Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (3 page)

Or maybe he just made a herculean effort to forget me, because he has a point. As far as he knows, I sold him this island and we parted ways years ago. Of all the places I could turn up, this spot would not make the top of the oddsmakers’ lists. In fact, it’s far more likely that he’d frog-march me off his property. His eyebrows draw together and he gets that familiar little pucker between them. If he were a pirate, I’d be catapulting off the plank of his ship right now. Shit. What if he’s remarried? What if he has a girlfriend? A boyfriend? He could be the king of some polygamous cult for all I know.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Yep. I blurt that right out.

Most guys would have to at least think about it or would clam right up—and not because they’re meticulous truth tellers. Usually, it’s just the opposite. They’re running flowcharts in their heads about whether they want to date me or Lilah. If the answer’s yes, then the no’s going to come out of their mouths. If they find neither of us sexually attractive, then they might pony up the “yes.”

Not Ro.

He always tells the truth, even when I’d rather he fudged shit just a little.

He raises a brow. “No ma’am. Once was enough.”

That’s me, putting heroes out of commission for a lifetime.

I roll onto my side and spring to my feet, ignoring the big hand that he shoves reluctantly toward me. No. Wait. Belay that order. I grab his fingers and examine them. If he
is
married, he’s not wearing a ring.

“The fuck? You think I’d lie about that?” He retrieves his hand and glares at me. This little seesaw act he does between gentleman and ogre? Yeah. It’s both endearing and frustrating as hell. At least he signals to the dog, who returns to his side.

Lilah gets to her feet and promptly puts me between her and our irate host. “Talk to the nice man,” she stage-whispers.

This would be more convincing if she wasn’t holding up her iPhone, recording for all she’s worth. You can capture amazing footage on phones these days. I’ve heard there are entire awards for movies filmed on iPhones and it’s no surprise. Ro’s gaze shifts from my face to Lilah’s outstretched hand. He moves so fast that Lilah never stands a chance. His hand closes carefully around hers and he takes the phone from her.

“No pictures,” he says gruffly. “This is private property.”

One, two, three. Just like that he erases the pictures.

Lilah huffs impatiently. “That’s mine.”

Ro makes a show of looking around, clearly unimpressed. “And this is my island, my dog, and my beach. Now I’m waiting for my explanation as to why you’re here.”

He returns his gaze to me. Every scene has its instigator. The person who gets the party started, usually with some socially embarrassing or uninhibited fodder. Ro isn’t happy to see me and I won’t grovel for my past mistakes. I revel in them. It’s how I make my money and how I live my life. I do what I’m not supposed to. I’m shameless. Balls out. All in.

I give Lilah ten more seconds to fish her backup camera out of the ginormous beach bag she’s toting.

Ro crosses muscled arms over his chest. How sweet of him to give me a target. “Sometime this century, Hindi?”

And… there’s my cue.

“Hey, baby. Miss me?” I jump on him, wrapping my legs around his waist, and kiss him. His lips part and I take full advantage. My tongue slips into his mouth, coming home. He makes that rough, growly sound I’ve never quite managed to forget, and his fingers cup my butt, holding on, digging in, getting closer. See? He definitely remembers me.

The camera clicks behind us as Lilah does her thing.

Rohan

E
uropeans kiss hello, right? So this full-frontal kiss is totally normal? Fuck if I know, but Hindi kisses me like there’s no tomorrow—only right now—and she feels amazing. For a long moment, I just stand there on the damned beach, toes digging into the sand, legs braced to take the weight she’s slammed into me. Her heels dig into my ass hard and this is one sneak attack I never saw coming. Her girlfriend points an expensive camera at us, the shutter clicking rapid-fire as she captures our reunion for posterity. Fuck FUCK.

I’m not kissing her back. I’m not. Except being an idiot, I open my mouth to reestablish some boundaries and Hindi takes full advantage. A four-star field general could take lessons from her, because she overwhelms my defenses and sweeps the field. I cup her sweet ass with one hand, spreading my fingers to hold her up. Hold her closer. Her front’s snug against my dick and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes. I kiss her back, my lips meeting hers, my tongue pushing back. She’s hot as fuck. That hasn’t changed, no matter how much I wish it had.

