Chapter Twenty-five

“I have to think about it,” she finally said.

“Why? You either want to stay, or you don’t.”

Wasn’t that just like a man? Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead. The situation was simple to him: He was offering her a deal, and she either liked it or didn’t. But she saw the torpedoes, and she didn’t want to blow herself out of the water. What she wanted … she didn’t know exactly what she wanted, because she hadn’t thought about all the nuances and possibilities yet.

She couldn’t just say, Because I won’t sleep with my boss because she was still at sea regarding their possible relationship, period. Everything except her brain seemed to be pulling her toward him, but until her brain got onboard with the idea, she wasn’t making that move. How could she make a definite decision about something that wasn’t definite? It didn’t make sense to decide to try having a relationship with him, both emotional and physical, and at the same time decide on a business deal that, if she refused it, would take her away from him, but if she took the deal it would make it impossible to have a relationship … she was confusing herself trying to think about it. The two couldn’t mix, but neither could they be separated.

“Well?” he demanded. “Do you want to stay?”

“Don’t rush me, okay? It isn’t as if you know for certain you’ll be able to get a bank loan, and”—she waved her hand around, indicating the cabin—“there’s nothing we can do right now, anyway. We’re stuck here, so there’s no rush.”

“But if you decide, then we could start working out details.”

“I don’t want to start working out details, I want to take my time so I don’t make any mistakes!” she said impatiently. “God, what rank did you have in the army, chief nagger?”

“The army doesn’t have chiefs. That’s the navy.” But his mouth quirked in a little smile, and he settled his shoulders more comfortably against the wall. “And I was an E-seven.”

“Which translates into English as …?”

“Sergeant first class.”

She didn’t know anything about military rank, beyond the basic enlisted and officer ranks. “Am I impressed?” she asked warily.

He gave his stifled, sand-papery laugh. “Not really. A sergeant is like an office manager who makes the vice president look good, but catches all the shit when things go wrong. The only difference is, in the army there are weapons and explosives and other interesting shit to help make up for the paperwork. My main job was training lieutenants.”

She had the feeling he was understating what he’d done, otherwise he wouldn’t have those shrapnel wounds. “You have to train an officer?”

“Like any other newbie in any other job. They come in, they’re young, they don’t have any experience, haven’t seen combat, and they make stupid decisions. The smart ones listen to the sergeants. If we’re lucky, the stupid-ass ones decide they don’t really want a career in the military and get out, before they either end up dead or cause a lot of other people to die.”

Angie had gone her entire life without thinking about life in the military, but abruptly she found herself trying to imagine what it was like. She wanted to know what he’d done, how he’d filled his days, the friends he’d made. She wanted to know how he’d been hurt, but didn’t want to ask. The sharp turnabout in their relationship wasn’t even thirty-six hours old yet. Granted, a lot had been packed into those hours, but some things, such as personal questions, still took time.

“Did you like it? Being in the army, I mean.”

“I had a lot of fun. Good times, bad times.” He tilted his head back, his eyes half-closed as he revisited memories. “There are guys I served with who’ll be my friends until the day I die. But I never meant to make a fucking career of it. When I enlisted, I thought ten years max. I’d get a college degree, see something of the world.” He gave his rough, stifled chuckle. “I did that, all right. But after my last encounter with sharp metallic objects, I reassessed my position. I’d already been in five years longer than I’d planned. So I got out.”

He’d brought the subject up, so Angie felt perfectly justified in pursuing it. “Is that when you got the wound on your throat?”

“Yeah. For the first couple of weeks I couldn’t talk, but that was because of swelling. The docs had told me I’d be okay, so I didn’t sweat it. It was frustrating as hell, though. After I got my voice back, it was hoarse, but shit, if that’s the worst thing that ever happens to me in my life, I’m one lucky son of a bitch.”

She rolled her head sideways to smile at him. “I bet it was a real strain on your nervous system, not being able to swear.”

“Damn near drove me nucking futs.” He looked completely raffish and so masculine he made her hurt inside, with that black stubble on his face and those wicked blue eyes glinting at her, his mouth curled in a smirk.

She burst out laughing. She’d thought he was so dour and grumpy, but he was proving to have a side to him that really appealed to her own sense of humor. He considered her for a moment, then looped his arm around her neck and pulled her in, his mouth closing over hers, stopping the laughter.

Angie couldn’t help it. She kissed him back. Kissing was like anything else; after you’ve done it once, doing it again became easier. She put her hand on his bristly jaw and let herself savor the taste of him, the pressure of those firm lips, the undeniable surge of excitement when he made a low, rough sound in the back of his throat and abruptly deepened the kiss, changing the angle of his head so that she found herself giving way, sinking back. His arms cradled her, supported her, then his heavy weight settled in place on top of her and all she could do was cradle him in turn, her arms and legs opening to accept and hold him.

