Against the Ropes (3 page)

“So keep driving straight.”

She growled a little, the sound so cute and feminine he wanted to lean over and kiss the tip of her nose. But he resisted. One stupid move a night was his limit . . . hopefully.

“Did you have a good night out?”

She smiled, which he couldn't see so much as hear in her voice. “I was, until a few weirdos came and crashed all the fun.”

“Weirdos?” Ready to defend her honor, despite being too late, he sat up straighter. “Who? What'd they look like? Did they bother you?”

“That would have been you three,” she answered with a smug grin.

Oh. Right. He let his head thump back against the headrest. Damn. She had a wicked sense of humor on her. “How's the job working out?”

“It's far more action-oriented than I imagined, that's for sure. I never thought I'd be driving out in the dark to inspect slashed tires, or figuring out who keeps vandalizing the gym. I feel like I stepped into a Nancy Drew book instead of my first real job.”

“First real job, huh?” She flushed slightly, the tint barely perceptible thanks to the street lamps. “Just graduated, I take it?”

“I did, yes.” Her voice deepened when she wanted to sound more professional, he noted. “Took me a little longer because I had to work full time while I went through college, and I couldn't always take a full course load. But I'm a proud graduate and ready to use my degree.”

“Good to know.” How long had she practiced that defensive little speech in her mind in case someone asked? He settled back in his seat. “You'll turn here, then make another and the barracks will be dead ahead.”

“Gotcha.”

She finished the drive and pulled into a space at the back of the lot next to Sweeney's SUV. “I should have brought a camera or something,” she said, looking around her car. Her voice was higher again, telling him she was nervous. “I don't know if I'll need photos but . . .” She bit her lip, and he put a hand over hers on the gear shift between them.

“Don't sweat it. We've all got cell phones with cameras. Between all of us we'll have plenty of photos.”

“Oh. Right.” She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. A breath that pushed her more-than-a-handful breasts against the tight confines of her shirt. “Sorry, I'm nervous. This isn't the sort of thing they cover in marketing class.”

“You're fine. You've got it.” He stepped out, then debated going to open her door. She was, for all intents and purposes, on the job now. Would she see that as stepping over a boundary? Be angry he'd done something she could do for herself?

While he internally debated, she opened her own door and stepped into the warm night air, smoothing her dark pencil skirt down over her hips as she did so. And thank God for skirts that hugged those curves. She was a damn work of art, a true hourglass. He let her get a step in front of him as she walked toward the group congregated on the sidewalk in front of the building, just to give himself another minute of appreciation at the way her hips swung while she walked.

3

“G
ood evening, Marines.” Reagan's voice deepened into a husky, sexy tone that had Greg fighting an erection in the parking lot. “Problems with some tires, I hear?”

She listened as the guys explained having made it home with no problem, parking, then finding the tires slashed when they'd come out to get dinner. She took notes on her phone, getting everyone's license plates, makes and models, which tires were slashed and where they'd been parked in the lot.

“And nobody else's tires were slashed? The people who'd parked next to you, for example?”

“Only tires we see slashed are from the team's,” Tressler said, looking supremely pissed and ready to brawl with anyone who gave him a wrong look. The hothead was in for a rude awakening in the ring if he couldn't keep himself together and shield those emotions better. “Except Chalfent, his got hit, too, but he didn't make the team. He leaves in the morning.”

At Brad's growl, Tressler's eyes widened. “Which, I
mean, he should have,” he finished, then shot Chalfent a look. “Sorry, man. That's not what I meant.”

“I know,” the tall, gangly man said quietly. “It's okay.”

“So what you're saying is the person who did this appears to have enough information about the team to know who to target, but not enough to know who was cut this afternoon,” Reagan said quickly, cutting off any potential problems at the knees. “Someone who must not have that much of an inside track to know better.”

“Yeah, that's what we've been thinking. You're good.” Tressler nodded and grinned, which made Greg take a protective step toward Reagan's back. She glanced over her shoulder with a grouchy expression, but he didn't back up.

Tressler caught his eye, narrowed his brow slightly, then shrugged. At least the kid wasn't a total moron, even if he was a cocky little shit. He picked up on the subtle back-off vibes fast enough.

After she'd gathered all the official documentation, she asked who had called the authorities. The younger Marines all looked at each other, each one shaking his head in turn.

“Nobody?” Reagan glanced between them, then fisted her hands on her hips. “Not one of you thought to report this? Your insurances alone will require that much.”

“We thought we should wait to see what these guys wanted to do,” another Marine—one of Sweeney's, Greg thought—said. “We figured it was their call, because things are so weird right now with the gym and the training room getting trashed.”

“Can't fault them for thinking it through,” Greg muttered by Reagan's ear. “Cut them some slack. They're babies.”

