Subject: Navy SEAL Gray Jackson

Objective: Stay on mission. And out of her bed.

Surgeon Laney Parker is on her honeymoon. Alone. Without her cheating fiancé, she’s enjoying her nonrefundable “vacation” at Fantasy Island, an exotic resort filled with lush greenery, white beaches and staff who apparently grant every sexual request. Including an unbearably hot massage therapist whose touch turns Laney to molten lava...

Laney has no idea that Gray Jackson is actually an undercover Navy SEAL who’s supposed to keep his hands off. Or that Gray wants to take total control. To give Laney just what she—hell, what they both need. Gray can grant her every erotic wish, just as long as he keeps his cover. And just as long as their sexy little tease doesn’t go beyond the week...

“I’m going to kiss you soon...”

Gray’s words were a statement of intent and not a request. Laney’s body sure noticed the difference. Gray wasn’t taking her anywhere. Not only was he bossy and domineering, but he knew it and he wasn’t making any excuses for it. She shouldn’t have been so turned on by it, but...she was.

Oh, God. Was she ever. With Gray, she wouldn’t have to give directions or look after her own orgasm. He was dangerous.

She sucked in a breath and angled a little bit closer, until her thighs bumped against his. She could do this. Be sexy and bold and fun. “How about now?”

“I can do that.” His thumb stroked over her lower lip. Good, she decided. But not enough.

She fisted the front of his T-shirt, inching him closer. “Do it.”

Before I lose my courage.

He grinned.

“Your wish is my command...”

Dear Reader,

Fantasies are one of my favorite things to explore. Part of that, of course, is me daydreaming (even if my husband isn’t convinced that staring out the window is a valuable research tool). Everyone has fantasies—it’s just that some of us don’t find it easy to ask for what we want, particularly in bed. But...what if there was an easier way to whisper a fantasy to a lover? A sexy, fun and flirty way?

When Laney Parker visits Fantasy Island, a very exclusive private Caribbean island resort, she learns that the resort’s guests have a shorthand code for sharing their sexual fantasies. The resort’s cocktail menu is a list of sexy drink names—choose a drink and you choose your fantasy. Sex on the Beach, All Night Long, Between the Sheets, Blue Negligee. Some names are raunchy; some are sweeter and less blush-inducing (if no less fun). When Laney meets Gray Jackson, our hero, she suddenly sees the appeal of picking a fantasy from a menu because there are all sorts of things she’d like to try with him.

As a trauma surgeon, Laney is used to being in control of every facet of her life. She’s disciplined, mentally strong and good at giving orders. What she doesn’t know is how to let go. Gray Jackson, the leader of the undercover SEAL team that has infiltrated Fantasy Island in order to take down a dangerous drug lord, is just the man to tease her into giving up some of that control. He has a few fantasies of his own, and soon he and Laney are burning up the sheets together.

I hope you enjoy their story. If you want to chat with me about this or other books, you can find me on Twitter and Facebook.

Happy reading!

Anne Marsh

Teasing Her SEAL
Anne Marsh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANNE MARSH writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in Northern California with her family and six cats.

This one’s for Gwen Hayes. Honestly, all books should be for her because she rocks. Awesome writer. Amazing editor. Hilarious Tweet-er, thinker-upper of sekkrit book projects and exercise raconteur. Thanks for sharing the writing journey with me.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Extract

Copyright

1

“HUNGRY?” THE DANCER gyrating in front of Lieutenant Commander Gray Jackson’s table wasn’t pushing burgers or chicken wings. She ran a hand down her body, highlighting various edible spots. Her costume—or lack thereof, because she rocked a barely there thong and a pair of four-inch Lucite heels—offered plenty to look at. It was a sad commentary on the state of Gray’s sex life, however, that the skin show left him unmoved, without so much as a twitch from the boys.

“Darling, I’m always ready to eat.” He ponied up the teasing words automatically, because his cover as a bad-boy biker required acting like a jerk. When he didn’t follow up with a cash offer, the blonde pouted and moved on to the next table. Too bad, so sad.

The Born To Ride was a seedy dive bar popular with motorcycle gangs. On a mission to infiltrate the outlaw biker gang M-Breed and shut down their arms pipeline, Gray’s squad had been deep undercover as potential recruits for the past six months. It was a scene Gray recognized all too well from his wilder, younger years. Dancers shimmied up and down poles on a raised platform to the banging pulse of the music, while the patrons knocked back beers and shots, broken up by the occasional bar fight or game of pool. This was not the kind of place a man took a date. The men here were interested in three things: drinking, drugs and dealing. Sex, when it happened, was quick, rough and accomplished in the alley or the bathroom stall. They were also, by and large, ex-military and patch-wearing members of M-Breed.

Gray fit right in, and only partly because he’d grown up tough and fighting. He’d ridden from an early age, joining a local biker gang with his cousins and chewing up the highway whenever he could fill a tank. He’d done more than his fair share of juvenile law-breaking and, if he hadn’t enlisted in the US Navy when one of his cousins had, he’d have most likely ended up here, anyhow. Instead, he was a SEAL and active-duty military. If tonight’s mission went well, they’d finally have M-Breed’s lieutenants selling arms on tape. Lights out, show over, go directly to federal prison and serve ten to twenty. Both of the guys at Gray’s table tonight were members of his team. Levi Brandon and Mason Black had his back and his six. Outside and down the street, Sam Nale and Remy Leveaux worked the tech detail, monitoring the wires Gray, Levi and Mason wore.

A fistfight broke out in a far corner of the bar, but the ruckus barely merited a second glance. If trouble headed in Gray’s direction, the Glock tucked in his waistband had him covered. And, when he ran out of bullets, he had a pair of knives down his motorcycle boots and a length of chain in his jacket pocket. Add to that his two hands, and he didn’t need more to kick ass in a fight. God, he hoped there was a fight tonight. He had energy to burn and then some. Fight for Uncle Sam, bust some heads in the names of freedom and democracy. He loved his job.

“Aww, I think you broke her heart,” Levi drawled, eyeing the dancer’s butt as she worked a new table.

“That’s the way it goes.”

Levi flipped Gray the bird, but the man was grinning, so his tender feelings were just fine. Unlike Gray. He had no idea when his sex drive had hung a left and disappeared, but casual sex left him cold now. The empty beer bottles lined up in front of him were as much window-dressing as the interest he’d briefly feigned in the female shimmying and shaking her way over to him. Which was kind of a shame. Two years ago he’d have enjoyed the attention, but now he was dead inside.

