Under the Covers (3 page)

His legs brushed hers as he scooted between the chairs. "Don't stay out too long. Dinner. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"Good." A strand of hair had worked its way free of her ponytail. He reached down and wrapped it around his finger. He gently tugged on it, then pulled his finger free. "I'll see you then."

Bree watched him walk away, aware of the feminine heads that turned as he passed. Damn. She'd never met a more exasperating man than Drew Whitcomb, or a more desirable one. "Why me?" she muttered. Then she gathered her things and headed in the opposite direction. Thanks to Drew interrupting her nap, she knew exactly what she needed to do, and she had plenty of time to do it.

****

Drew ducked into the first crew passage he ran across and flattened himself face forward against the wall. The chilled metal did nothing to cool his blood, or get it circulating back where it belonged. With a groan, he rolled over so his back was pressed against the wall. He sucked in a harsh breath as the cold steel met his heated skin from his shoulders to the small of his back.

"Shit." The hissed expletive echoed around the empty chamber. He leaned his head against the wall and ran the fingers of both hands through his buzzed hair, gripping his skull as hard as he could. With any luck, his head would explode and put an end to his torment.

Bree Stanton was going to be the death of him, one way, or another. Of that, he was certain. He'd die if he didn't have her soon, and she might kill him if he made a move in that direction. Then there was the probability that if he did manage to convince her to let him fuck her again, he might die from the wonder of being inside her tight, wet body.

One way or another, he was a dead man.

Drew bent forward and supported his torso on hands braced against his thighs. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, but at last his cock was returning to a less embarrassing state. There was no way to hide a boner in a pair of tight shorts, or under the short wraps the ship provided for the male crewmembers. Normally, it wouldn't bother him a bit to be seen with a raging hard-on. But on the
Lothario
, you might as well go ahead, whip it out and wave it around. Every woman on board was looking for a man, and their eyes always went directly south.

He took a deep breath and straightened. Not so long ago, he’d been extremely happy with that quirk of the cruise ship. Where else could a man have as much sex as his parts could stand without fear of being branded a lecher? Nowhere. It was a sailor's dream come true, and he'd taken advantage of every opportunity. Until Bree came aboard.

Tonight would tell the tale. Either she'd finally give in to what he knew they both wanted, or not. Either way, it was time to resolve their issues and move forward. Or move on.

Bree sat across from Drew in the dimly lit alcove. She'd envisioned dinner in a more public place where everyone could see them, a place where she'd feel safe. Alone with Drew, secluded from the other diners by a solid wall on two sides, the bank of windows and a gossamer curtain on the other two sides did nothing to ease her anxiety. Agreeing to dine with him had been a mistake. She'd vowed to keep her distance from him, excepting necessary professional contact. That was the only way she could preserve her sanity.

"This is insane," she muttered.

"Why is that?" Drew leaned against his crossed forearms, bringing his face too close to hers.

She felt his heat from across the table, and like a moth with no brain, she wanted to get closer. Instead, she eased back in her chair. "You weren't supposed to hear that."

"Couldn't help it. I have excellent hearing." His lips thinned in a smile that indicated he knew exactly how he affected her, and that it pleased him immensely.

"Look, Drew. I should go." She looked around for an escape route.
Some smart FBI agent I am.
The only way out was to edge past Drew, and if he didn't want her to leave….

"Giving up so soon? We just got here."

He knew how to push her buttons. She stiffened her spine. No way was she going to let him have the satisfaction of seeing her quit. "So we did. I'm hungry. Let's order and see if we can get through one meal without tearing the hide off each other."

Drew rubbed a hand over the scratch marks on his chest, the ones she'd put there. "I'd like that. Don't think I could stand to lose much more of my hide."

Bree raised her menu to hide her flaming face. She hadn't meant to claw him, but when he kissed her, she couldn't be responsible for her actions. All the more reason to stay far away from Drew. "Sorry about that."

"Don't be. I think I'm starting to like being mauled by you."

A lump formed in her throat and sank to her stomach. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know you didn't. You just lose control."

"I do not lose control." Heat smoldered, and Bree squirmed in her chair. Drew leaned in close enough that she could smell his masculine scent. Someone should bottle that scent. There wasn't a woman on the planet who could resist it. She closed her eyes and did her best to lean away from him without looking like she was running scared. Which she was.

"What would you call it? You bite. You scratch. Sounds out of control to me."

"Maybe I meant to do those things."

He stared out the window for a few seconds as he considered her comment. Finally, he turned back to her and smiled. "No. I don't think so."

Bree shrugged. "Think what you will. Even if I did lose control, and I'm not saying I did, it wouldn't be gentlemanly of you to bring it up."

He leaned back in his chair and lifted his menu. "Who said I was a gentleman?"

A waiter in a
Lothario
Tuxedo with shiny black spandex pants, white cuffs around his wrists and a white bow tie at his neck, arrived to take their order. Before she opened her mouth, Drew proceeded to order for them both. The waiter took her menu and left. She glared at Drew.

"What?" he asked.

"I'm perfectly capable of ordering for myself."

"I doubt that. Are you on a diet or something? You're losing weight."

"Oh my god! You did not just say that."

"Say what?"

"It's none of your business if I lose weight or not."

