Under the Covers (8 page)

With a hand towel clamped over her mouth and nose, Bree tried to make sense of it. One thing was certain. If Barbie owned a flower shop, this is what it would look like. She cursed the small box she'd called home for the last few months, then she cursed the person responsible for turning her little slice of hell into a pink nightmare. Drew Whitcomb.

"I'm going to kill him."

He wasn't difficult to track down. Bree simply looked for the biggest crowd she could find, and sure enough, Drew was in the middle of it. She elbowed her way to his side. Prepared to drag him away if necessary, she put a hand on his arm and tugged. His hard body didn't give an inch, but he did turn and look at her. A toothpaste-ad smile split his face when he recognized her.

"Hi there, darlin'," he said as his arm snaked around her, drawing her up against him.

She knew his strength, knew there wasn't a thing she could do to get away from him, not in a crowd anyway. Tactical error number one. She couldn't afford to make another. "Let me go, you idiot," she hissed.

"I don't think so. Did you get my flowers?"

"You know damned well I did. My cabin looks like Mother Nature barfed up Pepto-Bismol all over it, and it smells like a funeral parlor."

"What? You don't like flowers?"

"They're pink!"

"I know. It's my new favorite color." He lowered his head so his lips brushed against her ear. His breath sent a shiver down her spine, and he whispered softly so only she could hear. "It reminds me of your pussy petals. Your flower is more beautiful than any other."

His words boiled her blood. She shoved against his chest as hard as she could.

Drew only tightened his hold on her and began to nibble on her neck.

"My favorite color is red," she said. "Want to know why?"

"Why?"

The single syllable spoken against the tender spot behind her ear made her knees turn to rubber. How could he make a single syllable sound like an invitation to get naked? Drew absorbed her weight effortlessly. She sank her fingernails into the small of his back, her only defense against his seduction. She rose on tiptoe to brush her lips against his ear. She pulled his lobe between her lips and swirled her tongue around and around, sucking his flesh until she wrenched a groan from him.

"It reminds me of your blood, and how it's going to look running across the deck when I shoot you." She practically purred the words against his ear. His shoulders stiffened, and she reveled in having made her point. She felt his laugh rumbling up from somewhere deep inside his chest long before it burst from his lips.

"Oh, darlin', you do know how to turn me on." He swung her to his side like a puppeteer positioning his marionette. "Let's watch this contest. Then I'll let you try to shoot me."

Tactical error number two
—
goading Drew. Again. Bree followed his gaze to the contestants readying for competition, and her stomach sank to her toes. Tactical error number three
—
failing to gather intel before walking into a situation.

Six naked women lay side by side on padded benches, their legs spread wide. Their eager partners, five men and one woman, knelt between their legs. Oh God! She'd stumbled into the Cherry Pie Eating Contest!

Jason, the Cruise Director, stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen, let me remind you of the rules. Ladies on your backs, you may not assist in any way. Place your hands above your head and keep them there. Hips and thighs are in play, so make the most of them. Pie eaters, your hands must remain behind your back at all times. If you don't have it in your mouth, you can't use it. Just to clarify. That means tongues and teeth only. If you have anything else in your mouth, spit it out now."

The guy on the far end sheepishly spit something into his hand and handed it to one of the crew who stepped up to take it. Jason shook his head, but he didn't seem surprised that someone had tried to cheat. "Anyone else have a tongue vibrator or a mint?"

Jason's assistant went down the line, checking open mouths for banned items. His search turned up one mint-eater who was disqualified and replaced with someone chosen from the audience.

Satisfied the rules were being properly observed, Jason continued. "First one to make your partner come will be the winner. Don't stop just because I announce a winner. Prizes will be awarded for second and third place finishes." He paused for the applause to die down. "Is everyone ready? On your mark, get set…go!"

Drew's arm tightened around her waist. There was no way to escape without causing a scene, and he knew it. Bree reined in her anger and watched the competition. She could hardly hear her own thoughts over the cheering crowd. The six couples forged ahead as if winning meant not having to swim back to Miami, rather than free drinks for the next twenty-four hours. Geez, what some people would do for free booze.

Drew spoke close to her ear. "We could win this thing. Want to give it a try? There's another round after this one."

None of these people would have a chance if Drew entered the competition. Holy hell. Just thinking about his mouth on her almost made her come. He had mastered the art of cunnilingus. She squeezed her thighs tight, remembering the feel of him between her legs, tasting, sucking, nipping, driving her toward an orgasm that threatened to set the ocean on fire. These people couldn't be very good, because all the women were able to keep their hands above their heads without any restraints. If Drew hadn't chained her to Andromeda's Rock, she would have wrapped her hands around his head and held his face prisoner against her pussy. She would have taken charge, prolonged the sweet pain. But Drew had taken that away from her. She'd had no choice but to come when and how he wanted her to.

 God, what she wouldn't do for a gun right now. "Come with me."

"If you insist, darlin'." His grin and tone of voice said he'd heard more than she intended.

Bad word choice
. "Get your mind out of the gutter, sailor." She tugged on his arm again, and this time he followed her toward the back of the crowd. She couldn't lose focus. Drew was making her crazy, and she had to make him understand. She pulled him out to the open deck and away from the doors. Why he chose to let her lead him, she didn't know. Maybe he thought she wanted to discuss entering the competition.
Not in this lifetime
.