Mason tapped the table. “Company manners, boys. Our date just walked in the front door. He’s not a pretty bitch, but then, neither are we.”

Gray checked out the door and, sure enough, it was showtime. Spokes, M-Breed’s second lieutenant, sauntered toward the bar, towing a petite blonde in his wake. The blonde was his old lady and Friday-night bar accessory, although how a crusty fifty-year-old man like Spokes had scored this fetching twentysomething was debatable. Cash or drugs—Gray would have laid money on one or both as the culprits. Spokes had gotten his name after stabbing a guy with a handful of motorcycle spokes in a chop shop. He’d done five years on a manslaughter rap before rejoining the gang. He was a mean bastard who preferred fists to words, as the rainbow of bruises on his old lady’s arms attested.

Emily. Her name was Emily. Gray would damn well use her name, rather than the label that marked her as belonging to Spokes.

Spokes might not be parting with Emily, but he had agreed to sell Gray a trunkload of high-caliber automatic weaponry for bargain-basement pricing. AK-47s weren’t the kind of firearms that should be available on the street, although Spokes clearly didn’t give a crap about where his guns ended up.

“You want me to see if I can detach Spokes’s arm candy?”

The fourth member of Gray’s undercover team, Ashley Dixon, wasn’t actually a SEAL—since the SEALs had yet to induct a female member. She’d been borrowed from the DEA to provide mission-critical cover, pretending to be Levi’s girlfriend. She perched on the man’s knee as if he were a chair, a skintight minidress skimming the tops of her thighs.

Gray’s phone vibrated before he could answer Ashley, and he automatically pulled it out, checking the screen. Around him, Levi and Mason did the same. Yeah. From the disbelieving looks on their faces, he knew their phones were also flashing the code word to pull out. What. The. Hell?

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Maybe the alcohol fumes had finally done a number on his brain.

Levi nodded, looking pissed off. “We need to roll.”

Fine. He’d fall back, but first he had a detour to make. “Detach Spokes’s girlfriend. Get her out on the dance floor.”

Ashley slid off Levi’s lap. “I’ve got this.”

Busy pounding tequila shots, Spokes didn’t object when Ashley tugged the man’s lady out onto the dance floor. Ashley bumped and spun, the hem of her cocktail dress inching its way up her muscled thighs. She dipped and worked her hips in an exaggerated shimmy, and her companion flashed a smile and followed suit. Ashley looked happy, and Gray didn’t think it was an act. She enjoyed dancing and so she was seizing the moment. The awkward bump of her butt against her companion’s had them both laughing.

Levi watched the pair, a frown on his face. “Where do you think she learned to dance like that?”

“Not at Saturday ballet class.” She demonstrated a serious lack of rhythm and finesse, but her enthusiasm was contagious. Ashley had a life outside the DEA and her undercover work. He, on the other hand, was a SEAL. End of story. If he ever walked away from his team, he was nothing. A big, blank page of nothing. He didn’t have any family he’d stayed in contact with, which he could only partially blame on his work for the government. Sure, he couldn’t share the details—or anything much at all—about the covert missions, but he also hadn’t tried.

Since his inner shrink had apparently decided to work overtime, he could admit that he was hollow inside, carting around a crater-sized hole that couldn’t be filled by gunfights or the adrenaline rush of nailing a dangerous assignment. He’d tried the bar scene and the fight clubs, but the alcohol left him with a hangover, and the fight clubs gave him two broken ribs. Neither were long-term options, and at least he’d been smart enough to recognize that truth. Now he ran on empty. No love, no faith in anything but his guns and his guys, nothing to look forward to but the next time he shipped out and the next firefight.

Speaking of which, it was time to get this show on the road. Shoving to his feet, he headed toward the dance floor. His guys fell in behind him, ready to hump their asses onto a plane, fly down to Central America and take care of whatever it was that needed doing there. They were real fucking Musketeers, and that was the truth. They’d have his back, even on the dance floor, where way too many bodies did the bump and grind. Some of the dancers were pretty, others were not. He knew which category he fell into, although his face didn’t stop hands and thighs from touching him in a way that was pure invitation. He was big. He had money. And in the world of the motorcycle gang, that put him at the top of the food chain until someone else knocked him down.

“Ladies.” He inclined his head as he joined the dancing duo, and Ashley pulled him into her circle of two. Spokes’s girlfriend gave him a quick once-over, looking nervous, and darted a glance over her shoulder. Spokes must not have protested, because she stayed put. They danced silently for a moment, the music pulsing around them and vibrating through the soles of his boots, and he almost got why Ashley liked this.

The bruises on the blonde’s arms, however, were even more disturbing close-up. His own relationships might not last longer than a night, and he might need his sex raw and gritty, but hurting his partner was off-limits. No exceptions. Whether or not the US Government had enough to put the scumbag away for a few decades, the lady needed a breather. Unfortunately, while her tired eyes flitted between him and the man waiting for her at the bar, she showed no signs of heading for the door.

He put his mouth right up by her ear, making sure she had no excuse to not hear him over the pounding beat of the bar music. “Emily, you need to pick up and get the hell away from Spokes.”

Maybe she tweaked or maybe Spokes’s cash spoke louder than the man’s charming personality. Either way, breaking Spokes’s nose wouldn’t get her to the door if she didn’t want to leave. A woman had to want to walk, and she also had to be ready. He’d learned that firsthand when he’d been six. The trailer park where he’d grown up hadn’t been big on personal space or privacy. When a man and a woman fought, the neighbors heard every word, every grunt, every slap of flesh on flesh. He slipped Emily a wad of cash. Money wasn’t enough, but it was a start. She’d have to do the rest of the work herself. After a moment, she nodded and laid in a new course for the side door. With the cash, she’d have a chance, but only if she kept on walking and didn’t return home where Spokes could find her.

Still, it was hard to turn away, towing Ashley with him as if he’d busted up the dance circle simply to collect her. It helped some that all hell broke loose behind them as two of the bar’s patrons got into a fistfight that rapidly escalated to criminal property damage and felony assault and battery. He’d given up pretending that he minded the violence. Because truth was, violence came with the territory, and his team had ended more than one mission that way.

The Harleys he and his boys had parked outside were, hands down, the best perk of this particular mission, especially since it looked as if they wouldn’t be taking Spokes down any other way tonight. Ashley had complained loud and long that she hadn’t scored a bike of her own, but an independent ride didn’t fit the biker girlfriend image.

Mason turned the ignition switch on and shifted his bike into neutral. “Where we headed?”

Gray rechecked his phone. “I’ve got one word for you. Belize.”

