Terms of Surrender (6 page)

Then, on to the navy. He’d finished at the Academy, gone to Pensacola, then to Whiting.

Then to Afghanistan.

And there, everything had sort of fallen apart.

Not anymore.
Now he was back on track. Back on schedule.

So why the hell was he suddenly thinking about what it might be like to grow old with someone, when his focus should be entirely on awaiting word on his application to the Astronaut Candidate Training Program?

“Anyway, back to my little wardrobe malfunction,” she said, apparently not having noticed his distraction. “I had a run in my hose, and…”

“You panicked.”

“Exactly.”

Part of him was tempted to ask her if she’d had a run in her sexy black panties, too, but he figured that might be pushing his luck.

Besides, he didn’t want to think about her sexy black panties any more than he had to. He especially didn’t want to think about the fact that she wasn’t wearing them right now. That just wasn’t good for his sanity.

But it was tough to turn off the mental images, knowing she wasn’t wearing a thing beneath that sinfully tight skirt. Under that simple black fabric was soft skin, curves and hollows and everything deliciously female.

You’re an officer and a gentleman. An officer and a gentleman.

“So I made a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“Sure, I get that,” he said, pulling his mind out of his own pants. “I mean, I once spilled tomato juice on my dress whites and had to go on duty in my skivvies.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ha-ha.”

“Look at it this way—I bet your, uh, state of undress provided a distraction from the interview, so maybe it made you a little less nervous.”

“Are you kidding? I remembered they were in the glove box halfway through my second meeting, and immediately panicked, thinking you might find them.”

“Well, I did,” he admitted. “But trust me, I’m not some perv. They’re not hanging from my rearview mirror or anything. I put them right back where I found them. In case you, uh…have need of them.”

“Believe me, I usually do.” She sighed heavily. “I know you won’t get this—no guy would—but I just couldn’t deal with a bunch of he-man jerks staring at my butt today.”

He’d
been staring at her butt today. But he didn’t think it wise to point that out. And he wasn’t a he-man. Plus, he wasn’t entirely sure what going bare-ass naked beneath her skirt had to do with it. Men stared. Period.

“And panty lines would have just begged to be stared at,” she continued, quickly explaining her thinking on the whole nylons-smoothing-things-out theory.

Which, frankly, was just bullshit. Men definitely didn’t need panty lines acting as little arrows to guide the eye to the perfect female posterior. Maybe other chicks would notice and care. If he did see them, a guy wouldn’t be thinking about anything except pulling those elastic panty lines down. Preferably with his teeth.

“I’m afraid ass-appreciation is just part of our genetic code,” he admitted. “Like flicking other naked guys with towels in the locker room, and our inability to ask for directions when we’re lost.”

“Yeah, what’s with that?”

He shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”

“And one I’m not sure I want to solve.”

“Some things you’re better off not knowing.”

“Like men shouldn’t really want to understand why women go to the bathroom together?”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It’s all prearranged, right? So you can compare notes on the guys you’re with, and escape together out the window if they suck, right?”

“Busted.”

Nodding, he said, “So I guess that means you’re in trouble today, since you’re flying without a wingman when we go out for lunch.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming in anticipation. “You mean on your boat?”

Growing still, Danny eyed her steadily, liking the idea, but also knowing she’d hesitated earlier because she’d been unsure. “We don’t have to.”

She glanced outside at the beautiful late afternoon sky. “I’d love to.” Then she looked down at herself and sighed. “But unfortunately, I’m not exactly dressed for it. My only spare clothes are, well, you know…”

Yeah. He knew. Her spare clothes were in her glove compartment and just the thought of her in nothing but them was enough to send an extra pint of blood toward his cock. Of course, knowing she was currently without them was doing a damn fine job of that already.

“How about this,” he said, “it’s only three-thirty, hours until sunset. You go to the nearest store and grab a cheap pair of jeans, I’ll go take a shower. We can meet again at that Irish pub on West Street in exactly forty-five minutes. We’ll get to know each other. Then, if you’d like, we’ll go to the marina and take the boat out for a little while.”

