Teasing Her Seal

It was probably bad she found his feet sexy. He was just doing a job.

Really, really well.

He gently pulled her ponytail free before running his hands through her hair, pressing his fingertips against her scalp. Maybe she’d been a cat in a former life, because she’d always loved having her hair played with. For long minutes, Gray rubbed small sensual circles against her scalp. She bit back a moan. Just lie here. Keep still. She probably wasn’t supposed to arch off the table, screaming more, more, more. Although she could. She definitely could.

He moved closer, his thighs brushing against the bed. If she lifted her head, the situation could get awkward fast. Thinking about that made her stiffen up again, but then he cupped the back of her neck, pressing and rotating. And oh, sweet baby Jesus, she could feel the tension melting away. The small tugs on her hair sent a prickle of excitement through her entire body.

“Should I call you Doctor?” he prompted.

“Laney is just fine.” The words rushed out on a sigh.

She stared at his feet again, trying to regain her equilibrium. He’d made her drool, damn it.

“Holding still isn’t so bad?” He followed up the wicked amusement in his voice with another sensual tug on her hair.

She didn’t know him. She’d never been the kind of woman who had casual sex. Because that was a personal choice she’d made, she reminded herself. Lovemaking was about as intimate as it got, and she’d never fantasized about letting a stranger touch her.

Before now, the traitorous voice in her head said, because evidently she was seriously considering taking her sex life in a whole new direction. Gray’s direction. The purpose of coming to Fantasy Island had been to take charge of her life. To be someone different, even if the change was only temporary. She wanted to be fun and flirtatious and, yes, just a little wild. In a few more days, she’d go back to being Laney Parker, MD, but on this island she could be someone else. The kind of woman who made her fantasies a reality.

* * *

HE NEEDED TO step back. Laney was a doctor, a paying guest—and a civilian. She was undoubtedly an upright, tax-paying US citizen, and he had no business running his hands over her skin. In fact, he was fairly certain that, Hippocratic Oath or not, she was the kind of woman who’d kill him if he played games with her.

So sue him. He liked that, too.

Because he wasn’t playing nice, he tugged the sheet lower, exposing the dimples above the sweet curve of her butt. She hadn’t gone completely naked beneath her sheet. She’d kept her panties on, and he immediately wondered what it would take to coax her out of them, because he was a bastard and not nice. And iron-hard at just a glimpse of those white panties and the strip of pale skin above the band. He brushed a knuckle over the topmost edge. She’d be wearing something silky, he decided. Panties that were as simple and elegant as the rest of her.

She lifted her head and he retreated a step. Not because he wanted to—he was a guy, after all, and would be more than happy to have her face pressed against his groin—but because he really wasn’t a creeper, and he didn’t want to spoil her enjoyment of the massage. Still, he was sorry he’d moved when she looked up at him, hair tumbling around her face, eyes slumberous.

She mumbled something incoherent that ended with on the menu?

What. The. Hell. He was a SEAL and a fighter. Bar fight, the government’s fight—as long as it involved fists and a beat down, he was all in. This menu business, however, was unfamiliar territory. He had no idea what she was talking about.

“The menu.” He gave her words back to her as if repetition would somehow miraculously clear up his confusion. Spa menu? Room service menu? He hated being out of his element.

She blushed, and blood surged to his dick. God. He’d have given his left nut to know what she’d been thinking. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Her phone dinged behind him on the counter where he’d tossed it, and she bolted upright. “Time’s up,” she announced, looking relieved.

“That’s my line,” he rasped, but she hopped off the table before he could finish getting the words out. He exhaled and considered his options. He probably shouldn’t swing her to a stop, but the way she was hightailing it away from his cabana was far from flattering.

Exercising remarkable self-control, Gray let her go, all the while mentally running through plans in his head. A quick check of the week’s schedule revealed Laney Parker had another massage scheduled for tomorrow. In fact, the concierge had been busy, because she had appointments scheduled for every day this week. He grinned. He’d bet she was the kind of woman who kept a date.

Levi strolled over and dropped a load of fresh towels on the bed. “Do you suck that badly?”

It was a distinct possibility. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“She’s coming back for more?” His pal looked understandably skeptical.

He hoped so.