“What’s in Belize?” Levi kicked the starter hard, his bike firing to life.

It was a good question. Up until five minutes ago, Gray would have answered jungle, scrubland, historic ruins and some damned good fly-fishing. He might even have fantasized once or twice about buying a piece of land on one of those little sandy cays and putting up a house. Sitting out in all that blue, casting a line. He sighed. Whatever undercover op Uncle Sam needed them for now, it sure wouldn’t involve a cold one and a fishing lure.

“Our next op. We’re going undercover as resort staff at some place called Fantasy Island.” He gunned the bike toward the highway. Another night, another mission, even if this one came with blue water and palm trees. Yeah. The odds of him passing as the employee of a five-star resort seemed low, but he went where he was sent, and he’d do what it took to get the job done. He’d never blown his cover yet.

Hooyah.

* * *

THE SEAPLANE LURCHED, and Laney Parker dug her nails out of her armrest. When she risked a glance out the window, she spotted nothing but Caribbean blue beneath them, the ocean’s flat surface dotted with shadows from the clouds. The view was pretty, but missing any kind of landing zone whatsoever. She’d triaged a small plane crash her first year in the UCSF emergency room, and the injuries had been particularly horrific.

The plane bounced again, and she immediately reattached herself to the armrest. Although the odds of dying in a plane crash were low, it hadn’t been her week for playing the odds. Her stomach rose halfway up her throat. She’d pass on the meet-and-greet with the ocean’s surface. Leaning forward, she riffled through the seat pocket contents. The charter airline had stocked up on glossy magazines, but skimped on the barf bags. For the ridiculous price tag this week in the tropics had cost, she’d use the magazines if she had to. What was supposed to be a week of glamorous sex with her new husband by her side was most definitely not turning out as planned. Still, when the plane leveled out, she exhaled slowly. Maybe surviving the landing was in the cards, after all.

The sound of a cork popping and champagne fizzing had her head turning in time to catch the flash of a long-necked bottle out of the corner of her eye. Frankly, she wasn’t sure how anyone could think of drinking so early in the morning—although it was definitely five o’clock somewhere. The woman who dropped into the seat opposite her, however, didn’t look as if she cared about what the rest of the world thought. Ever. It was a good look, and one Laney needed to emulate. Screw it. That was her new motto, and she’d buy the T-shirt just as soon as she could.

Maybe Fantasy Island had a gift shop.

The woman had ink-black hair and an ear full of piercings that must have given the TSA fits. She’d paired the metal-head look with jeans, a ripped concert T-shirt from a band Laney had never heard of and a pair of military-issue combat boots. An audible, fist-pumping beat issued from her earbuds. Laney, on the other hand, sported her usual yoga wear from Target in practical black. Dark colors didn’t show the blood, and since as a trauma surgeon, she tended to get called in whenever she wasn’t actually already at the hospital, there was no point in not being comfortable or racking up a dry cleaning bill. In fact, now that she thought about it, her yoga pants were just about the only thing she owned that weren’t hospital-blue or wedding-white.

Right. So not going there.

Champagne dripped onto the carpet as her new seatmate brandished a trio of flutes. Amusement sparkled in her eyes as she popped the earbuds out.

“Want some?”

Ten o’clock in the morning, Laney’s brain volunteered. Wouldn’t be prudent. Sure, partaking would be fun, but the careful habits of a lifetime were awfully hard to break.

Her hostess jiggled the bottle. “It’s free.”

Nothing was free. As Laney’s credit card company had called to remind her yesterday.

“You look as if you could use a drink.” Goth Princess leaned forward, revealing that she’d skipped a bra that morning. When she reached over to offer a flute to the third woman in the cabin, she followed the boob shoot with a flash of neon-green thong, which was way more than Laney needed to know about the woman’s preferences in the underwear department.

“I’m good,” she said.

Which was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

When Laney didn’t take the flute, the other woman curled up in her seat and grinned. “Two for me. Yay.”

“If we’re experiencing turbulence, you should probably buckle up.” PSA...achieved.

Goth Princess shrugged and knocked back half the flute. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Laney knew exactly what could happen. “Fractures, head trauma, a snapped spine—all are likely outcomes of a hard-impact crash landing. If we hit something besides water, add road rash and possible burns to the list.”

“Wow.” Goth Princess nodded but didn’t lose her death grip on the bottle. Instead, she propped the buckle against her stomach, ramming the clasp in with her elbow. “Good points.”

Message received. Safety and champagne were an option. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind...”

Reaching over, Laney snagged the second flute. She was probably performing a second public service because she had no doubts whatsoever that Goth Princess would drink both. And, since the other woman clearly weighed some minuscule, waifish amount—unlike Laney—she’d be drunk before the seaplane ever landed. Or crashed. Whichever came first. Laney swallowed a sip of champagne reflexively. She should have been a married woman by now, but her fiancé had kicked the week off by cheating on her. On day two, she’d negotiated with the wedding venues—and been forcibly reminded of the meaning of nonrefundable deposit. On day three, her credit card company had called to not-so-gently remind her that they appreciated prompt payments, and her upcoming vacation to Fantasy Island had overextended her credit limit. Day four? No more job.

Not working double shifts in the trauma bay should have allowed her to finally catch up on her sleep, but her head wouldn’t stop running options to address days one, two and three. She hadn’t even processed the unfairness of being the one who had to give up her job because her fiancé had been caught having sex at work with another woman—and her continued presence at the hospital would make him feel uncomfortable—because that needed to happen on a beach while clutching a Mai Tai. Plus, since even God had rested on the seventh day, she was really hoping today would go better.

“So.” The cabin’s only other occupant leaned around her seat to take them both in. Laney had no idea where the redhead had found a pink suit, but instead of screaming board of trustees or clash worthy of a circus clown, the cinched-in jacket with a ruffle promised fun and sassy. Or maybe that was the spray of freckles covering the woman’s nose. “Spill. What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my honeymoon.”

She swigged more champagne. Huh. Somehow, she’d reached the bottom of the glass, which didn’t even have the decency to be half-full. Goth Princess leaned forward and obligingly topped her off, temporarily fixing the problem.

Pink Suit blinked and eyeballed the cabin. The three of them were the only passengers. “Lose someone?”

That was one way to put it.

“He decided getting married wasn’t in his plans. Since our tickets to Fantasy Island were nonrefundable and he preceded his antimarriage announcement in front of the entire surgical unit with cheating on me, here I am. Laney Parker, MD. Unemployed, newly single and extremely broke.”