"Look, Drew," she said, halting on a deserted section of deck and turning to him.

His hands landed on her hips, pulling her up against his erection. She narrowed her eyes. Her hands had come to rest at the crook of his elbows, and she pushed him back. "Unhand me, you perv."

He neither moved nor unhanded her. "Ah, come on, darlin'. Isn't it time we kissed and made up?"

"No, it isn't. Is that thing always primed?" She glanced at the bulge rising between their pressed-together hips.

"Only when you're around." He ground against her. "I'd have sent you flowers a long time ago if I'd known it would get you back in my arms this easily."

"There's nothing easy about it, Drew."

"Sure there is. All you have to do is lie back and let me do the all the work." He grinned.

Bree groaned and pushed again. This time, he let her go. "You're a Neanderthal,” she said. “Go find someone else to play with. I'm not interested."

His grin disappeared. His gaze searched her face, then swept over her body as if checking to see if she'd morphed into someone else.

Moisture pooled between her legs at the close scrutiny.

"I'm not interested in playing, Bree. Not with you or anyone else. If you think this is a game, you're wrong."

His voice had lowered to a range that sent tingles along her spine. She imagined it was the tone he used with a terrorist, right before he went in for the kill. "I… I know you don't think it's a game, but that's all it can be. And I don't want to play anymore."

He actually growled at her. She took a step back. He commanded his section of the deck, his body a wall of granite, all hard unyielding muscle covered with bronzed satin. She was acutely aware she'd be back in his arms before she could blink if he decided that was where he wanted her. Right now, he allowed her the illusion of distance.

"I don't think you understand, Drew. I'm not staying on the
Lothario
, at least not any longer than I have to. As soon as this assignment is over, I'm gone. I'm moving on. I don't know where. All I know is, I'm not happy doing this."

She stood silently under his gaze. His face gave nothing away, a skill she needed to learn if she was going to succeed with the DIA or the CIA. Drew would make a hell of a poker player.

"What the hell are you talking about?" His bellow took her by surprise, and she jumped another step back. "Do you think I'm going to let you go?"

The world took on a red haze. Blood rushed past her ears, drowning out the rush of water against the hull, the wind, the music coming from the lounge on the deck above.

"
Let
me?" She took a step forward, then another until she was toe to toe with him. "Don't think for a minute you have any say in what I do or don't do. Just because you checked out of reality doesn't mean I'm going to. You can stay here for the rest of your life, running around in circles on this floating singles club, but I want more out of life. I want to live. I want to make a difference. Maybe you've had all that you want already. Maybe you're content to watch these stupid contests, day in and day out. Maybe you like being a glorified guard dog. But I'm sick of it. And let me make this clear. I'll even use words you understand." She poked a finger into his chest, punctuating each word by digging her fingernail into his sternum. "You. Can't. Stop. Me."

His cabin smelled like a funeral parlor. From the looks of it, Barbie was the proprietor. No wonder Bree had been pissed. His cabin was three times the size of hers, and the floral scents all mixed together were enough to turn his stomach. Or maybe that was a result of Bree's tirade on deck. She'd unwittingly gouged at the very thing that was eating him up inside.

Drew pulled a beer from the mini-fridge under his desk and moved the carnation arrangement to the floor so he could sit without pink petals in his face.

His buddy Sean seemed happy enough on dry land, using the security business they'd built together as a cover for supervising DIA operations in the Caribbean. Of course, he had Celeste with him. Once, Drew had thought he could be happy anywhere as long as he had Celeste in his bed, but one night with her had changed that. She was Sean's, and once he realized that, it had been surprisingly easy to let her go.

He still got a cramp in his gut when he thought about Celeste on her knees, offering herself to Sean, but he was pretty sure it had more to do with the whole Dom/Sub thing than her loving Sean more than she loved him.

He propped his feet on the edge of the desk and took a long drag on his beer. He liked his women willing. What man didn't? But he wasn't into domination, at least not the kind Sean was into. He liked to make a woman feel good. God, there wasn't anything more arousing than a woman in the throes of passion. The way they moved, the way they smelled, the sounds they made….

Images of Bree filled his mind and his groin grew heavy, anchoring him to the chair.
Christ
. His feet hit the floor as he tossed the empty beer can into the wastebasket. He adjusted his cock and braced his elbows on his knees. His shoulders slumped, and his neck refused to support his throbbing head. When his old boss at the DIA contacted him shortly after Celeste had made her choice, Drew didn’t think twice about going back to his old life. It didn't take a genius to figure out why his current situation felt wrong. He'd built a career on being an expert liar, but he'd never had to lie to someone who mattered. Until now.

Jesus, what was he going to do? In the last few months, he'd lost the woman he'd loved for years, he'd slunk back into the dark world of espionage, and the one woman who really mattered hated his guts. And when she found out what he was really up to, she'd kill him. He was the screw-up his father thought he was, after all.

Funny, he'd never believed it. Not really. Hell, he'd graduated Annapolis at the top of his class. He'd made it through SEAL training and paid his dues with the Navy. After that, he'd had enough of following in the old man's footsteps. Everywhere he went, he wasn't Drew Whitcomb, Navy SEAL. He was Andrew Whitcomb the Fourth, son of Admiral Whitcomb, and as such, expected to play the political game. No way was he going to spend his life in a starched uniform, stuck behind a desk at the Pentagon, playing nice with the Washington brass. He'd rather swim with sharks.