She tastes even better than I remember, and my imagination’s been working overtime for the last six years. I lick and nip my way inside her gorgeous mouth, because I can’t let her be in charge of this kiss. Hindi’s like the Zamboni they bring out at the ice rink to melt down any rough edges and smooth shit over after it’s been torn up bad by endless sharp edges. Her kiss makes me want to melt, to forget all the bad moments, the painful days and weeks after we parted ways.

She makes a hungry noise and damned if she doesn’t try to climb me. No idea where she’s going with this, but I don’t perform for an audience. I tear my mouth away from hers and turn toward her friend. The friend clearly isn’t stupid, because she waggles her fingers at us.

“I’ll let you guys catch up, okay?” Then she turns and sprints up the beach. I’ll bet she has a getaway car parked nearby on Search and SEALs’ private road. The woman is no respecter of boundaries. I should go after her. Stop her. Wipe those images from her memory card before they end up somewhere far too public. I’ve learned my lesson about pictures and the Internet.

The problem with kissing Hindi, however, is that it makes me stupid. My dick’s in his happy place, and he doesn’t see any need to share the blood supply with my brain. I should dump Hindi onto the sand and sprint after her camera-toting friend because I know
exactly
what Hindi and her nearest and dearest do with photographic evidence. She doesn’t get to slap my picture all over some Internet gossip site for all the Fan-dis (yes, that’s what her rabid adorers call themselves) to rip apart. I actually got fucking death threats when the picture of me kissing her appeared in a supermarket tabloid. It was annoying as shit.

“No photos,” I growl. Yes. Yes, I do sound rabid. Hindi tightens her grip on my waist, sort of bouncing in place. Jesus. Christ. Her pussy slams down on my dick and I have no idea how we’ve ended up simulating sex on my beach. Of course, being clueless is just my usual state around Hindi. She’s the tsunami that tears up the beach and parks the boat you saved for years to buy on top of the flat-screen TV in your living room. There’s not enough insurance in the world to handle her brand of disaster.

This is also the closest we’ve been in years, and it’s far too close. While my dick’s a happy camper, it does
not
get to do the thinking for the rest of me. I remove my ex-wife from the family jewels and set her back down on the beach.

She makes a face. “Too much?”

Not enough
.

Fuck.

“Chicken?” She grins at me, the breeze from the ocean dancing her hair over her face. She huffs, blowing hair out of her eyes, and then, yes, she makes the chicken squawk. It’s so goddamned cute.

I take a step back and her eyes light up, dancing with laughter. You know the people who go on vacation to the Mexican Riviera and who, when the tour guide invites them to go careening off the side of a cliff into a cenote below? Where you can’t see the bottom and you just have to hope the water’s deep enough and you don’t hit the cliff side on your way down? Hindi’s a jumper. She runs, yodeling and screaming, toward the edge and launches herself into space with her arms thrown wide.

She’s fucking gorgeous, flying until she falls. I’m sure she’d do it over and over again too, because Hindi doesn’t know how to hold back. Where I’m more a platform diver, synchronized and practiced as hell, she’s all in, balls out. I’m not surprised I fell in love with her back then because she was something special. Of course, she was also something different, something dangerous, and something fickle, but those are details now.

And she’s reaching for me again. I’m pretty sure she’s playing with me, because her mouth curves up as she bites her lip. Whatever. I’m over her and we’re so not doing this again. I increase the distance between us with a well-timed step to the side.

“Boundaries. Behave.”

She mock-pouts. “You’re still no fun.”