The movers had taken her pitifully few boxes from his condo straight to storage. She’d deal with permanent relocation when she got back.

“That’s harsh.” Goth Princess stuck her free hand out. “I’m Ashley Dixon. I won a free ticket. Sorry.”

Laney shook the woman’s hand, the plane promptly lurched and champagne went everywhere. Hell. Wiping her palm on the superexpensive leather seats was probably a social faux pas, but it was that or her twelve-dollar yoga pants. Ashley licked her champagne-covered fingers. “Even better than spitting and swearing to be blood sisters.”

“Gross.” Pink Suit extended her own hand, displaying a really pretty French manicure, but no rings. “Madeline Holmes. I write a wedding blog.”

Free ticket. Gainfully employed. Yep. Laney had definitely drawn the short straw.

“I need snacks.” The champagne suddenly hit her empty stomach like a Mack truck barreling into a freeway retaining wall, the results of which she’d seen firsthand last week and which were decidedly unpleasant. She unbuckled and stood up. Never mind the possibility of blunt trauma injuries in the immediate future—she needed something salty. Now. Madeline grinned. “What happened to snapped spines and bashed-in heads?”

“I’m hungry. And really bad turbulence would bounce you hard enough in your seat to fracture your spine, anyhow. Or you’d slam your head back into the headrest.”

Ashley blinked. “Wow. Thanks for the visual.”

“You try working six days a week in a trauma bay in San Francisco.” She’d stopped sugarcoating approximately three hours into her first day on the job. She walked down the narrow aisle toward what looked like a small galley. Beneath the elegant granite counter was a stainless-steel fridge. She yanked open the door, leaving behind a sticky smear of champagne, and hit the mother lode. The seaplane folks had stashed an entire tray of chocolate-covered strawberries inside the fridge. Something salty would have been better, but who could pass up chocolate fruit? Plus, maybe if she ate her weight in treats, she’d feel better about the credit card bill.

“What kind of doctor?” Madeline asked at the same moment that Ashley yelled “Share!”

“Trauma surgeon.” Gunshot wounds, stabbings, freeway car pile-ups...she had seen plenty of action.

Her cases were unlike the small regional hospital in the Midwest where her mother worked, or the slightly larger, but not much busier hospital in Stockton, California, that had an unexpected need for a good ER surgeon. Of course, her mother had also come through for her, and she appreciated the offer letter tucked in the bottom of her bag. Really. All she had to do was sign on the dotted line and she’d be gainfully employed again. In the middle of nowhere.

She could sign after her honeymoon. Vacation. Whatever.

Right now her token gesture to playing it safe was to return to her seat and buckle up. “Well, Madeline and Ashley, what brings you out to Fantasy Island?”

Madeline had the grace to look apologetic as she reached forward and snatched a strawberry from the tray Laney held. “Just me, myself and I. No guy in sight for me, but since I blog about honeymoons, here I am. From what I’ve heard, the brochures don’t begin to do this place justice.”

Madeline toasted her with the flute, and then they both turned and stared at Ashley, who stared back and actually blushed. Laney got the feeling that was a red-letter day.

“Okay,” Ashley groused. “I’m flying solo, too. I won a vacation for two and there’s no boyfriend, fiancé or husband on my horizon.”

Madeline lifted her glass solemnly. “Your secret’s safe with me. That’s more than I’ve got. Guys look at me and assume I’m holding out for a white picket fence and a ten-carat diamond. Just once, I’d like to have hot, kinky sex. Not every guy has to be a keeper.”

The pilot came on the intercom to announce their imminent arrival. Seconds later the plane banked, and a small island swung into view on the right side. The first thing Laney noticed was the impossible quantity of palm trees—surrounding an impossibly teeny-tiny runway. The ocean flashed outside her window, a light aqua blue dotted with the darker shadows of coral reefs. So far, Fantasy Island was even prettier than its pictures. Laney couldn’t wait to see her private villa and check out the two-plus miles of white sand beach.

Madeline leaned forward. “Do you think it’s true, what they say about the cocktail menu?” She laughed at the look on Laney’s face. “That it’s not really a drinks selection. It’s a list of fantasies. Point and pick. That’s all you have to do.”

“They can do that?” According to the sleek marketing brochure Laney had read, Fantasy Island advertised itself as a small slice of paradise in the Caribbean Sea—and the perfect place for a honeymoon or a destination wedding. Renowned for barefoot luxury and discreet hedonism, the staff’s mantra was “Pure decadent pleasure.” Any wish. Any desire. If she’d read between the lines correctly, no sensual fantasy or pleasure was off-limits for the well-trained staff that catered to guests’ needs. At the time, that had seemed fairly adventurous, but she’d been thinking in terms of beach massages and sex on the sand with her new husband.

Apparently, she needed to broaden her horizons. Live a little. Blah blah blah.

It was some consolation that Ashley looked as shocked as Laney felt. Or not. Because, as the seaplane started a rapid dip and glide toward the island, the other woman grinned, and there was no mistaking the look of glee on her face. “This is going to be awesome.”

Laney double-checked her seat belt and wondered, not for the first time, why Harlan had picked this particular locale for their honeymoon. He’d been a grade-A asshole, but maybe the man hadn’t been as clueless about their bedroom fun times as she’d believed. Maybe he’d had fantasies and she’d not been enough. Well, screw that. This time the only fantasies that mattered were her own.

2

ON A GOOD DAY, Laney saved at least five lives by noon. Her numbers dipped during the slower weeks, because not all days were a constant rush-rush of heart attacks, gunshot wounds and four-car freeway pileups. San Francisco traffic made the Autobahn look tame, and the off-ramps at Balboa Park alone had ambulances pulling into the bay on a semimonthly basis. Instead of scrubbing in, arms up as she hip-checked her way through the surgery door, however, now she was...naked.

Absolutely butt-naked and stretched out, waiting for a man to come and run his hands over her body.

Usually, naked was cause for celebration, except for the inescapable fact that she was all alone in a cabana with the same grade-A ocean views that had greeted her plane yesterday. Her surroundings included miles of powdery white sand, dotted with palm trees, and nothing but the calm blue Caribbean Sea begging for a close encounter with a snorkel. Fantasy Island—which was a ridiculously fantastic name—was undeniably much prettier and calmer than her usual Monday morning gig.

Harlan didn’t know what he was missing, the bastard. Oh, he was still a good-looking bastard, tall, broad shouldered and dark haired. He’d been tapped to play football for his college, but by then he’d already decided medical school lay in his future, and he’d passed on the team because he couldn’t risk the damage to his hands. If she hadn’t taken the Hippocratic Oath herself, she’d have been tempted to step on those talented fingers. Hard.