"I like the way you are. I like a woman with something to hang onto."

Bree couldn't help it. Her mouth flapped like a fish out of water as she tried to form words. No matter how hard she tried, her brain and her vocal chords couldn't connect. Drew's eyes sparkled with laughter, and the way he pressed his lips together told her he was having a hard time keeping it from spilling out.

The waiter returned with a basket of bread. Drew flicked the napkin aside, lifted one steaming roll and held it out toward her. "Want a roll?" His eyes twinkled. "I'll spread the butter."

His lips formed the simple words, but his inflection made it sound like he was thinking of an altogether different kind of roll, one that involved naked bodies on a mattress and hands spreading.... Bree tossed her napkin on the table and stood. If she sprinted, she could get past him. He wouldn't dare make a scene in the restaurant. She'd be free. Free of his pheromones. Free of his innuendo. Free of her insane desire to take him up on everything he was offering.

She made it as far as the door leading to the outside deck before he caught up to her. "Go away, Drew."

He matched his stride to hers. "No. I thought you wanted this. Wanted to have no-strings sex. You knew that's what tonight was about before you agreed to come. So what's wrong?"

"I made a mistake."

"Wait." He wrapped one hand around her upper arm and pulled her to a stop. "Let's talk about this."

Bree jerked to a halt, closed her eyes while she counted to ten, and finally swung around to face him. "No talk." She put both hands on his chest and pushed him backward toward the railing. Her hands were all over him, touching, promising. He picked up on her intent and let her maneuver him so his back pressed against the wooden rail. Bree molded her body to his. "Let me," she breathed against his neck as her left hand slid along the length of his erection. He was hard and ready, and she almost forgot her purpose as he grew even harder beneath her hand.

"I'm all yours, Sugar." Drew's hands gripped the rail behind him. Almost perfect. Bree trailed her lips along his right shoulder, nipping and tasting all the while her hand spanned the hard muscles of his upper arm. Her fingernails bit into his biceps, then glided along the ribbons of iron in his forearm. He made no protest as her fingers closed around his wrist and guided his hand to clasp the upright in the railing.

Bree worked the fingers of her left hand underneath his sarong and cupped his balls. "Christ," he hissed as she scraped her fingernails over his scrotum. It was the distraction she needed. He never noticed her right hand had ceased to stroke his arm. He didn't hear the faint jingling of steel. He didn't register the cold metal banding his wrist until the cuff closed with an unmistakable click, first around his wrist, then around the railing.

Bree smiled against his heaving chest. Then, in a move a magician would be proud of, she fisted her fingers around Drew's sarong. As she stepped out of his reach, she took the scrap of turquoise material with her.

Drew cursed, then jerked against the restraint like a lion with his paw in a trap. "Bree," his voice warned. "Let me go. Now."

"I don't think so." Putting the handcuffs in the back of her panties had been a stroke of genius. Uncomfortable, but genius. A woman never knew when restraints would come in handy. Like now.

She stood just out of his reach as he continued to jerk against the handcuff securing him to the ship's railing. God, he was something to look at. All bronzed skin, from head to toe, and even held captive, his erection hadn't waned. She let her eyes linger there until she realized he was still struggling to get free. "Drew. Stop. You're only going to hurt yourself." An angry red line was already forming around his wrist. She felt bad about injuring him again, but not bad enough to free him.

"Let. Me. Go." He stilled.

She'd never seen a more determined look before, but she'd made up her mind, and she wasn't going to back down now. She had to make him listen. Since apparently there was no cure for her Drew addiction, he needed to understand why she wasn't going to give in again. Maybe then, he'd leave her alone.

"No. Listen to me. I'm not going to sleep with you. I'm not the one you want. I won't be your plaything any longer." It was a threat she wasn't at all sure she could stick to, but she had good intentions. Maybe Drew would take the hint. Not keep after her. She was reasonably certain she wouldn't hunt
him
down and beg for sex. "Then there's the caveman attitude you've adopted."

He stopped fighting against the restraint and turned his attention to her. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the way you ordered me around today. 'Take time off. Have dinner with me. You're going to burn’," she quoted.

"Well, you were going to burn, and you needed the time off, and to eat. I don't see anything wrong with wanting to take care of you."

"I don't need you to take care of me, Drew. I'm a big girl now. I carry a gun, and I know how to use it. Don't make me use it on you."

"You wouldn't."

"I don't want to, but don't push me." His erection withered, and she knew she finally had his full attention. "We had some great sex. I won't deny that, but the operative word is
had
. It's in the past, Drew."

"It doesn't have to be." He tugged on the handcuff again. "Let me go and we'll talk about this, about us, like civilized people."

"I'm through talking." Bree walked away. If Drew continued to bellow like that, it wouldn't be any time at all before someone came to find out what all the yelling was about. She stuffed his sarong in the first trashcan she walked past, wondering how long it would take Drew to notice the house phone within his reach
—
if he stretched a bit.

****

Drew covered his junk with his free hand while his client, Richard Wolfe, freed his other hand. He'd spent half of the last twenty minutes cursing Bree Stanton, and the other half plotting his revenge. His training had finally kicked in, and he'd taken stock of his surroundings. At least the hellcat had left him within reach of a house phone.

"Fallon is bringing a sarong," Richard said.