Swept Away (12 page)

God, what would that be like, to have a brother or sister who lived such a sad life? She was an
only child, but she figured it had to hurt—even for a tough guy like Brock.

“Do you... see him?” It was none of her business, but as always, she wanted to know. Ten
years later, she still wanted to find out more about Brock, get under his skin, inside his head—
just a little.

He gave a short nod. “When I can. He’s up at the Gainesville facility. But my job keeps me on
the move, so time gets away from me.”

His eyes were narrowed now, cloudy with... memories, maybe, or just regrets on his brother’s
behalf. More questions burned inside her, things she couldn’t ask. How did you and Bruno
turn out so different? Where are your parents? How did you end up living with your grandpa? But mostly, in that moment, she realized she also wanted to tell him how proud she was of him,
how impressed she was with all he’d accomplished. Because it was just hitting her that he must have had to overcome a lot to turn into who he was today. He’d gone from hauling crates at her dad’s gallery for minimum wage to being an FBI agent. An occupation which was still pretty
shocking in itself.

But it wasn’t actually her place to be proud of him. It was hardly as if she’d had any sway in
his life. And if a miracle occurred and Brock did let her inside his world a little, she’d only feel more attached to him—and that was the last thing she needed at the moment. So, all things
considered, the smartest move seemed to be lightening things up. “So I guess Bruno got his tattoo removed, too?”

Brock grinned, reached for a donut, and Kat was glad she’d made him smile, glad to see the
muscles in his face relax. “Actually, no—too expensive. And hurts too much for him, anyway.
For a convicted multiple felon, he can be a real wimp.”

She tilted her head, finally reaching for her first donut, sneering only slightly at the fact that it
was a plain glazed. “So it’s really excruciating to have them removed?”

“Yep. But the job called for it.”

“This job’s pretty important to you, huh?” And only as the words left her mouth did she realize
—it was probably everything to him. Because he had nothing else. No family that she knew of
other than Bruno because his grandpa had died a long time ago. Nothing.

He answered with only a small nod, then added, “I gave up smoking for the Bureau, too.”
She blinked in surprise. “They don’t let you smoke in the FBI?”

A light laugh escaped him. “They let you, I just decided not to. Besides the fact that smoking
killed my grandfather, it’s one less thing to need when you get in a tight spot—like, say, stuck
on an island for four or five days. Plus it’s smart to stay in peak physical condition for this
job.”

And that, she thought, he most certainly had done. She had a feeling fatty yeast donuts weren’t
on his everyday menu. She couldn’t imagine a man with a better body than the one she was looking at, which tightened her nipples just slightly, causing her to hunch her shoulders in an
effort to bunch up her top in front so they wouldn’t be so apparent. Even if he’d seen most of
her—she didn’t need to make it so clear that he was causing uncontrollable physical reactions
in her just by sitting at a table eating breakfast.

“You’ve really changed a lot,” she observed.

She wasn’t expecting the slow, seductive grin the comment earned. “So, am I not enough of a
bad boy for you anymore, Kat?”

The question at once embarrassed and aroused her. She couldn’t deny her attraction to well,
less-than-straitlaced guys. Back in her previous life, of course—since it so happened she was
marrying the straightest arrow ever to cross her path.

“That’s not what I said,” she replied, then realized it was the wrong answer, since it was sort of like ßirting, like admitting she was attracted to him just fine as he was, and it was definitely like
agreeing that his once-rough edges had certainly appealed to her.

He leaned slightly forward and pinned her in place with his dark gray gaze. “Trust me, kitten, I
can still be bad when I want to.”

What earlier had tingled inside her now burned. With heat. Unadulterated yearning. She
suddenly wanted, more than anything in that moment, to let him show her just how bad he
could be. And she wanted to tell him that—but she held her tongue, because she was engaged,
damn it. Engaged, engaged, engaged. It was starting to sound like a very ugly word.

“And just so you know,” he added with an alluring little grin, “when I got the name taken off, I
got another tattoo in a less conspicuous place.”

She tried not to show her interest, but knew her eyes had just widened. “Where?”
Slouching back in his chair, he glanced downward—toward his crotch.

Her eyes followed in horror, even though that part of him was actually under the table. “Good
God, not on your...”

He let out a hardy laugh. “No. Don’t worry, kitten, I never purposely subject myself to pain
there.”

“Then where? And what is it of?”

He raised his eyebrows, looking playfully mysterious. “It’s a secret. But I’ll let you look for it
if you want.”

Boy, did she want—with every naughty fiber of her being. But she caught her breath,
remembered the ugly word, and instead just sneered at him, as if it were reprehensible that he
would even suggest such a hideous thing.

He ignored the face she made, looking as cool and confident as usual. “I’m surprised you don’t
have a tattoo or two. Seems like you’d be a tattoo sorta girl.”

