Under the Covers (2 page)

"You do that."

Bree stood. Drew pulled her into his arms, and before she could protest, he covered her lips with his. She made a half-hearted attempt to pull away, but he drew her back and she clung to him like metal shavings to a magnet. His thumb on her chin urged her to open for him. His tongue swept inside and every bit of good sense she had escaped on a moan. Drew tightened his hold on her. A shaft of pure steel pressed into her stomach and sent a lightning bolt of desire straight to her womb. She flexed her fingers against the solid wall of his chest. It felt good to be held again, to know Drew wanted her as much as she wanted him. He took the kiss deeper, demonstrating with his talented lips and tongue all the things he could do to her if she'd give him a chance.

Snapshots flashed through her mind like billboards in Times Square. The top of Drew's head as he worked his way down her body, one kiss, one lick, one taste at a time. Those brown eyes like smoldering coals peering up at her from between her legs as his tongue swept her swollen skin from the bottom up. The bolt of lust she'd felt when he'd turned his gaze on her sex, then buried his face in her heat.

He'd taken what he wanted. Gave her everything she'd needed, and just like that, she'd become addicted to Drew Whitcomb.

 It was an addiction she couldn't afford.

It took everything she had left to flatten her palms against his chest and push. "No."

"Yes," he insisted as he dipped his head to take what he wanted
—
again.

Bree shoved with all her might and he let her go. "We can't, Drew." Damn, it hurt to say those words when all her lady parts were throbbing and begging for another Drew fix.

"Why not, darlin'?"

"Don't use that Southern charm on me, Drew Whitcomb. It may work with the silicon babes, but it won't work with me."

He didn't even have the decency to act innocent. "Can't blame a man for trying," he said without a trace of the smooth Southern drawl she had to work double-time to resist. Interesting how he turned the accent on and off at will. "I want you. You want me. I don't see why we have to like each other to have sex."

Bree blinked. He smiled, showing a row of perfect blinding-white teeth. Was there nothing wrong with this man?

"Bend over. Let me do you right here."

Oh yeah, there was something wrong with him all right. Bree looked around for her keycard, saw the lanyard attached to it on the desk, and reached for it. For a brief moment, she wondered if the fabric was strong enough to strangle a man. Then she looped it around her fist and headed for the door. "Go to hell, Drew Whitcomb."

"See you at dinner," he yelled as the door closed automatically behind her.

Of all the nerve. “Bend over.” The crude son of a bitch. And he still thinks I'm going to have dinner with him. Dream on, lover boy. Not in this lifetime.

****

"That went well," Drew said to the big-screen monitor. What was it about Bree that turned him into a jackass? Ever since they rescued Candace and Fallon, he'd gone out of his way to avoid Bree. That didn't mean he wasn't aware of her. The
Lothario
was a big ship, but not that big. Since avoidance wasn't really working for him, maybe it was time to try another tack. Indulge in the craving, and get it out of his system. Thus, the dinner invitation, then maybe they could go back to his cabin for some horizontal recreation.

Then she'd thrown that barb at him about the breast competition. She set herself up for his response, but then she damned near collapsed on him. What was with that?

No way could he resist a damsel in distress. She'd recovered quickly, and he'd done the gentlemanly thing, offering to cover for her so she could get some rest. If she was so stressed she was likely to collapse, he'd have to make sure she got more time off, and that she was eating right. She was looking kind of thin, now that he thought about it. He flexed his fingers, remembering the feel of her in his hands. She was definitely losing weight. He liked a soft woman, one with something to hold onto.

When she stood up, she'd swayed a little. That could have been from the natural roll of the ship, but it had given him an excuse to hold her. The kiss wasn't something he'd planned. It just happened. Suddenly, there she was in his arms and those soft lips called his name, or maybe he imagined that part. Kissing her wasn't something he needed to plan. It came naturally when she was that close, her and her full, rosy lips. Anytime she was near, he had the urge to either kiss or throttle her. Sometimes both.

 Today she smelled like tropical flowers, a whole garden full of them, and she tasted like nectar, a combination that set his blood on fire. Despite her protests, she'd enjoyed the kiss too. Her thin cotton sarong hadn't masked those perfect nipples jabbing him in the chest. No, those, along with that sexy-as-hell moan and the way she'd nearly clawed the skin off his chest told him more than she obviously wanted him to know.

Drew whirled the chair around and sat. He propped his feet on the desk and rubbed a hand across the scratch marks on his torso. Damn. Why did she have to mark him every time he got close to her? The first time she'd done it, he had a devil of a time explaining the bite mark on his shoulder. He'd been trying to convince Celeste he was in love with her, while Bree's mark proved he wasn't. He hadn't thought it funny at the time, given that Celeste had kicked him out of her bed the moment she saw the dental impression on his shoulder. In retrospect, though, it was pretty amusing.

He glanced at the desktop and a grin split his face. Bree been a wildcat the night. And, she certainly wasn't pushing him away then. Far from it.

He allowed the memory to play back through his mind. She'd practically attacked him, and he'd responded, taking her right there on the desk. He'd always thought of himself as a tender lover, one who took care with the women he bedded. His mother had drilled into him the ways of a Southern gentleman, and his father had made sure he knew those manners extended to the bedroom as well. That, of course, was the problem. There was no bedroom involved. Only the tiny security office, the glare of video monitors and the cold hard desktop. Maybe the atmosphere had been partly to blame for the way they'd gone at each other, fucking like animals. Christ, she'd bitten him so hard it took days for the tooth marks to fade. No one had ever bitten him before, and that kind of passion had scared the hell out of him.