“She mentioned a menu.” Maybe Levi knew something he didn’t.

“She was hungry?” A frown creased the other man’s forehead. No help there. “Or really, really desperate for something alcoholic to drink? Either way, that means you officially stink at being a masseuse.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he muttered. “It meant something. I need to know what before she comes back tomorrow.”

Levi shrugged. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

That was the thing about working as a team. If he needed something, his shooters had his back, the same way he had theirs. Their briefing hadn’t mentioned menus. It had, however, emphasized that Fantasy Island was an exclusive resort that catered to couples’ sexual fantasies. On-demand sexual fantasies between consenting adults. Laney had been blushing up a storm when she’d run from the cabana. What were the odds...?

“You think it’s something sexual?” Levi’s head had apparently gone in the same direction as Gray’s.

“Yeah.” It made sense. “It fits.”

“Or you’re indulging in a bout of wishful thinking.” Levi grinned and punched him in the shoulder.

3

GET IN.

Take the target down.

Get out.

By the time Gray had crossed the island and made it to SEAL Team Sigma’s base camp, he was in control again. He’d ditched the spa uniform for his camo and retrieved his weapons from where he’d cached them. Weapons decorated him like ornaments on a Christmas tree. He had a KA-BAR knife at his waist and a Heckler & Koch MP-5 machine gun holstered to his thigh. The Glock resting against the base of his spine was even more welcome.

In his clothes and his own skin, he was starting to feel like his old self again as he worked his way through the thick jungle undergrowth, concealing his trail. Calm. Detached. No emotions. Check, check and check. Those were normal operating conditions. What he felt around Laney had to be simple attraction, compounded by the fact that he hadn’t had sex in months.

Sure, part of him was wondering when he’d see her again and if he could coax her into bed, but the rest of him was back on the job. Fantasy Island—which had to be the most ridiculous name he’d ever heard—was five miles long and two miles wide. Approximately four square miles of that space was jungle. The resort’s owners had opted to keep things in their natural state, so it was acres and acres of dense, rugged terrain. The good news was that he doubted any of the resort’s guests would penetrate farther than four or five feet inside the mess.

Before he’d made the SEALs team, he’d had no idea so many different types of palm trees could be crammed into one small island. Mother Nature hadn’t stinted. She’d parked slender fan palms next to spiny palms that stretched fifty, sixty feet up toward the sky. The island also came with a shitload of coconut palms loaded with ripe nuts waiting to brain anyone dumb enough to make camp at the base. What wasn’t palm was Hispaniolan mahogany and muskwood, and there were vines tangled up around positively everything. The place was “lush, pristine jungle” according to the resort’s marketing brochure, but a tropical pain in the ass from where he stood.

A lizard darted up a trunk as Gray moved deeper. The place was green, sure, but it was also chock-full of tree snakes, the odd boa and a seemingly endless supply of toads and frogs. It was damned hard to hear himself think. Their team had set up a base camp on the other side of the island. It was their space, a place where they could be themselves and relax. In addition to four camouflaged tents, someone had strung up a couple of hammocks, and there were stacks of supplies, weapons and radios. More than an outdoor rec room, it was also their fallback position, the strip of beach below the camp their designated emergency extraction point.

As he stepped into camp, he was met by the two shooters he had patrolling the perimeter. Sam and Remy were the newbies on the team, so he’d passed on sending them in undercover. He needed to know how they handled a mission first, before he put them on the front lines.

Sam flashed him a two-fingered salute. Slim and brawny with close-cropped brown hair, he still looked like the Alabama country boy he’d been before he joined the Teams. He was damned good at blowing stuff up, however, and swam faster than any SEAL Gray had ever seen. He also doubled as their unit medic. “Tell me you brought us a cold one.”

“Gray’s buying as soon as we’re Stateside.” Levi stepped out of the jungle behind him. Gray’s Senior Chief was the first of the infiltrators to arrive, and although his eyes moved from palm to palm as if he expected an army of hostiles to pop out and open fire, the guy sported a big-ass grin on his face. Gray had seen the same grin when they’d been pinned down in Iraq, taking heavy fire. “Waterfront acreage. Very nice choice.”

