Swept Away (13 page)

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Brock snapped as she started past him for the door.

She looked up, blinking. “To the beach. Where else?”
“I can’t let you do that, kitten.”

She sighed. He was sexy as sin itself, but his nerve never ceased to amaze her. “I wasn’t
asking your permission.” No more flirting, she’d decided—and defying him seemed a good
way to prevent that.

She headed for the door again—only to feel his large hand latch tight around her wrist. “Wait.”
She looked up to find his face—his whole body for that matter—close. She wanted to touch the
stubble again. And despite herself, she liked how tightly he held on to her.

She could barely locate her voice, but managed to ask, “So what’s the problem? Do you think
the bad guys are coming back or something?”

“Not really. But it’s not impossible—and that’s the problem.” He still held her arm, making her
whole body hum with his nearness.

Which meant she’d better get away from him—now. “Well, I’m not sitting here with you all
day.”

He gave her a slow, scolding look. “Fine. Then I’ll sit there with you all day.”

“You’re going to the beach with me?” She kept her face blank since she hadn’t yet decided
how to feel about that.

His reply was a short, all-business nod.

She flashed a dry expression. “So how are you going to protect me if they show up, Mr. FBI Agent? Squirt them with my sunscreen?”

“You really are hysterical,” he said, looking completely unamused. “You should take that on
the road.”

“Maybe I would, but I can’t get to the road. Someone blew up my boat.” With that, she jerked
her arm free and turned to march toward the beach—but she missed his touch the whole way.

Tell me you love him, kitten. Tell me again.

Glancing over at her lounge chair, where she lay with eyes closed, looking like every teenage
boy’s tropical fantasy, he thought about asking her, one more time. But he wasn’t sure if it was
because he wanted to see something new in her eyes, something to tell him that she was doing
the right thing, marrying the right guy—or if he didn’t.

Because as long as nothing changed and he remained unconvinced, that made it A-okay to keep
flirting, trying to seduce, trying to make her give in to what they both wanted.

No doubt in his mind that she wanted it, either. Last night, maybe there’d been some question.
This morning, though, she hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off him. He’d felt her gaze all over
him, and it was a good thing he’d been sitting down or she would have seen exactly how much he liked that, evidenced by the tent in his pants.

He watched the sensual way she let her arm droop over the edge of the chair, her fingertips
dragging lightly through the powdery sand, almost petting, caressing it.

The thing that surprised him was that Kat was the last girl to be pushed into something she
didn’t want to do. He’d only known her for six months or so when they were younger, but
he’d watched her, wanted her, even then. He’d seen the fine way she balanced her life—the
skill with which she played the prim daughter, enough to please her father, and yet at the same
time remained her own person. And if Brock had ever doubted her ability to be something
other than the perfect daughter, she’d proven it that night out at the swamp.

Ten years should have only made her sense of self stronger. So what the hell was she doing
marrying a guy just to please her dad, for God’s sake?

She still raked her fingers through the sand, deeper now, letting it sift between, then rubbing her thumb over the grains that remained on her fingertips like she was blind and they spelled
out something in Braille. Why was that sexy as hell?

Forcing his eyes away, he turned his gaze out on the ocean where, thankfully, he found nothing
more than a blank horizon, blue sky over blue water. He really didn’t think the Morales boys
had any reason to return for his dead body, but his job had taught him never to let his guard
down completely.

And if he needed a reminder of that, he need only think back to yesterday on the boat. A few
kisses and touches should have been an extremely minor distraction under the high-tension
circumstances—yet he’d blown his cover. And if those two girls could distract him that much,
where did Kat rate on the distraction scale? A lot higher. Good thing she hadn’t been on the
boat. And a good thing he’d shifted into relax-and-recover mode, because apparently he needed
to relax and recover from the undercover shit, take a break for a little while.

Reaching down next to the old lounge chair he’d found for himself in a storage shed behind the
house, he grabbed the equally ancient radio he’d nabbed from atop the fridge. It had batteries
and worked, but he hadn’t had much luck getting reception in the bungalow and thought it
might go better out on the beach.

No difference, though—no matter how he turned the dial, nothing but static except for one
oldies station that played only seventies music. At the moment, The Electric Light Orchestra
sang “Can’t Get It Out of My Head.” He glanced over at Kat, still looking swimsuit-model
stunning with her arms raised over her head, sand abandoned now, her breasts jutting upward behind two white triangles, her body long and lean and glistening just slightly from the sun. He swallowed—gulped actually.

Geez, dude, get hold of yourself. She’s just a chick, man. Just a chick.