Kat’ s instant, unplanned response was to tilt her head and try like hell to be just as provocative
as he was. “Who says I don’t?” What are you doing? Stop it!

“I haven’t noticed one.”

“Maybe it’s where you can’t see.” Why on earth was she lying about this? She didn’t have a
tattoo. She kind of wanted one, but her father would have killed her. And given her parents’
pool, she wore bathing suits in her dad’s presence far too often to simply hope he wouldn’t
notice something like an ink engraving on her skin.

“That’s real interesting,” Brock said, “given that I’ve seen all but a very small portion of your
body. Where?”

Good question. She’d forgotten for a vital second that he’d actually seen more of her than her
father had. Next time you fib, prepare a plan. She simply shrugged. “It’s a secret, too.”

He cast a typically slow and devilish grin. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

If only I had one to show. But the fact that she didn’t and had just told a really dumb lie was actually a good deterrent, a way to keep herself from doing anything stupid and regrettable. She
tried to appear as if she’d lost interest in the conversation. “Nice try, but I’m not that curious.”

He lowered his chin slightly. “Like hell you’re not.”
“Your arrogance knows no bounds, does it?”
“Not arrogance, kitten—just the way things are.”

Oh, it was arrogance, all right. And it was also the way things were—since she was dying to
see that tattoo, and other certain appendages in that area of his body—and at the moment, she
was unable to deny it, so she simply rolled her eyes, ate her donut, and said, “This sucks
without sprinkles.”

“If you love sprinkles so much, why didn’t you get the whole dozen with them?”

She flashed a cutting look in his direction. “At the time I thought a little variety might be nice,
and I had no idea I’d be splitting my donut stash with an interloper.”

God, did the man ever smile without it looking wholly sexual? She simply glanced away—
since even the way he smiled at her when they were talking about donuts had the ability to
reach down into her panties and make her yearn.

“So, about the food situation,” he said, suddenly switching into business mode, which was a relief—kind of, “what do we have to eat?”

She briefly thought through it again. “I told you last night, a lot of snack foods, and some
sandwich stuff.”

“You said maybe some canned food, too, but I looked through the cabinets and didn’t see any.”
She shrugged. “I guess I was wrong.”

“What’s behind that locked door?” He pointed to a closet next to the bathroom. “Pantry?”
She shook her head. “It’s just storage.”

“Why’s it locked?”

She rolled her eyes, annoyed with his persistence over something so trivial. Yet she searched
her memory and drew up a vague recollection of a conversation about the closet with her father. “I think my dad said the previous owner had left paint stripper and varnish in there, and that it
was just locked up to keep their kids from getting into it. And you can quit worrying—there’s enough food.” She glared at the next donut he was about to reach for. “If you’d stop eating it at
record speed.”

He pulled his hand back, appearing surprisingly contrite. “Didn’t even realize I was doing that.
Just haven’t had anything like this in a while.” He patted that hard washboard stomach and—as was becoming habit—she had to jerk her gaze upward when she felt his look.

She made a split-second decision to depart from the table and whisk into the bathroom. “I’ll be
back,” she said, and left without giving him even one more glance. She needed a cool shower.
And a change of scenery. She needed to see something besides that perfect male torso.

Great, she thought, shutting the door firmly behind her. You’ve just made a spectacle of
yourself. He either thinks you’re having some sort of unpleasant bathroom emergency or that
you can’t even look at him without wanting to attack. The second of which was all-too
tragically true.

She’d done so well yesterday, she lamented as she stripped off her nighties and stepped under
the spray. The whole time he’d been flirting and provoking her over dinner, she’d held
completely strong. Well, maybe not completely—she’d wanted him, of course. Sometimes she
thought she’d been born wanting Brock Denton since it seemed like a constant in her life that,
if she was honest, never completely faded away. But she’d resisted last night. Admirably. This
morning, on the other hand, temptation was lurking. Nearby. Creeping closer and closer.

Showering, however, she quickly learned, had been a rotten idea. It meant soaping up her
body. Which sort of meant touching her body. Which made her think of wanting him to touch her body. Nina was right, I should have gone to Vegas. Riding a pirate, in the long run, would have been less sinful than what she had going on in her head about Brock.

Even as she donned her white bikini, she glanced in the mirror, seeing her body as he probably
saw it, and couldn’t deny feeling utterly sensual. Where was a good, dependable turtleneck
sweater when you needed it?

After moisturizing her pottery-roughened hands and slapping some lotion on her arms and legs
for good measure, she exited the bathroom with a silky white sarong draped about her hips and
tied low on one side. She walked to the bedside table to snatch up a hair clip, secured her hair
in a messy knot atop her head, then grabbed up the straw bag where her towel and sunscreen
resided. She still needed that change of scenery.