She turned to cut him a frosty glance. “Half of them are just a year or two younger than me, and a few are my age.”

Whoops. He hadn't considered that. She'd mentioned being a recent graduate, but he'd simply assumed she'd gone back to school after working for a few years. So she was what, twenty-four? Twenty-five?

Not that he cared. He was only twenty-eight himself. But she gave the illusion of being older than she apparently was. Probably the same way she gave the illusion of being taller, more in control, more sure of herself. She projected it perfectly with wardrobe and attitude.

In full control now, Reagan started to pace in front of the group. “Let's go ahead and talk to the . . . the . . .” She waved her hand in the air. “The base law enforcement . . . military police.”

“MPs,” Greg added quietly by her ear.

“Thank you. MPs,” she said, not looking at him. “Let's talk to the MPs and get that situated and on the record. While we're waiting for them, we need to make some calls for rides to get you guys to practice tomorrow. Once that's done, we'll make appointments for you to get your tires replaced at whatever place your insurances will approve. We'll stagger the repairs so we can get them fixed without jeopardizing your training schedules.”

She started tapping at her phone, and Greg nearly had to pick his jaw up off the floor. He had the distinct feeling she'd left Reagan in the car and brought Ms. Robilard with her to work. Night and day difference.

And the other men noticed it, too. They scrambled to follow her directions, making calls or looking information up on their phones, taking photos and texting people about rides.

The woman knew how to light a fire under a group of Marines.

With a satisfied, if a little grim, smile, Reagan nodded and clapped her hands once to get everyone's attention. They stopped talking immediately, and Greg nearly laughed at the image of a kindergarten teacher getting the attention of a dozen five-year-olds. “Right, I'm going to take some photos before I go, and then I will see everyone tomorrow.” With a steely stare, she added, “This does not excuse anyone from practice in the morning. You've got plenty of time to arrange for a ride, so do it.”

Most mumbled a quiet, “Yes, ma'am,” before she walked off to start taking photos of each car's slashed tires. Greg followed behind, hands tucked behind his back to keep from thrusting her against one of those vehicles and kissing her senseless. That was, without a doubt, one of the hottest things he'd seen in years. Her ability to take charge in the blink of an eye, command a group of hard-ass Marines, and do it in a sexy pair of heels and body-hugging skirt . . .

She did a dainty little squat, keeping her knees primly together as she angled her phone toward the rear tire of a pickup truck. Her skirt stretched tight over her curvy ass.

Come to think of it, maybe that's exactly how she commanded their attention so well. Hmm.

“Did you need something else?”

His concentration broken, Greg blinked and uttered the ever-intelligent, “What?”

“You were staring.” Reagan took another photo, the flash momentarily blinding him, then looked over her shoulder. “Did you still need something?”

“A ride back to the BOQ would be nice.”

“Your friends are still here. I assume that's why. You could go with them.” Snap, snap.

“But then how would you get home?”

“GPS,” she answered easily. “It's easy enough to key in ‘Home' as my destination from an unknown place. Not so easy to key in the address of ‘Barracks, Camp Lejeune.'”

Okay, she had a point there. “It wouldn't be very gentlemanly for me to ditch you now.”

“You're not ditching, you're going home to get some rest. I'd actually prefer that, to be honest. The more rested you are, the better you train.” She stood, teetering for just a second before he grabbed her arm to steady her. The short-sleeve blouse she wore gave him the chance to feel the soft skin of her forearm under his thumb. He brushed once over the pulse on the inside of her elbow, felt it hammering and knew she wasn't nearly as cool as she played.

“You want me to go home and get some beauty rest?” He lowered his voice, stepping in, wondering if she was ever without those damn heels—which yes, did great things for her ass—so he could actually look down at her instead of up an inch. “I don't think you do.”

“And that's why I'm the brains of this operation,” she said lightly, stepping back. “Someone has to think about the greater good. Besides,” she added, picking her purse up from the side mirror she'd hung it on to take photos, “you'll need your strength for battle tomorrow.”

“It's training, not battle.”

“I wasn't talking about practice. I was talking about dealing with me.” And with that sassy parting shot, she slid between two cars and disappeared to continue her photo documentary.

“Higgs, let's go man. This day's a big cluster and I'm ready to hit the rack.” Brad appeared by his elbow and tugged lightly on his neck. “Sweeney's dropping us back by the BOQ on his way home.”

“Oh, joy.” He followed along, not at all willingly.

*   *   *

REAGAN
watched through the lens of the digital video camera, taking in as much of the action in the mock training ring as she could without losing definition and focus. The equipment was primitive at best. Though at this point, she should probably be glad she was given a digital anything. God knew, she could probably have expected a VHS recorder to take video with.