She nibbled her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’re sure? I mean, you didn’t rescind your invitation earlier because you’d changed your mind and don’t want to, right? Did I back you into a corner on this?”

He held his arms up, gesturing to the wide-open space of the garage bay that surrounded them. “No corners. No arm-twisting.” Then, stepping closer—close enough that his boot-covered feet nearly touched the pointy tips of her sexy shoes, hiding what were rumored to be magnificent feet, he added, “Let’s just go for it and see what happens, okay?”

“There’s that
it
again,” she mumbled.

“What?”

Shaking her head, she stared up at him, those big blue eyes softening. Her lips parted and she drew a slow, audible breath over them, as if she realized he was talking about going for a lot more than lunch.

He didn’t mean sex. At least, not right away. What he wanted to go for was a chance. Just an opportunity.

They’d clicked on sight. Now he wanted to know if that click could ignite something even more than a spark of sexual attraction.

A kiss would be a good start. One slow, deep, wet kiss, just to see what happened.

He wanted that—at least that—before this day was out. And if the kiss was as good as he suspected it could be, well, then they’d just have to see what happened.

“Okay,” she finally said. “I think we’ve got a date.”

3

Saturday, 5/7/10, 03:45 p.m.
www.mad-mari.com/2011/05/07/quickone
Comment #21

Mari here, checking in again. Yay for the iPhone!

Glad you’re chatting w/out me. Yeah, I agree with all of you that the businessman from last Sat was not only a scum-bucket for committing bigamy, but was also trés stupid to let somebody videotape his crime. And Jan from Chicago—lol on, “Would rather see the video of wife #1 beating the crap out of him when she found out.” You & me both, sister!

Can’t stay longer; there’ve been some interesting developments today. Real quick, tho, let me just say, the interviews went great. I think I might actually get the gig.

And after the interview, something else happened. Something…surprising. Remember that sea of testosterone I said I was diving into? Well, I think I have come face-to-face with the great white. Let’s hope he doesn’t eat me up.;-)

Bye!

MARI HAD NO TROUBLE FINDING the small, downtown pub, which Danny said had an outside patio on which they could enjoy the warmth of the afternoon. And true to his word, he showed up exactly forty-five minutes later, his golden-brown hair still damp from his shower and his face clean-shaven. Marissa saw him arrive, and had to stand in the restaurant vestibule, watching him out the front window for a few moments. Because, oh, God, was he nice to look at.

She’d known he was good-looking, had recognized that immediately. But he cleaned up utterly gorgeous. Trafficstoppingly, heart-poundingly, panty-dampeningly—and she was wearing panties now—gorgeous.

Then there was the body. Wow.

That deserved a repeat: Wow.

Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, without the loose-fitting work clothes covering him up from neck to ankle, his entire rock-hard form was on perfect masculine display. And mercy, could the man do things for some Levi’s and oh, did his shoulders ever stretch out endlessly under that gray cotton.

Aside from the broad shoulders, he was also lean-waisted, slim-hipped, long-legged. Built like he’d been molded out of clay by an artist trying to depict the perfect male form.

Why in the name of God is he going out with you?

She wasn’t being overly modest or highly critical of her own appeal. In fact, Marissa knew she was somewhat attractive.

Not beautiful, by any means. Not with her funky ears and her too-thin hair—which looked particularly lank now that she’d taken it out of that bun and left it hanging loose. Then there was the hint of a belly she could never totally flatten, no matter how many death-by-sit-up sessions she endured at the gym.

She’d cop to nice-looking, maybe a little sexy—she did have good legs and perky boobs that didn’t even need a Wonderbra—but she wasn’t drop-dead stunning. She might turn a few heads but no way would she ever cause gawking guys to step into traffic or obsessed secret admirers to send sky-banners into the air proclaiming her hotness.