Imagining Harlan here on Fantasy Island was surprisingly difficult, although he’d been the one to pick out the place for their honeymoon. She was fairly certain she remembered what good sex was like. Or, at the very least, she remembered having sex. Decent sex with matching his-and-her orgasms at the end. Since both she and Harlan were trauma surgeons, they didn’t share too many off-the-clock hours, and she’d had to schedule time to make love with him, which was a sad commentary right there. This trip had been her chance to not be in control of every step of their sex life, and she’d been looking forward to it. While he, on the other hand, had been checking out nurses.

She wriggled on the massage bed and snuck another peek at her phone. Her ponytail slid over her shoulder and she forced herself not to grab it and play with the ends. But holy awkwardness. Lying here like a slab of meat hadn’t been in the spa brochure. Her cabana boy—aka masseuse—was late. The spa attendant had turned on some kind of New Age crap music, heavy on chimes but missing any noticeable beginning or end. The chiming went on ad nauseum. For added bonus points, the attendant had spritzed the air, and Laney’s towel cocoon smelled like some kind of floral scent that made her nose itch.

Waiting was not a good use of time. The sixty hours a week she spent—had spent—in a San Francisco trauma bay had been measured in increments of a minute or less. Of course, the same could be said about her sex life, which was her problem right there. She hadn’t been getting any, ergo she had sex on the brain.

Or maybe that was the resort’s fault. Her libido had Madeline’s explanations on the seaplane playing in a sexy loop through her head. Place an order from the cocktail menu—and pick a sexual fantasy. A Good-Night Kiss, Affair, Climax, Double Jack, Triplesex... Pick one. Point. All she had to do was ask for it.

She lifted her head up and fished her phone out from beneath her sheet. Six minutes late. She’d scheduled thirty minutes for this massage business—so she had twenty-four minutes left.

She liked to keep to her schedule.

Her masseuse, apparently, did not share her outlook on life.

“You’re cheating, sweetheart. No phones in the spa.”

Two big legs appeared in front of her, legs as big and rough as the voice issuing orders. Laney looked up and up and...sweet baby Jesus, the man had good genes. He was also more than a little rough around the edges. His face was all hard lines, his hair cut ruthlessly short with military precision. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw as he towered over her. He wore the loose white pants and form-fitting T-shirt that all the male resort employees sported, but somehow he managed to make the cotton look lethal, as if he were balanced on a razor edge, ready to pummel or go brute predator on the first threat that crossed his path.

This was her masseuse?

He tapped her phone. As if he had the power to make her do precisely as he commanded. It wasn’t hard to imagine him giving orders. Hit man. Maverick CEO. Rogue mercenary. She had no idea who he was, but her body leaped in anticipation when his thighs bumped against the side of the massage table.

Was he on the menu?

“This isn’t the spa.” Since her butt was stretched out beneath a cabana with a thatched roof, building rules absolutely did not apply. Neither did logic since, although Fantasy Island had twelve private villas, all positioned for maximum privacy and sunset views, what it did not have was an actual spa building. She’d been promised her masseuse would be happy to attend you wherever you wish, madame. “And you’re not in charge.”

“You’re on my massage table.” Amusement colored his deep voice, although his face remained impenetrable. Playing poker with this man would be dangerous. Hell, everything about him screamed dangerous. He certainly didn’t fit the spa’s brand of peace and mind-numbing serenity. He made the gangbangers, with their frequent-flyer cards to her ER, look like tame bunnies.

“That makes me the client.” And your boss. After all, she’d be picking up the tab for this little hands-on session.

“Uh-huh.” He plucked the phone out of her hand. “What could you possibly need to check?”

“The time. Give me back my phone.” She rolled over, sat up, extended an arm, and the sheet promptly dipped to nipple level. Damn it. The spa attendant must have been an Egyptian embalmer in a former life, because somehow the woman had gotten all the individual pieces of sheet strategically arranged to cover the embarrassing bits. Laney could do an emergency intubation on a flatlining patient, but the sheet defied her. She yanked it up and used her armpit as an anchor. Sexy. Not.

“You have a hot date?” He pocketed her phone, ignoring her outstretched hand.

Are you busy? “So. Are you going to massage me or what?”

Oops. That sounded downright pornographic. Her girl bits immediately voted for option B even as she lowered her arm.

“Lie down.” He nudged her eye covering back down, plunging her into the dark. She didn’t do vulnerable—and apparently her credit card wouldn’t need to cover a tip for this man because he had zero customer service skills.

“Wait.” The blast of heat she felt as she processed his order—and followed it—was chemistry. She knew all about chemistry, thanks to medical school. This man simply possessed enough symmetry that her own body had ramped up the pheromone production. It wasn’t personal—it was simply that he was mate-worthy.

“Who are you?”

Before he placed his hands all over her naked body—please—she needed to know his name.

* * *

“GRAY,” HE GROWLED. Since Laney Parker’s sweet little butt had intersected with his current mission, exchanging names seemed harmless. Plus, he was fairly certain that a real masseuse would have introduced himself or been labeled with one of those name-tag thingies. His three-day crash course in massage techniques clearly hadn’t prepared him as well as he’d thought.

Around her, however, he didn’t feel professional. Instead, he’d had a knee-jerk reaction to seeing her spread out and waiting for him. And that was before she’d instinctively followed his orders. How far would she let him push her? She wasn’t the kind of woman he usually went out with, but there was something about her... Raw. Vulnerable. Those were two words that came to mind, although they didn’t begin to describe her. She’d looked stiff and uncomfortable, sitting up on the massage table, until he’d ordered her to lie down. She’d liked the orders. Liked being told what to do, being able to shut off the commentary undoubtedly running through her head, and that was just fine with him. He could think of all sorts of orders he’d like to give her. She was unexpected and hot as hell, a delicious bonus he hadn’t anticipated finding here on the island.

She also wasn’t giving in easily. She’d make him work for her submission. He knew it instinctively.

“Gray, we’re going to need to work on your inter-personal skills.” She paused and then reached up to remove the cloth he’d slapped over her eyes.