He dropped his feet to the floor and pulled open the desk drawer. He shoved aside pens, markers, sticky notes and condoms. "There's got to be ointment around here someplace," he mumbled as he rifled through the contents of the other drawers. It would be his luck to get an infection from her claw marks and die. Wasn't there something called Cat Scratch Fever? Agent Bree Stanton was a hellcat, but he was beginning to think taming her was going to be a hell of a lot of fun. I he lived long enough.

****

Bree thanked the cabin steward. Her dismay at seeing the handwriting on the note he delivered wasn't his fault. He was just doing his job. She took the three long strides that brought her to the end of her bed and sat. As soon as she got another job, she was going to rent the biggest apartment she could afford. Sure, cruising the Caribbean day-in and day-out sounded glamorous and exciting, but not when you spent most of your days in a tin can below the water line and your nights in a shoebox with a pinhole for light. No wonder she looked like a ghost. Even though all she ever wore was the crew-issue sarongs, she knew she was losing weight. She wasn't getting enough exercise or sunlight. Drew had been right about one thing. She needed more rest. Maybe she should take his advice and spend more time topside.

She fingered the flap on the envelope, afraid to see what Drew had written. The lead ball in her stomach was a good indication she wasn't going to like it. She sighed, closed her eyes and pulled the single sheet of paper from the envelope.

"Dinner at eight. I'll pick you up."

Apparently, she hadn't been speaking English. Either that, or the man had a death wish. Bree fell back on the bed, letting her legs dangle to the floor. The woman in the overhead mirror was a stranger. She had Bree's blue eyes and red hair, but she was as pale as parchment. Bree traced a finger along her cheekbone. Was she losing her freckles? She rolled her head to the side so she could see the readout on the bedside clock. Still enough time to get some sun before Drew showed for dinner. It was useless to try and ditch him. Unless she hid in the engine room, he'd find her, so she might as well spend the afternoon mapping out her own plan of attack.

A phone call to Wardrobe resulted in a white passenger-issue bikini delivered to her room. She wouldn't get any peace on deck wearing the crew's turquoise suit, and nude sunbathing was out of the question. Not that it wasn't allowed. The
Lothario
was clothing optional, except in a few of the nicer restaurants. But Bree wasn't about to lie around naked, especially on a ship loaded with sex-crazed passengers. This time of day, most of the passengers were busy with the organized activities, drinking away the afternoon in one of the bars, or in their cabins doing the horizontal mambo.

She passed a couple who preferred to do their dancing outdoors, and a few nude sunbathers who were going to regret their decision later on, but otherwise the Odyssey deck was quiet. She claimed a chaise as far away from the others as she could find, pulled out her eReader and sunscreen, and ordered a margarita from a passing waiter.

It didn't take long for the sun to lull her into a stupor. She tucked her eReader in her tote bag and flipped to her stomach. Stretched out with her arms pillowing her head, she was asleep in minutes.

The tingling began at the base of her spine and continued upward to her nape. It was more an awareness of a touch than actual contact. Gooseflesh covered her skin and she shivered, despite the tropical heat. Her sun-drugged brain conjured the sweet kiss of the ocean breeze teasing her heated skin like a lover's caress. Her languid mind tried to grasp the image, tried to focus on the point of contact, but failed. It was too elusive, too ethereal.

Her blood heated. Her heart pounded. She gasp as the phantom lover stroked her body with ghostly fingers, making her want, making her crave his touch. Lower… please… touch me there…. Her mind directed the unseen hand to fulfill her need.

The breeze whispered feather soft across her nape, then back down her spine to trace along the top of her bikini bottom. "Yes," her inner voice cried out. A shudder racked her body as the imagined breeze slid along the sweat dampened creases where her thighs met her buttocks, then swept along the back of her legs, tickled the soles of her feet, across the pads of her toes, vanishing as suddenly as it had come.

Warm, mint-scented air brushed against her nape, sending a bolt of desire to her womb. "Please," she silently begged her phantom lover. Her body strained toward the transcendent seducer, seeking the promised ecstasy.

"You're going to burn," a soft voice whispered in her ear.

She was already burning, from the inside out, her mind countered. Then, slowly, reality pushed against the curtain of sleep, letting in the harsh daylight and the harsher truth.

It wasn't a dream.

She'd know that voice anywhere. Drew. She forced her eyes open and blinked as his wide shoulders eclipsed the sun. A white feather held between two blunt fingertips brushed the length of her nose and across her lips before she could form a protest.

"I hope you don't mind. I saw you on the monitor. I was afraid you were going to burn." His gaze swept the length of her body and back again, searing her skin with something more lethal than UV rays. "You've been out here for a while."

She rolled and swung her feet to the deck, facing Drew. He looked like sin on a mission. He wore a crew-issue turquoise wrap that clung to his narrow hips. His bare legs, folded to allow him to sit, brushed against hers. The contact brought on a startling awareness. The ghostly lover of her dreams wasn't a ghost at all. It was Drew. Even while he'd teased her, her mind had conjured a lover from the depths of her desires, and that lover was also Drew.
Pathetic
.

She jerked her gaze away from the physical embodiment of her dreams and focused on the horizon. "No peace. Not even in my sleep," she mumbled.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want your pretty skin to get all red. Unless it's for a different reason."

There was no mistaking the reason he had in mind, and the spike of anger and annoyance his words brought on also brought a flush of heat to her skin.

"That's better," Drew said. "I've got you thinking of ways to bring a lovely glow to your skin."

 "Just leave me alone. Please?" A faint recollection of her inner self, using that same word only minutes ago and breathlessly begging for something altogether different, flashed through her mind.