“Getting any good shots?” Coach Ace walked up to stand beside her. “I know my guys are preening like pretty peacocks for the camera.”

Reading between the lines, she closed the lens and picked up the tripod she'd paid for herself. Oh, how many pairs of shoes she could have bought for the price of that tripod . . . “You think I'm distracting the men.”

“Not think, know. They're all under thirty, most of them single, and they are pumped up on adrenaline and testosterone and ego from having made the team. Hell yes, you're a distraction.” Coach Ace scanned her from head to toe in a gesture that was definitely meant to be derisive rather than sexual.

Reagan placed one hand over her chest and fluttered her lashes. “Ooh la la. If only I'd remembered to wear my frumpiest outfit to disguise my feminine wares so as not to distract the menfolk from their important endeavors. However shall I earn your forgiveness, good sir?”

The head coach snorted out something she hoped was humor, then crossed his arms to watch the men spar. Another group worked cardio upstairs along the catwalk with Coach Cartwright, while a third was in the adjoining weight room with Coach Willis. Though she would rather bite off her own arm than admit it, she knew Greg Higgs was with the group in the weight room. That shouldn't matter. She was here for the team, not one Marine.

One very fine, very delicious, very funny . . . Marine.

“Coach Ace,” she said slowly, packing up the camera in the case at her feet, “I have a job to do. I know you do, too. But we have to work together, not constantly butt heads.”

“It's not hard to avoid that.” He picked up the case when she reached for it, taking it over to the side where she'd stashed her tote bag full of folders. “You stay out of the way and do your PR voodoo magic outside the gym.”

Tread carefully, Robilard.
“That might have been how it worked in the past—”

“It was,” he agreed firmly.

“But that's not how I plan on running things.”

She watched the coach, trying her best to gauge his reaction based on his expression. She would have been better off trying to guess what a brick wall was thinking. His face curiously blank, Coach Ace shrugged and walked to his office, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Was that acceptance, or denial?” she muttered as she packed up the camera.

Getting along with the coaching staff wasn't specifically required, but it would be a hell of a lot easier on everyone if they could come to terms over the parameters of her job. She refused to run back to her own supervisor and tattle on the uncooperative coaching staff. So it was up to her to figure out how to get everyone on the same page.

And add that to the ever-growing list of things she needed to do better. She really had to pick up her game.

“Hey.”

“Eeeee!” Reagan bobbled the camera bag, nearly dropping it to the floor. She grabbed the handle just as a large pair of hands swooped under to shield the bag from the floor.

Heart pounding, she turned to find Gregory Higgs standing there, grinning. She started to speak, then realized her mouth was dry. To cover, she took the bag back from him and set it gently on the floor. When he only continued to smile, she stiffened her shoulders and met him square on. “What?”

“Do you ever wear anything smaller than three inches?”

That had her taking a step back in surprise. “Three inches of what?”

“Height.” When she blinked, confused, he added, “The heels. I've never seen you in anything shorter than three inches, give or take. Just curious if you ever wear flats.”

“Not if I can help it.” She bent over to pick up the camera bag again—now that her hands had stopped shaking and her heart rate was nearing normal—but he beat her to it. She accepted the bag with a slight nod and started toward the gym's main doors. If she headed back to her cubicle in the main athletics office, she might be able to catch the travel coordinator.

Greg missed the hint and jogged beside her to keep up. “Luckily I like a girl with some height to her.”

She faltered just a little, glancing over at him. “I have a
lot to do, so if you don't need anything, I need to keep moving.”

“I can move. We're on lunch break.”

Oh, yay. She snorted and kept going at the same pace. He kept up. “So are you free?”

“Free for what?” she asked, huffing a little. She realized then she'd been all but sprinting to the parking lot, hoping he'd ditch her and move along. She restrained herself so she could breathe properly. Time to use the gym facilities herself.

Or, maybe, she should just try not outrunning the fastest guy on the team. There's a brilliant idea.

“Lunch. We've got two hours.”

“Oh.” She reached her car and nearly winced when he did a double take at it in the daylight hours. “Don't mock her.”

“What's her name?”

“Name?” Reagan tried to play it cool as she slid the camera bag into the passenger seat, then set her purse on the floor. The passenger door creaked as she closed it again. “Whose name?”

“The car's.” Greg did a circle around it, taking note, she was sure, that the color of the vehicle was more primer than silver. And of the industrious way she'd duct-taped the taillight cover on. “A car like this always has a name.”

She mumbled something, but he cocked his head. “Sorry, didn't catch that.”

“Dolly Madison,” she bit out. “Her name is Dolly Madison. Happy?”

He snorted, then chuckled, then laughed so hard she thought if he'd been a cartoon, he would have fallen to the ground and rolled around on his back. “It wasn't meant to be funny.”