“Leave it.” He shouldn’t have given her the command, should have let this scenario play out according to her rules, but he’d gotten a good look at her face when he’d confiscated her phone. Her eyes were dark blue, framed by long lashes. She had brown hair and fair skin, with no hint of a tan, so either she was a recent arrival on the island, or she was an overachiever in the sunscreen department. She’d pulled her hair up in a sleek ponytail that made him want to wrap the glossy rope of hair around his hand, hold her in place for his kiss. His touch. The arch of her brows and her stubborn jawline promised she didn’t take orders from just anyone, so the question was: Could he make her want it? She shifted uneasily, the ponytail sliding over a bare shoulder, teasing the freckle in the vulnerable hollow. Her eyes were authoritative and cool for someone who was waiting around naked.

“Stay down. I’m not done with you.” He pressed his hand against her bare shoulder, encouraging her to roll over. Such a simple touch, his hand against her skin, but she didn’t shrug him away or tell him to go to hell.

Instead, she flattened her palms against the white sheet. She had strong, capable hands, the nails neat and short. She’d eschewed polish, but a pale band of skin circled the ring finger of her left hand. She’d worn a ring until recently.

“You haven’t started. You’re late. And I’m not feeling relaxed.”

He could hear her mentally ticking off the reasons he’d failed her. It should have pissed him off but instead, her words were a challenge he wanted to rise to. It might be his first day on the job, but failure was never an option.

The orders to infiltrate Fantasy Island and lay the groundwork for a takedown operation had been straightforward. SEAL Team Sigma operated off the books. Gray had two weeks to get his team on the ground and canvass the island before Diego Marcos touched down. Marcos was unethical, ruthless and moving more product through Central America than coca. The man shipped weapons with his drugs, and his arms pipeline threatened the political stability of the region. Uncle Sam had more than a few questions to ask Marcos, and SEAL Team Sigma had been assigned the task of bringing the man in.

Alive.

Sometimes the job description sucked. It would have been simpler and safer to take the man down when he landed. A well-placed sniper. A mined road. Hell, a midnight meet and greet in the man’s room. Any of those three options worked for Gray. Instead, he got a hostile extraction. Intercept Marcos and move him to US custody. Although selected resort staff was in on the mission, the island’s vacationing civvies needed to remain oblivious to what was about to go down—and that meant not blowing his cover. He was the masseuse. She was the client. End of story. So what if civilian life, five-star living and gorgeous, classy women were foreign territory?

“Massage time.” The words came out more growl than not, so he added client banter to his growing list of skills to hone. Damn it. He needed to do some recon stat.

She tapped her fingers on the sheet, waiting for something. Damn. Possibly...an apology? Because he didn’t apologize any more than he retreated. He was a take it or leave it man. She thought she was in charge right now. Unfortunately, she was partially right.

“You start by introducing yourself,” she instructed. “And then you greet me by name and go over the paperwork I filled out so we can discuss any sensitivities or pain points I may have.”

It was cute, the way she tried to put him in his place. But he’d been broken and rebuilt by SEAL instructors during BUD/S training, three of the most grueling and physically challenging weeks of his life. The thirty minutes she’d scheduled with him was nothing in comparison.

“Gray. Laney. And you checked no boxes.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her delectable mouth, and he wanted to lift the cloth off her eyes himself. See if the smile lit up her eyes like it did the rest of her face.

“Good job.” She doled out the praise as if he were a toddler or a trainee. Boot camp and his military instructors hadn’t bothered with the carrot. They’d been all stick.

And then she gave in and rolled over, presenting him with her back. She was all tangled up in her sheet, the wrapping dipping perilously low on her butt. She had a fantastic butt. He could see the soft indentations at the base of her spine. The urge to smile came out of nowhere, as did the sudden need to trace those delicate spots with his fingers.

What the hell was he doing here?

In what universe had Uncle Sam and his superior officers believed a team of SEALs could go undercover as resort staff? From the other side of the pool, safely positioned inside the towel hut, Levi flashed him a thumbs-up. Right. The bastard had slapped him on the back and announced, “Bring her some towels, man, and give her a massage.”

She turned her head. “Clock is ticking. Chop chop.”

Did she have some place to be? Apparently so, because she held out her hand. “Give me back my phone.”

“The phone’s in time-out.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think them over.

She snorted. “Are you new?”

“You could say that.”

She nodded and then opened her mouth and proceeded to give him an unending stream of instructions. “I’ve indicated a preference for essential oils on my spa form. Medium pressure, but I usually have discomfort in my upper back that could benefit from deep tissue work. Start with the deltoids. Then the trapezius. If you can work my trigger points, I’d appreciate it. I can show you.”

She twisted around, her fingers pressing against her back. The sheet slipped. “Lie down.”

He resisted the urge to smack her butt. She was as tough as any drill sergeant he’d met at BUD/S but more than twice as pretty. She had that working in her favor. Levi laughed silently from across the pool, and Gray flashed him the bird, grabbing a glass flask of oil from the cart beside the bed. Cardamom and jasmine oil, per Her Royal Highness’s orders. He poured it into his hand, warming the slick stream.

“I’ll show you.” She twisted on the bed again.

“Down,” he gritted out. Were ropes allowed in commercial massages? A gag seemed like a useful option, as well. Before she could squirm away from him, he spread the oil over her shoulders. She had the palest skin, dotted with freckles but no swimsuit lines. He reminded himself that skin was just skin. It covered bones and muscles. He’d never thought about it before, but damn, she felt special.

The instant connection he felt when he touched her was unexpected. She sucked in a breath as if she maybe felt it, too. At least he’d shut her up for the moment. Yeah. He was a horny bastard, because he immediately started thinking about other ways to make her hold still. Make her come.

He drew his hands down her back in sweeping strokes, working out the visible tension in her neck and shoulders. He was no expert, but her back was a mess of knots. What the hell had she been doing? She was a woman on a tropical island. She was supposed to relax. He rubbed his thumbs in small circles, working out a particularly hard knot.

She whimpered, a breathy bedroom sound he’d bet she didn’t know she was making. Better yet, she’d finally stopped issuing directions. He didn’t dare imagine whether she’d stripped off completely beneath the towel or if she had on just a pair of panties because he was already hard. He’d gone undercover in the worst biker bars in California, fought hard, ridden fast. A massage should have been easy, but he’d never been so hot for a woman before.

She turned her head and muttered something. He didn’t give a damn what it was.

He pressed his finger against her lips. “Not one word.”

“Or...?” Sweet challenge filled her voice and, yeah, he wanted to show her. Instead, he worked his way down the straight line of her spine, headed for her ass.

“I have my ways.” He sounded like a bad villain. He might as well have rolled over and showed his belly, because she ignored his answer and started talking again, directing him from one muscle group to the other so matter-of-factly that she probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. Laney Parker was definitely a woman who was used to being in control. He recognized her need because he felt the same way. But one of them had to give and it sure wasn’t going to be him.

