vague pictures of me with a male companion. Stoke the fires. Make sure there are plenty of sexy dots to connect (and yeah, she’s
totally
putting a picture of Rohan’s ass out there).

“Google alert,” I tell him. See? That’s the truth.

He devours another inch of my cone and then hands it back to me. “You want to catch me up on what you’ve been doing the last few years?”

I look at him questioningly. “You don’t have a TV and the Internet?”

He assaults the other side of his cone. Firm strokes. A very nice nip and roll. And… yeah, fuck. He’s staring at me, because he’s already answered my question and I’ve been too focused on his ice-cream-eating abilities to pay attention.

“Say again?” I promptly go back to watching his tongue work. Fantasies are completely calorie-free, after all.

He shrugs. “I don’t Google you. I’ve watched a few of your episodes, but that’s a show and not personal.”

I try to remember if anyone else has understood the distinction. The Hindi you see on the small screen is a figment of my imagination. She’s cool and funny and really likes to have a good time—but she’s not actually the woman sitting here at a picnic table with an ice cream cone that’s melting all over her. I lick the back of my hand while I try to think of something to say. It’s certainly easier working from a script.

“I’ve shot two seasons,” I tell him. “And we’re starting season three in two months. The network hasn’t committed to a set number of episodes, so there’s some uncertainty.”

Hint, hint—that’s code for
I’m scared and more than a little desperate. Sorry, if you get caught up in my drama
. Since I don’t say that, however, and Ro hasn’t mastered mind-reading skills in the six years we’ve been apart, he just nods. “You’re good at rolling with the punches.”

I’m not sure why people say that. I mean, who really likes getting punched? For some people—take boxers, for instance—it’s in the job description. Punch, get punched, collect a check and an endorsement deal. For most of us, however, taking hits falls in the category of felony assault. It’s something we
try
to avoid and think other people should step in to prevent if possible.

I settle for saying something simple. “I’d like to sew up the contract soon.”

“Now tell me something personal,” he says, wrapping the remains of his cone up in a napkin and lobbing it into a nearby trashcan for a three-point shot.

“That’s personal,” I counter. What is it with men never being satisfied?

He shakes his head. “That’s work. Tell me about where you live or what you do when you have free time.”

“I’ve been busy,” I admit. “Completely focused on my TV career. There is no free time. That’s why I didn’t notice that I never got the final paperwork on our divorce. I really didn’t mean to leave you hanging like that or screw your life up even more.”

Yep. I was going for the clean, quick amputation, the kind that’s a neat, sterile slash of a really sharp blade. One swift flick and the hand flies off and it’s all over. Instead, it turns out that I’ve been slowly sawing and sawing and… yeah. You get the idea.

“It’s okay,” he says to my surprise, and somehow I don’t think he’s just saying that. “We’ll get it figured out.”

“Were you seeing someone? Did I screw up your personal life?”

He gives me a look I can’t interpret. “No.”

Well. That’s a straightforward answer.

“How about you?” he asks.

Turnabout’s fair play, I guess. “Been too busy with the show,” I say lightly. “No time for dating. Sometimes the network sends me out on Friday night with a guy, but it’s just for the photo ops. We hit a few clubs, do a few red carpet events, and then we head in separate directions.”

He nods as if this makes perfect sense, when I know it’s totally screwed up. But I get loaner clothes, loaner shoes, all that shit intended for maximum product placement. The guys work the same way—they’re either someone it helps me to be seen with, or being seen with me gives them a leg up. It’s not romantic. There are no kisses, no genuine touches, and absolutely no sex. No matter how pretty my Friday night companions have been, I haven’t been interested.

And now that I’m down here in the Florida Keys, I have a bad feeling that I know why. He gets this smile in his eyes sometimes when he looks at me and I feel—special. Like he sees me, Hindi Jane Alvarez, and I’m exactly what he wants and needs. I don’t have to be anyone else. I don’t have to be better.

I really don’t want to lose him when our divorce is final. “Do you really think we can be friends?”

I’d like that. I mean, that’s the best of both worlds right there if I can keep my stupid libido in check.

He leans down and hits my cheek with a kiss. A
friendly
kiss.

“We already are.”

Hindi

N
ot sure what it says that I met Rohan when I was competing for Ms. Tiki Hut Tits. Competing—and losing. I hadn’t had much luck, that was true. I was down to a handful of dollars, and my big dinner option that night had involved cleaning the bartender out of pineapples and cherries. Best fruit salad ever since I’d eaten it in Ro’s surly company.

Yeah.

I might also have stolen his beloved lucky shirt. On the bright side, he hadn’t brought me up on charges or anything. My police record was clean, although my driving record is as spotty as a snowfield in the path of an active volcano. He repossessed the shirt and the rest was history. We hooked up. I sold him an island. We got married on the beach of said island and I claimed both the shirt and the man.