As Levi dropped down onto the hammock Sam had strung up between two palms, looking as relaxed as any weekend warrior in his living room, Mason slipped out of the jungle. Mason was Mr. Silent. The big guy flashed a face full of attitude and was the kind of guy you expected to administer a beat-down in an alley. At thirty-four, he was also the oldest operative on the team and the best damned sniper Gray had ever worked with. He was no cowboy, but he’d made it clear he planned on dying in his boots. You didn’t piss him off without having a really good reason. Hell. You didn’t piss off anyone on the team. Gray almost felt bad for Diego Marcos.

Remy followed. The Cajun seemed right at home on the island, passing as the general maintenance and go-to guy. He’d be the man in the hot seat when it came to bringing Marcos in because he’d be the first to face the guy.

Ashley was the last to arrive. She’d infiltrated Fantasy Island as a guest and, in keeping with her cover, she entered their bay in a resort kayak, just another guest out for a recreational paddle. Never mind that she’d driven the kayak through the lagoon waters at a brutal pace, taking the craft through the rocks just for shits and giggles. She looked sexy as sin in her skullhead-print bikini and a pair of hot pink shorts that earned plenty of teasing from the guys.

Levi winked at her. “Now that’s a get-up you won’t catch a SEAL in.”

She flipped him off and dropped down onto a stack of duffel bags. “My boobs are better than yours. You’d look damned silly in a bikini.”

“Now there’s truth, sugar.” Levi laughed, unoffended.

Gray let the teasing wash over him as he broke down his gun. He didn’t need to look at it—any SEAL could break down and rebuild his weapons in the dark—but he didn’t want to watch Levi and Ashley flirting it up, either. He could go back to the resort and find Laney, but he didn’t have Levi’s smooth charm or way with words.

No. He was empty. Lonely. Itching for the next fight, the next mission. As he watched Levi and Ashley bickering amiably, giving each other a hard time, part of him wanted that. Sure, they drove each other crazy, but they did it together. Lonely wasn’t on their agenda. All he had to offer Laney was a few nights of sex, however, and that was a different kind of crazy.

He got on the radio for their coded transmission while the rest of the team continued ribbing Ashley. But when Gray signed off, the team suddenly fell silent, looking at him expectantly.

“We’re getting yanked,” Levi joked. “Or, better yet, instead of camping out here in the jungle, we’ve got a week’s shore leave and a reservation at the resort. I’ve seen the food they’re serving.”

Levi’s sweet tooth was notorious. The man always packed Snickers bars in his bugout bag.

“We’ve got movement on our target. He’s under way.”

Marcos spent the majority of his time holed up in a jungle compound in the Belizean mountains. The place was a fortress. A well-placed sniper might also have stood a chance of getting off a shot, or the team could have mined the road in and detonated a lifetime supply of C4 underneath Marcos’s Humvee, except the man was cautious and rarely moved out in the open. Learning that he intended to come here had been a piece of intel that had taken Ashley’s team eighteen months to acquire.

Levi cursed. “Define movement.”

Gray knew how his comrade felt. “Marcos will be here in eight days instead of ten. His advance team hits the ground in four. We need to take them down fast, as soon as they arrive. And since we’re looking to capture Marcos, not kill, we’re going to report back as his guys and make sure he feels safe to land.”

“A challenge.” Mason didn’t sound as if he minded. Instead, he had a thoughtful look on his face as he pondered the logistics of a quick, nonlethal takedown on an island that was too small for roads or runways. There were nods of understanding from around the circle. The FBI had a long list of questions for Marcos, and a dead man didn’t do any talking. If the mission went according to plan, however, they’d take down Marcos and then have a week to interrogate him before any of his associates realized he’d been compromised.

“Is the advance party inbound by air or water?” Levi asked.

Gray didn’t hesitate. “Two helos, both of which are scheduled to be met by the resort’s jeeps. We’ll put SEALs into the driver’s seats. Marcos will be told his advance team is securing the resort. We need to minimize the risk to the island’s civilians. Thoughts?”

Ashley picked up the ball and ran with it. Gray was fairly certain there wasn’t anything the woman didn’t know. “It’s low season and the resort is running at about thirty percent of capacity. There are twenty bungalows. Six are occupied, but three of us are singletons. Eight guests are currently in house.”