“We need to be clear on one thing.” He leaned forward, so his mouth was level with her ear. “I’m in charge.”

* * *

GRAY HAD MAGIC HANDS. Laney should have gone for sixty or even the full ninety minutes instead of the paltry thirty minutes she’d ponied up for. He was that good.

“You’re tight here.” He pressed a particularly tense spot on her back, and she stopped caring that she was stretched out, bare-ass naked and vulnerable. God, he was good.

“Trigger point.” Not, apparently, that she needed to tell him. The man knew what he was doing.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon.” Was that sultry whisper her voice? Because, if so, Gray was definitely a miracle worker. She felt herself melting under his touch and, wow, how long had it been since she’d done that?

He found and pressed against another knot. “So I should call you Dr. Parker.”

He moved around to the front of the massage bed. The bed had one of those circle doughnut things that she’d always thought were awkward. She opened her eyes as Gray’s feet moved into view. She’d never had a foot fetish before, but he was barefoot, and his feet were sun-bronzed and strong-looking. Those few inches of bare skin made her want to see more. She’d bet the rest of him was every bit as spectacular.

It was probably bad she found his feet sexy. He was just doing a job.

Really, really well.

He gently pulled her ponytail free before running his hands through her hair, pressing his fingertips against her scalp. Maybe she’d been a cat in a former life, because she’d always loved having her hair played with. For long minutes, Gray rubbed small sensual circles against her scalp. She bit back a moan. Just lie here. Keep still. She probably wasn’t supposed to arch off the table, screaming more, more, more. Although she could. She definitely could.

He moved closer, his thighs brushing against the bed. If she lifted her head, the situation could get awkward fast. Thinking about that made her stiffen up again, but then he cupped the back of her neck, pressing and rotating. And oh, sweet baby Jesus, she could feel the tension melting away. The small tugs on her hair sent a prickle of excitement through her entire body.

“Should I call you Doctor?” he prompted.

“Laney is just fine.” The words rushed out on a sigh.

She stared at his feet again, trying to regain her equilibrium. He’d made her drool, damn it.

“Holding still isn’t so bad?” He followed up the wicked amusement in his voice with another sensual tug on her hair.

She didn’t know him. She’d never been the kind of woman who had casual sex. Because that was a personal choice she’d made, she reminded herself. Lovemaking was about as intimate as it got, and she’d never fantasized about letting a stranger touch her.

Before now, the traitorous voice in her head said, because evidently she was seriously considering taking her sex life in a whole new direction. Gray’s direction. The purpose of coming to Fantasy Island had been to take charge of her life. To be someone different, even if the change was only temporary. She wanted to be fun and flirtatious and, yes, just a little wild. In a few more days, she’d go back to being Laney Parker, MD, but on this island she could be someone else. The kind of woman who made her fantasies a reality.

* * *

HE NEEDED TO step back. Laney was a doctor, a paying guest—and a civilian. She was undoubtedly an upright, tax-paying US citizen, and he had no business running his hands over her skin. In fact, he was fairly certain that, Hippocratic Oath or not, she was the kind of woman who’d kill him if he played games with her.

So sue him. He liked that, too.

Because he wasn’t playing nice, he tugged the sheet lower, exposing the dimples above the sweet curve of her butt. She hadn’t gone completely naked beneath her sheet. She’d kept her panties on, and he immediately wondered what it would take to coax her out of them, because he was a bastard and not nice. And iron-hard at just a glimpse of those white panties and the strip of pale skin above the band. He brushed a knuckle over the topmost edge. She’d be wearing something silky, he decided. Panties that were as simple and elegant as the rest of her.

She lifted her head and he retreated a step. Not because he wanted to—he was a guy, after all, and would be more than happy to have her face pressed against his groin—but because he really wasn’t a creeper, and he didn’t want to spoil her enjoyment of the massage. Still, he was sorry he’d moved when she looked up at him, hair tumbling around her face, eyes slumberous.

She mumbled something incoherent that ended with on the menu?

What. The. Hell. He was a SEAL and a fighter. Bar fight, the government’s fight—as long as it involved fists and a beat down, he was all in. This menu business, however, was unfamiliar territory. He had no idea what she was talking about.

“The menu.” He gave her words back to her as if repetition would somehow miraculously clear up his confusion. Spa menu? Room service menu? He hated being out of his element.

She blushed, and blood surged to his dick. God. He’d have given his left nut to know what she’d been thinking. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Her phone dinged behind him on the counter where he’d tossed it, and she bolted upright. “Time’s up,” she announced, looking relieved.

“That’s my line,” he rasped, but she hopped off the table before he could finish getting the words out. He exhaled and considered his options. He probably shouldn’t swing her to a stop, but the way she was hightailing it away from his cabana was far from flattering.

Exercising remarkable self-control, Gray let her go, all the while mentally running through plans in his head. A quick check of the week’s schedule revealed Laney Parker had another massage scheduled for tomorrow. In fact, the concierge had been busy, because she had appointments scheduled for every day this week. He grinned. He’d bet she was the kind of woman who kept a date.

Levi strolled over and dropped a load of fresh towels on the bed. “Do you suck that badly?”

It was a distinct possibility. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“She’s coming back for more?” His pal looked understandably skeptical.

He hoped so.

“She mentioned a menu.” Maybe Levi knew something he didn’t.

“She was hungry?” A frown creased the other man’s forehead. No help there. “Or really, really desperate for something alcoholic to drink? Either way, that means you officially stink at being a masseuse.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he muttered. “It meant something. I need to know what before she comes back tomorrow.”

Levi shrugged. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

That was the thing about working as a team. If he needed something, his shooters had his back, the same way he had theirs. Their briefing hadn’t mentioned menus. It had, however, emphasized that Fantasy Island was an exclusive resort that catered to couples’ sexual fantasies. On-demand sexual fantasies between consenting adults. Laney had been blushing up a storm when she’d run from the cabana. What were the odds...?

“You think it’s something sexual?” Levi’s head had apparently gone in the same direction as Gray’s.

“Yeah.” It made sense. “It fits.”

“Or you’re indulging in a bout of wishful thinking.” Levi grinned and punched him in the shoulder.

3

GET IN.

Take the target down.

Get out.

By the time Gray had crossed the island and made it to SEAL Team Sigma’s base camp, he was in control again. He’d ditched the spa uniform for his camo and retrieved his weapons from where he’d cached them. Weapons decorated him like ornaments on a Christmas tree. He had a KA-BAR knife at his waist and a Heckler & Koch MP-5 machine gun holstered to his thigh. The Glock resting against the base of his spine was even more welcome.