The weight of a man on her … she had enjoyed that, missed it. She slid her hand up the back of his neck, her fingers sliding into his hair as she clasped the back of his skull. Still, she felt compelled to free her lips long enough to warn, “Just because I’m kissing you doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex with you.”

He lifted his head a little. Blue eyes glinted down at her, heavy-lidded with sexual intent. “Yet,” he replied, and she let the word stand unchallenged.

He gripped her hip, his fingers tightening, then relaxing and gently massaging before sliding up her side, under her shirt. Almost before she knew it his big warm hand was closing over her breast, his palm rough against the exquisite sensitivity of her nipple. She felt a moment of anxiety because her boobs were so small, but then his eyelids lowered even more and he made that rough humming sound again, the one she was coming to associate with pure pleasure, and with one swift motion he jerked her shirt up and dipped his head to her breasts.

There was a dizzying split-second of combined surprise and anticipation, then his mouth, hot and wet, closed over her nipple. His tongue swirled around the nub, lightly, gently, making it harden and extend. Pleasure spread through her, pleasure that made her abdominal muscles contract, made her skin feel electrified. With his lips and tongue and teeth he played with her, moving his attention to the other nipple while his fingers gently kneaded. Then he pressed her nipple against the roof of his mouth and sucked hard; she clutched at him, bucking under the lash of excitement and desire. He bore down on her, controlling her with his weight; she could feel his tongue rhythmically working the extended bud, the suction of his mouth pulling at her and sparking an echo of the same sensation between her legs, deep inside her.

He lifted his head, the expression in his eyes fierce, hot, his mouth set in a sensually ruthless line. “More?” he asked hoarsely.

Instantly she realized what he was doing. Making love was like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining speed and momentum and inevitability. If he hadn’t stopped right now, this very minute, likely they wouldn’t. He could have continued, seducing her with pleasure, and made love to her without a single word of protest from her, which embarrassed her considering how firmly she’d told him she wasn’t going to have sex. But he wasn’t going to allow her to get cold feet afterward and claim he’d rushed her, not given her time to think. He was forcing her to be with him every step of the way. She didn’t know whether to be pissed that he thought she might be such a coward as that, or grateful that he was giving her this chance to slow things down.

Both.

She took a deep breath, only a little comforted that his own breathing was harder and faster than usual. “No, I think this is as far as we should go,” she said. “Thank you. Asshole.”

He levered himself to the side but remained propped on his elbow, leaning over her. His expression took on a slight smugness. “Feeling a little tempted, huh?” he asked, lightly tracing her lips with one fingertip.

Denying it would only make her a liar. “Enjoying kissing you doesn’t make the issues go away.”

“Exactly what issues are we talking about? Everything looks pretty cut and dried to me. You either like me or you don’t—on the evidence, I’d say you do—and you either want to stay here or you don’t.”

“You’d be my boss,” she pointed out.

“I don’t think that would stop you from telling me off if you thought I needed it.” His tone was wry. Then his gaze sharpened. “Are you saying you think I’d use that to pressure you into sleeping with me?”

“No, I’m thinking more what it would say about me if I slept with the boss.” She scowled up at him. “And that would mean I’d decided to sleep with you, which I haven’t, so you can see why I need to think this out.”

He fell over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “God save me from a woman’s way of thinking. What the hell kind of logic is that? One has nothing to do with the other.”

“Maybe not to you, but let’s face it, you’re plankton, and I’m a higher life form. Details matter to me.”

His lips quirked and, without turning his head, he cut his gaze to her. Sounding a tad disgruntled, he said, “Plankton?”

“Maybe algae.”

“How about a fucking amoeba?”

“Amoebas don’t fuck, they just divide.”

“Hummph.” He made a growly noise and lay there looking annoyed. “That would be me, then, because evidently I don’t fuck, either.”

Angie turned onto her side facing him, smiling. Lying here like this with him was way, way too intimate, but in a completely unexpected way just talking with him was even more enticing. He was funny and sexy, grumpy and profane, and she didn’t think she’d ever get bored listening to him. “Not right now, anyway. So, ruling out getting naked, what are we going to do all day? Did you bring any books with you? Cards? You weren’t planning to sit up here for a week with nothing to entertain yourself, I hope?”

“I have books and cards, and my iPod. You just said I was algae. What makes you think you’re going to get your hands on either one?”

“Your sense of fair play.”

“You’re way fucking off-base there. I play to win.”

“Wouldn’t that be ‘fay wucking’?”

“Never heard of her.”

He made her beg for the books, but he wasn’t serious so she didn’t mind. Then he pulled the books from his saddlebags and she could have hit him, because if she’d known what they were beforehand she definitely wouldn’t have begged. One was an extremely dry and technical book on custom-loading your own shells, and the other was a geological study of the earth’s tectonic plates. She gave him an appalled look. “Couldn’t you at least have some popular fiction?”