Good. Fantasy Island would be clear before Marcos made his grand appearance. If Monday’s arrivals vacated in a week, that meant Laney Parker would be okay and not in the line of fire. She hadn’t signed up for this particular battle, and he wouldn’t pitchfork her into the middle of it.

As the meeting wrapped, Gray did a last inventory of his team. They were ready, but that had never been in doubt. Despite the teasing and good-natured bickering, every man there would lay down his life for the team. They were organized, well trained and efficient as hell. Marcos wouldn’t know what had hit him.

When Ashley stepped past him, however, he snagged her wrist. “I’ve got a question.”

“Anytime.” She dropped onto the pile of duffel bags next to him. “Ask away.”

“You ever heard of a cocktail menu? A special one?” He took a shot in the dark, because Laney’s tone had held a certain something. He needed to know what she’d really meant.

Ashley laughed. “So you’ve heard about the infamous drinks menu?”

“Give me details.” The way she was smiling, he was in trouble. He definitely didn’t know enough.

“Well, the next time you boys decide to go undercover at a resort, you might want to pick one that doesn’t specialize in kinky sex.”

“I’ll give my boss a heads-up,” he said dryly. “I hadn’t planned on having kinky sex on this mission.”

Absolutely not. Hell, even plain old vanilla sex was pretty much off-limits. While there weren’t hard-and-fast rules about personal activities while undercover, bedding a civilian who could blow his cover was definitely pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable. He couldn’t and wouldn’t jeopardize the mission.

Or Laney’s life.

“Maybe you should rethink your position.” She elbowed him, eyes twinkling at the pun. “Because apparently the resort staff can be more than a little adventurous, as can the guests. The names of the drinks are code for various fantasies you might want to act out. It’s all secret and hush-hush, a way for guests to discreetly communicate their desires to each other.”

Fantasies about sex. That sounded pretty damn erotic, but he’d seen how other people’s kinks played out when he’d worked undercover as a biker. M-Breed’s members had engaged in frequent sex, often public, and never nice. On the pool table, up against the wall, in a bathroom stall. Take your pick, do whatever the hell you wanted to do. Gray had managed to avoid the gang’s groupies, because no way he wanted a woman who was into him only for the drugs or position she thought accompanied sleeping with him. His fantasies were different.

He frowned. “How did she know about the menu?”

Ashley raised a brow. “Which she on this island propositioned you? And did you turn her down flat or take her up on it and she shocked your delicate sensibilities?”

“I gave one of the guests a massage,” he said gruffly. “She said something to me at the end.”

Ashley whistled. “You must give a really good massage. Give me a name.”

“Laney Parker.” Why was he so reluctant to give up her name?

“She was your client? In that case, I may have told her about it.”

“And how come I wasn’t informed?”

Ashley winked at him. “I didn’t think you’d be interested. Not your kind of scene.”

He wondered when he’d started coming across as uninterested in sex.

“I don’t like surprises,” he said. Although he’d definitely liked Laney. If he’d known what she was asking him, he would have followed up. He definitely wouldn’t have let her run off on him.

Ashley’s eyes flashed. “You’re not exactly vanilla.”

Neither were most fantasies.

She poked him in the chest. “Do you even know how to flirt?”

Shit. Did he? “I know how to play games,” he grumbled.

Levi smacked him on the shoulder. “Ashley’s the best. You can take notes.”

“This from you.” Disapproval radiated from Ashley’s voice. “You’re the team man whore.”

“And you’re not on the prowl? I’ve watched you hanging out by the pool.”

“I’m undercover.” She jabbed a finger into Levi’s chest. “I’m playing a part. Someone has to get in there and keep an ear to the ground.”

“Duly noted,” Gray growled. “Don’t make me put the two of you in time-out. Break it up, move it along.”

Ashley blew Levi a kiss and headed back to the beach and her kayak.

“That girl is trouble.” Levi shook his head. “Maybe that’s why we don’t let women join the SEALs.”

Gray grinned. “They’d kick our asses, and we like being in charge.”

“True.” Levi made a face at Ashley’s departing figure. “She’s damned good at it.”