This is nothing I haven’t heard before. I’m sure you’re shocked that as the commander of an elite SEAL team, I’m not known for my gleeful participation in reindeer games. I go in, I get the job done, I get out. I’m the guy you pass the puck to when the clock’s run down and there’s one shot at the goal left, the player who faces off against the goalie in overtime and kicks the ball in hard. The winner. The deal closer. Uncle Sam’s not-so-secret weapon thanks to the woman bouncing up and down on her heels in front of me. Life’s a game for Hindi as well, but she’s more of a piñata smash-and-grab.

“Why are you here?”

Hindi waves a hand toward the ocean. “The Florida Keys are a well-known vacation destination, Ro. Maybe I was in the mood for some sand and sun action.”

“I’ve got two words for you: private island. Now tell me why you’re here on my property without an invitation.”

Something flickers in her eyes, but it can’t possibly be hurt. Yes, Hindi all but grew up on this island and it was her childhood haunt. She has memories, I have memories, we all win, right? But she sold it to me and moved on (fucking literally), so she doesn’t get to pop in here for a sentimental walk down memory lane whenever the mood strikes her.

“We need to talk,” she announces.

Great. Those words all but guarantee I won’t enjoy whatever comes next. I wave a hand for her to continue.

“Can we go to your place?” Does she sound a little wistful?

No. I should be marching her back to her car (surely, she drove here and didn’t swim, walk, or fly). Hindi hasn’t so much as spoken to me since I signed the divorce papers. It’s not like I was expecting a yearly Christmas card, but the complete and total radio silence was a surprise.

“We can talk here.” I give Jack the hand signal to stand down and he lopes off happily to explore the surf. Chewing on a good stick is way more appetizing than biting Hindi’s ass. Me, on the other hand? Yeah. I fucking drool imagining what I could do to her ass. Kiss it, lick it, nip the soft undercurve. My list is endless.

Oblivious to her danger, Hindi looks around dubiously. “Here?”

Just to be contrary, I drop down on the sand and pat a nice, seaweedy mound next to me. “Pull up a chair, princess.”

She doesn’t sit. “I’d rather do this inside.”

I’ll just bet she would, but her wish is no longer my command. I shrug and slap Seaweed Mountain again. Flick some of the green stuff on her too, but she doesn’t notice. With a sigh, she drops down—on my other side. Points to her. For a long moment, she watches my dog playing. Then her gaze moves to the sea. Up to the seagulls. Pretty sure she’s about to do an inventory of the palm trees next, which will keep us here all night as Angel Cay has an overabundance of the family Arecaceae.

“So,” she says, nudging her sunglasses back into place. She’s so goddamned pretty, sitting here on my beach. The wind teases her hair around her face, making it look like she’s just tumbled out of bed. She tucks the white sundress she’s wearing beneath her knees, wiggling her toes deeper into the sand. There are tiny pink and white daisies on those toes, and I try—and fail—not to remember how sensitive her feet are. Run my thumbs up those arches and she fucking melts.

Her sunglasses make it impossible to see her eyes, and I don’t like that. I gently tug the glasses from her face and toss them onto the sand.

“Hey.” She snaps a finger in my face. “Neanderthal much?”

“My beach, my rules.” And rule number one is that I get to look at her.

Her hair is longer and less colorful than it was six years ago, but her eyes are exactly as I remember. They’re brown and full of challenge as she slowly focuses on my face. Our kiss hello seems to have scrambled something in her head, but I’m sure it’s only temporary. She’s never at a loss for words—she’ll bounce right back like the ball Jack loves so much. Hindi’s my Kryptonite. I fucking happy-quiver when she’s near, like a search dog scenting explosives.

“Rules aren’t my thing. We should have met for coffee,” she decides.

As if we’re barely acquaintances. As if I haven’t had my dick in her, my balls slapping against her ass as I ride her hard and she screams my name. As if I can sit here, this close to touching her, and
not
remember. Thinking about her may not make my top ten list of preferred activities, but she’s permanently tattooed on my small head. And yeah—that’s as painful as it sounds.

“Talk.” I force my hand to stop its irritated drumbeat on my thigh.

She eyes me dubiously. “Are you familiar with a little word called
please
?”