So why on earth would this hunky guy want to be with her? Unless, of course, he’d been telling the truth—that he just wanted to get to know the girl who’d ditched her underwear.

That spoke of someone with a sense of humor. Someone who was interested in more than just physical appearance, and actually cared about personality. Someone she could like. A lot.

But oh, did she ever hope there was some lust there, too.

“Hi, see you found it,” he said as he entered the Irish restaurant he’d sent her to, a cute place that was more trendy than publike. He smelled clean and fresh and spicy, his subtle aftershave making her think of all good things male. “And I see you found something else to wear?”

She glanced down at her new clothes. In popular Annapolis, it hadn’t taken her more than a half hour to find a shop and grab a pair of casual pants and a lightweight sweater, and not break her bank doing it. She’d changed into the outfit in the restaurant’s ladies’ room. She’d put her underwear back on, too. The pants fit fine…no panty lines.

“Yes, I did.”

His gaze zoned in on her hair, the ash-blond tresses hanging down over her shoulders like a veil. His voice a hint lower, thicker, he said, “Don’t ever wear that hideous bun again, okay?”

She swallowed, feeling her legs tremble the tiniest bit under the full onslaught of his close-up, admiring attention. “It was supposed to make me look older, more mature around students.”

“Trust me on this, they’re going to be busy enough staring at your…panty lines.”

Oh, joy.

“They’re not going to be distracted by any old-lady hairstyle.” He lifted a hand, running his fingers through a long strand, as if savoring the texture. “Besides, it’s beautiful.”

Okay, it was soft. Thin, but soft. And, all right, the color was pretty. At least, this man’s rapt attention made her think so. She managed a shaky smile and swallowed hard, willing her heartbeat to slow down. It was just that the simple brush of those fingertips on her hair, the faint scrape of his thumb on her cheek had been so incredibly nice. Which made her wonder what a
real
touch might be like.

Earth-shattering.

Well, a few of them in a row almost certainly would be.

Another couple walked in the door, reminding them that they were blocking it. Taking her elbow, he smiled politely and led her to the empty hostess station. Then, glancing down at her feet, he murmured, “I see you didn’t hit a shoe store. Those aren’t exactly seaworthy.”

No, they weren’t. The pointy pumps might be a little dressy for her outfit. But they were also sexy, and the man liked them. She’d seen that in his eyes when they’d had that silly conversation about her feet. “I guess not,” she conceded.

“Does that mean you’ve already made up your mind about the sunset? Not gonna trust me?”

“Well, you didn’t steal my car,” she said.

“That’s me. Not a car thief.”

“And you showed up when you said you would. You didn’t stand me up.”

“Not a jerk, either.”

She smiled up at him. “I think I can trust you.”

“Good,” he said, a warmth in his stare loading that simple word with additional meaning. He was glad and was looking forward to spending more time with her.

Mari tingled a little, feeling her skin pucker as she thought about lying on the deck of a boat with him. It definitely wasn’t bikini weather, but she suspected he could keep her warm without much effort.

A hostess approached, her gaze immediately zeroing in on Danny. Big surprise. Stepping the tiniest bit closer to her date, Marissa said, “I figured if we do go for a sunset cruise, I’d probably want to take them off and get my feet wet, anyway.”

Apparently not even noticing the other woman’s overly-warm-for-a-hostess-smile, he tsked. “And risk damaging perfection with unforgiving saltwater?”

“You have a thing for feet?” the hostess asked with a little simper.

“Not old ones,” Marissa replied.

That had come out of her mouth purely by reflex because of the conversation they’d had earlier. It had not been meant as a snotty comment to the hostess, who was probably close to forty.

But the woman still stiffened, her smile growing tight. As they followed her in silence, she felt Danny’s broad shoulders moving in silent amusement.

They took their seats, watched the woman walk away, then Danny muttered, “Meow.”

Shaking her head, genuinely embarrassed, she said, “I didn’t mean…”

He held a hand up. “I’m kidding. I know you were talking about our earlier conversation. Just yanking your chain.”