* * *

SLIPPING INTO THE water was like coming home. Diving had been one of Gray’s favorite parts of BUD/S training. The world seemed different beneath the surface, everything more buoyant and streamlined. The bay was mostly sandy-bottomed and dotted with coral heads. Butterfly fish swarmed him as he dove toward the bottom, bright yellow and black sides flashing. Any closer and the fish needed to buy him dinner first, one particularly bold specimen bumping against first his mask and then his dive gloves.

He’d grabbed the tank ostensibly because someone needed to map the bay’s bottom. He could do it, so why not? He was restless. That was all. He preferred to be on the move, to be doing something, and the riskier and faster that something was, the better. Not that checking out the bay scored high in the adrenaline category. The entry was shallow and the water almost currentless. That would change, of course, as he pushed around the promontory and into open ocean, but for now it was easy money.

Swimming out of the bay and around the island’s coastline produced no surprises. As he swam, he checked the ocean floor for obstructions, booby traps, anything that would hinder a Zodiac or a landing party. Fantasy Island, however, was as pretty below the surface as it was above, all white sand and the occasional coral head. He was all clear if the second team infiltrated by water.

The last time he’d done this hadn’t gone as well. He’d led an amphibious operation to select possible beach landing sites. The aerial pics had shown mangrove, swamp and jungle, none of which made their potential targets vacation destinations. Worse, the nautical charts were one hundred fifty years old and missing major terrain features. Swimming through the surf and the reef to make the inner lagoon had been like diving in a washing machine with blades. Fantasy Island definitely won in the looks department.

When he finally surfaced, treading water two hundred yards off shore with a quarter tank of air left, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Laney. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who sat still. He watched, transfixed, as she pounded up the quarter-mile stretch of sand, sprinting barefoot. God knows, he should have submerged and gone about his business, but looking away was surprisingly difficult. Ponytail whipping back and forth, the muscles in her thighs flexed as she worked for more speed, and her swimsuit top...yeah. He liked that part of the view best. She was spectacular. When she reached the end of the beach, she flopped down on the sand. He grinned. Good to know she wasn’t Superwoman. Then, when she fished in her beach bag and produced her phone, his grin got even wider. The woman had a serious cell phone addiction.

Giving in to temptation, he swam in slowly, enjoying the sensual way she dug her fingers into the sand, soaking up the heat as she chatted. Then he counted. Wait for it...by the count of thirty, she’d popped up and was pacing back and forth. He should swim away. Reconning the bay was one thing and an acceptable use of his time. Cozying up with Laney, however, wasn’t really part of his job description. He wasn’t supposed to be here. On the other hand, he was a SEAL. Being somewhere unexpected wasn’t unusual.

Deflating his BC, he planted his feet on the sandy bottom. Who was he kidding? He was headed straight for shore. Toeing off his fins, he submerged and let the small waves push him toward the beach.

4

“CARSON HOSPITAL DOESN’T have your acceptance letter on file. Tell me you signed the letter.”

What were the ethics of lying to one’s mother? Three thousand miles apart, and Laney still fought the urge to look over her shoulder, because a stellar international calling plan made it sound as if Ellen Parker were standing right behind her. Tossing her cell phone into her beach bag had been her first mistake. Answering at the Jaws ringtone had been her second.

Unfortunately, her mom was a pro and correctly interpreted the ensuing silence. A top-notch hospital administrator and former oncologist, she excelled at detecting bullshit. “That letter is your second chance, Laney Parker. Do you know how many favors I had to call in to get it?”

Laney had a lot of experience fielding unhappy phone calls from her mother. And, in this case, her mom actually had a valid point. Thank you seemed too...bland. Unappreciative. Because, in truth, she did appreciate her mother’s attempts to fix the disaster she’d made of her medical career.

“I’ve signed it.” She just hadn’t mailed the letter yet, because that would mean admitting she wasn’t going back to S.F. General.

She’d been sacked. Let go. Fired out of hand. No, not fired, exactly, because she’d been politely asked to submit her letter of resignation so everybody could pretend she’d simply decided to exchange her dream job covering San Francisco’s busiest trauma bay for the much tamer, less exciting challenges of a small city ER. Her mother exhaled, the sound magnified by a stellar cell phone connection. “Give me the tracking number and I’ll follow up on it.”