“I do, but it’s at home. I figure the only way I’ll read this shit is if I don’t have anything else to read, so this was the perfect time.”

She laughed and put the books aside, picked up the deck of cards. “What do you want to play? Blackjack, Texas Hold ’em, rummy?”

“Not rummy. That’s a sissy-ass game.”

“Ah ha. That means you’re afraid I’ll kick your ass at rummy, so you don’t want to play it.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You think?” He moved so he was sitting cross-legged on the mattress, facing her. “Game on, Powell.”

She should have remembered his years in the military. He played rummy as ruthlessly as if it were war, but she was pretty good herself, if she did say so, and once she realized how good he was she buckled down, concentrated, and won two out of four. He wanted to go for a tie-breaker, of course, but she refused. “What good is that? If you beat me, you’ll crow about it, and that would lower my opinion of you. If I win, you’ll pout, and that’ll lower my opinion of you. Trust me, you won’t come out looking good no matter what happens.”

He chuckled as he shuffled and dealt. “You hate losing, don’t you?”

“Like poison.”

“Good to know. So when we fight, I should let you win at least half the time?”

“Let me win?” she posed delicately, her tone light but her eyebrows drawing to a point over her nose.

“You’ll never know, will you?” He gave her that smug smirk and began dealing out the cards. “Texas Hold ’em. What’s the bet?”

“Bet? We’re playing for funsies.”

He stopped dealing. “I don’t play for fucking funsies. Cards are serious.”

“You just played rummy for fun.”

“No, I played rummy to prove to you I could beat you at it.”

“Is everything a contest to you?”

“I’m a man. Even pissing is a contest.”

The easy bantering continued over several games of Texas Hold ’em—he was definitely better at that game than she was—then they moved on to blackjack. They got tired of playing cards after a while, and with a sigh of resignation she picked up the book on loading her own ammunition and began reading; at least that was some information she might one day be able to use, while she was certain she’d never be able to influence tectonic plates one way or the other. Dare didn’t fuss about her choice, just picked up the other book, moved the lantern so they both had sufficient light, and settled back with his legs stretched out.

The day was slow and lazy. There was chilly gray rain outside, companionship and laughter and an underlying sexual attraction inside. After reading a while she got drowsy, so she stretched out and took a nap, feeling relaxed and safe. When she woke, they each had soup and a protein bar for lunch.

He went down the ladder without explanation and out into the rain, then came back up the ladder carefully holding the bucket, which was three-quarters full of water.

“If you can get your foot in this bucket, it may be too late, but the cold water might help the swelling a little and soreness in your ankle.”

Angie unwrapped her ankle, folded up the hem of her jeans, and eased her foot into the water. She hissed as she lowered her foot into the bucket; the water wasn’t icy, but it was close. Because the bucket narrowed at the bottom she couldn’t just set her foot into it, but by carefully bending her toes she managed to get the water over her ankle. “How did you collect this much water so fast?” The rain had slacked off enough that no way was it coming down hard enough to fill this bucket this much.

“I set the bucket so it caught what’s coming off the roof. I did that thinking about getting water for washing up tonight, but then it occurred to me you could be soaking that ankle. There’ll be time enough to catch more fresh water for later.” While she soaked her ankle, he settled down again with the evidently fascinating subject of plate tectonics.

She propped her chin on her knee, watching the way he furrowed his brow as he read, liking that he sometimes turned the book sideways to look at charts and maps. She wouldn’t have figured him for a reader, but then what had she really known about him? She’d resented him so much, been so angry, that she hadn’t let herself see him as anything other than a thorn in her side.

Oh, she’d known from the beginning—those damn butterflies were a dead giveaway—that on a sexual basis she was deeply affected by him, which was why she’d given him such a wide berth. But she hadn’t known that he could make her laugh. She hadn’t known that just being with him would give her this sense of comfort, of lightness, as if things that had weighed her down were no longer quite as heavy.

Did she love him? She didn’t trust the suddenness of her emotional flip-flop—if it was indeed a flip-flop, considering the presence of the butterflies. Still, she couldn’t make a decision like that based on roughly thirty-six hours of close acquaintance, no matter how momentous those thirty-six hours had been, or that she’d spent about half that time sleeping in his arms. Survival had forged lifelong bonds between them, so she understood exactly what he meant about having friends in the army who would be his friends until the day he died. She felt the same about him, now.

“Why’re you looking at me that way?” he asked absently, proving that no matter how absorbed he seemed to be in something, he was still aware of his surroundings.

“Thinking.”

“Reached any decisions yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I could shave,” he offered.

“Wouldn’t matter.”

“Good, because I’d have to use my knife. I didn’t bring a razor on this trip.”

And there it was again, the smile that wasn’t just on her face, but in her heart.