His mischievous expression brought a smile to her lips—the same smile she’d had on her face almost every minute since she’d met him. Well, at least the minutes since he’d admitted he’d found her underwear in her car, and had been amused by it.

She kept smiling as they glanced at the menus. Chuckling as they sipped their drinks. Laughing as they ate their lunch and playfully argued over whether Christian Bale or Michael Keaton had been the better Batman. That was followed by a dozen other get-to-know-you bits of nonsense that didn’t matter but were vitally important just the same.

Important because every word he said, no matter how innocuous, was uttered in that husky male voice and accompanied by that devastatingly attractive smile. And deep down she knew that every damn one of them was a replacement for the conversation they were having in their own minds. Their layer of small talk was a veneer, a thin coating covering up the questions they weren’t asking.

Do you feel it? Am I alone in this? Are we crazy?

With every word, every laugh, every shared glance, every brush of their hands on the table or glance of each other’s mouths, hands, bodies, the heat grew. She knew it by the way his hand lingered when he reached over to pull a wind-blown leaf out of her hair. By the way he shifted in his chair, sliding his foot closer, until their legs brushed under the table. And when he took a plump cherry tomato out of his salad and held it to her lips, it took all her strength of will not to flick her tongue out and take some salt off his skin to flavor it.

They had come here just to “see what happened.” She had no doubt that what had happened was that the chemistry and physical attraction between them had grown so thick she could almost bite into it. By the time they’d finished eating and called for the check, she was ready to lean over the table, grab two fistfuls of his thick hair and drag him in for a hot, wet kiss.

Crazy. He’s a stranger!

Well, not really. Their conversation hadn’t revealed a whole lot. Not even, she realized, their last names. But she knew he was the oldest child from a big family—like her. Knew he had read the latest bestsellers but couldn’t stand Oprah books. Knew he had a ’67 Impala that he treated like a golden carriage. Knew he flexed his right hand once in a while, as if he had an ache in it. Knew he picked the tomatoes out of his salad.

She knew she wanted him. That was the most important thing, the only thing that really mattered to her right now.

Being totally honest, not only was she comfortable going on this man’s boat with him—or just about anywhere else he asked—but she also hoped she’d still be on it tomorrow morning. A quick call to a neighbor who sometimes looked after Brionne, her cat, and she’d be all set. She was probably being totally Mad-Mari about this, but she wanted to have sex with him. Tonight.

Mari had never been the type to have one-night stands, though she’d had one or two affairs that didn’t last much longer than a week. But somehow, even if she was told that there was no way she would ever see Danny again, she wouldn’t care. She wanted a night in his arms. In his bed. Wanted his hands and his mouth and every inch of his skin touching hers. Right or wrong, the past or the future didn’t have anything to do with it. She just
wanted.
Now.

Besides, if she was really about to dive into her real life—everything she’d been planning for all these years—wasn’t one last fling in order? Why not have one last Mad-Mari romp with a hot, sexy, blue collar guy who she couldn’t envision in her future?

Not the past. Not the future. Just the present.

And he would be a present—to
her
—of that she had no doubt.

“So,” he said as he polished off the last of his fries, “you ever been married?”

She shook her head. “You?”

“Just to my job.”

“It’s really important to you?” she asked, a little surprised. Yes, he appeared to love cars, especially his own, but he seemed so damned smart and capable. Was there really nothing else he could be doing with his life?

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted. I have ever since I was five years old and my dad took me with him to work at O’Hare one day.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a lead mechanic for an airline, until he retired. So how about you? I gotta admit, I have a hard time picturing you being old enough to teach college kids.”

“I’m twenty-nine. Just got my doctorate in psychology and I’m testing out the waters.”

He gaped. “I don’t know where to start. The doctorate at twenty-nine part, or the fact that you’re a shrink.”

The reaction was a familiar one. Especially the psychologist part. Everybody worried about that one, as if she would be head-shrinking them from their first meeting.