Just a chick he had some history with. Just a chick he thought about when he was in danger
sometimes. Just a chick whose future happiness had suddenly taken on an unexplained
importance in his life. Talk about not being able to get something out of your head.

He propped the radio in the sand next to him, adjusted the antenna slightly, and leaned back in
the chair, soaking up the rays and letting the steady sound of the tide lull him. It didn’t take
long to understand why Kat came here to unwind. The raw, natural beauty of palm trees jutting
at all angles, the bright sun and white sand, and the undiluted sense of isolation made him feel
like he could be on some deserted isle far, far away—not just a few miles off the Florida coast.

And he found himself wondering what it might be like to be this guy—what had she said his
name was? Ethan? No, Ian. What might it be like to lie here on this private island, glance over
at Kat to see her touching the sand like it was velvet, and know she was yours, the woman you
would spend the rest of your life with?

He looked at her. Let himself sink into that notion, just for a moment. Felt a strange warmth
coil low in his belly. Then shook it off—because he sure as hell wasn’t Ian, and he wasn’t the
marrying kind anyway. And even if he were...

His gaze settled on her again, closer now—easy since her eyes were shut—and he studied the
flat plane of her tan belly, the tiny slit of her belly button, the shapely form of her leg, bent at the knee.

He and Kat were worlds apart, always had been, and they’d both always known it. So despite
the attraction, no matter how feral, he thought they’d both always understood nothing could
ever happen between them—nothing beyond the backseat of a car. Or the front seat, removed,
sitting next to a swampy lake.

He dragged his gaze back out over the ocean, remembering that he liked his life the way it was
—no commitments, no responsibilities to anyone besides himself and the U.S. government.
That’s how the FBI liked it, too—guys without family ties made the best agents, and he knew it was that particular attribute that had first made him seem like a not completely unreasonable
candidate for the job.

This island, and Kat—it was all just a little vacation, nothing more.

A few oldies later, he heard movement to his left and glanced over to see her sit up, reach in the
bag beside her for a tube of sunscreen, and begin to smooth the stuff over her arms—and then
her legs. She used long, even strokes that kept his eyes riveted on her tan skin as it began to
shimmer moistly.

Making leisurely work of the task, she finally moved on to her belly. Damn, nice belly, kitten.
He was usually a breast man, but that pretty tummy kept drawing his attention. Next came her
chest, including the lovely slopes of those breasts, and she worked diligently to massage the
lotion right up to the edges of the fabric, which took some time and captured every ounce of his
attention.

He couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed him watching and shot some scathing remark in his direction. Or maybe she had noticed. And maybe she just liked it. A thought that warmed his
pelvic region.

Just then, she reached around, trying to apply the sunscreen to her back—but she couldn’t, of
course, only covering the outer edges. He knew an opportunity when he saw one, so he wasted
no time pushing to his feet, taking a few steps over the sun-heated sand, and plucking the tube
from between her fingers. “Allow me.”

She let out a heavy breath of annoyance. “Do I have a choice?” “Not unless you want your back to look like your breasts.”

She glared in disbelief, but he ignored that and settled behind her. He had to sit close, since
there wasn’t much room between her ass and the sloping back of the chair. And she didn’t
move away, even though his thigh pressed firmly into her round bottom.

Squeezing a glob of coconut-scented lotion onto his fingertips, he started at the top of her back,
rubbing it into her skin in a deliberately slow, wide circle, letting the loop grow gradually
bigger and bigger until he moved onto her shoulders, finally abandoning the tube on his lap so he could use both hands. He smoothed in the sunscreen, massaging lightly at first, then deeper, deeper, until a gentle sigh of pleasure escaped her.

His groin tightened as he leaned near her ear and spoke in a low voice. “Feel good, kitten?”

She turned to look at him, which put his mouth about three inches from hers. He noticed her studying it before lifting her gaze to his eyes. “Any massage feels good,” she claimed, but her
voice came breathy, which made him harder.

He knew instinctively that his hot little massage felt way better to her than anything she could
get in a spa, but he wasn’t going to argue with her right now. “Then let me keep going,” he said
instead, squirting more lotion into his hand.

Leisurely dragging his palms over her shoulder blades, he worked his way down until he
found himself rubbing carefully around the thin string that crossed the center of her back,
pushing his fingertips up under. He moved slow and thorough the whole time, wanting her to
feel every nuance of his touch.

Without planning it, his fingers soon massaged their way around to her sides, beginning to
graze the soft outer curves of her breasts. She didn’t stop him, and that knowledge combined with the lush feel of the flesh beneath his fingers turned him still stiffer in his trunks. So soft,
kitten. Soft and hot and perfect.