In his clothes and his own skin, he was starting to feel like his old self again as he worked his way through the thick jungle undergrowth, concealing his trail. Calm. Detached. No emotions. Check, check and check. Those were normal operating conditions. What he felt around Laney had to be simple attraction, compounded by the fact that he hadn’t had sex in months.

Sure, part of him was wondering when he’d see her again and if he could coax her into bed, but the rest of him was back on the job. Fantasy Island—which had to be the most ridiculous name he’d ever heard—was five miles long and two miles wide. Approximately four square miles of that space was jungle. The resort’s owners had opted to keep things in their natural state, so it was acres and acres of dense, rugged terrain. The good news was that he doubted any of the resort’s guests would penetrate farther than four or five feet inside the mess.

Before he’d made the SEALs team, he’d had no idea so many different types of palm trees could be crammed into one small island. Mother Nature hadn’t stinted. She’d parked slender fan palms next to spiny palms that stretched fifty, sixty feet up toward the sky. The island also came with a shitload of coconut palms loaded with ripe nuts waiting to brain anyone dumb enough to make camp at the base. What wasn’t palm was Hispaniolan mahogany and muskwood, and there were vines tangled up around positively everything. The place was “lush, pristine jungle” according to the resort’s marketing brochure, but a tropical pain in the ass from where he stood.

A lizard darted up a trunk as Gray moved deeper. The place was green, sure, but it was also chock-full of tree snakes, the odd boa and a seemingly endless supply of toads and frogs. It was damned hard to hear himself think. Their team had set up a base camp on the other side of the island. It was their space, a place where they could be themselves and relax. In addition to four camouflaged tents, someone had strung up a couple of hammocks, and there were stacks of supplies, weapons and radios. More than an outdoor rec room, it was also their fallback position, the strip of beach below the camp their designated emergency extraction point.

As he stepped into camp, he was met by the two shooters he had patrolling the perimeter. Sam and Remy were the newbies on the team, so he’d passed on sending them in undercover. He needed to know how they handled a mission first, before he put them on the front lines.

Sam flashed him a two-fingered salute. Slim and brawny with close-cropped brown hair, he still looked like the Alabama country boy he’d been before he joined the Teams. He was damned good at blowing stuff up, however, and swam faster than any SEAL Gray had ever seen. He also doubled as their unit medic. “Tell me you brought us a cold one.”

“Gray’s buying as soon as we’re Stateside.” Levi stepped out of the jungle behind him. Gray’s Senior Chief was the first of the infiltrators to arrive, and although his eyes moved from palm to palm as if he expected an army of hostiles to pop out and open fire, the guy sported a big-ass grin on his face. Gray had seen the same grin when they’d been pinned down in Iraq, taking heavy fire. “Waterfront acreage. Very nice choice.”

As Levi dropped down onto the hammock Sam had strung up between two palms, looking as relaxed as any weekend warrior in his living room, Mason slipped out of the jungle. Mason was Mr. Silent. The big guy flashed a face full of attitude and was the kind of guy you expected to administer a beat-down in an alley. At thirty-four, he was also the oldest operative on the team and the best damned sniper Gray had ever worked with. He was no cowboy, but he’d made it clear he planned on dying in his boots. You didn’t piss him off without having a really good reason. Hell. You didn’t piss off anyone on the team. Gray almost felt bad for Diego Marcos.

Remy followed. The Cajun seemed right at home on the island, passing as the general maintenance and go-to guy. He’d be the man in the hot seat when it came to bringing Marcos in because he’d be the first to face the guy.

Ashley was the last to arrive. She’d infiltrated Fantasy Island as a guest and, in keeping with her cover, she entered their bay in a resort kayak, just another guest out for a recreational paddle. Never mind that she’d driven the kayak through the lagoon waters at a brutal pace, taking the craft through the rocks just for shits and giggles. She looked sexy as sin in her skullhead-print bikini and a pair of hot pink shorts that earned plenty of teasing from the guys.

Levi winked at her. “Now that’s a get-up you won’t catch a SEAL in.”

She flipped him off and dropped down onto a stack of duffel bags. “My boobs are better than yours. You’d look damned silly in a bikini.”

“Now there’s truth, sugar.” Levi laughed, unoffended.

Gray let the teasing wash over him as he broke down his gun. He didn’t need to look at it—any SEAL could break down and rebuild his weapons in the dark—but he didn’t want to watch Levi and Ashley flirting it up, either. He could go back to the resort and find Laney, but he didn’t have Levi’s smooth charm or way with words.

No. He was empty. Lonely. Itching for the next fight, the next mission. As he watched Levi and Ashley bickering amiably, giving each other a hard time, part of him wanted that. Sure, they drove each other crazy, but they did it together. Lonely wasn’t on their agenda. All he had to offer Laney was a few nights of sex, however, and that was a different kind of crazy.

He got on the radio for their coded transmission while the rest of the team continued ribbing Ashley. But when Gray signed off, the team suddenly fell silent, looking at him expectantly.

“We’re getting yanked,” Levi joked. “Or, better yet, instead of camping out here in the jungle, we’ve got a week’s shore leave and a reservation at the resort. I’ve seen the food they’re serving.”

Levi’s sweet tooth was notorious. The man always packed Snickers bars in his bugout bag.

“We’ve got movement on our target. He’s under way.”

Marcos spent the majority of his time holed up in a jungle compound in the Belizean mountains. The place was a fortress. A well-placed sniper might also have stood a chance of getting off a shot, or the team could have mined the road in and detonated a lifetime supply of C4 underneath Marcos’s Humvee, except the man was cautious and rarely moved out in the open. Learning that he intended to come here had been a piece of intel that had taken Ashley’s team eighteen months to acquire.

Levi cursed. “Define movement.”

Gray knew how his comrade felt. “Marcos will be here in eight days instead of ten. His advance team hits the ground in four. We need to take them down fast, as soon as they arrive. And since we’re looking to capture Marcos, not kill, we’re going to report back as his guys and make sure he feels safe to land.”

“A challenge.” Mason didn’t sound as if he minded. Instead, he had a thoughtful look on his face as he pondered the logistics of a quick, nonlethal takedown on an island that was too small for roads or runways. There were nods of understanding from around the circle. The FBI had a long list of questions for Marcos, and a dead man didn’t do any talking. If the mission went according to plan, however, they’d take down Marcos and then have a week to interrogate him before any of his associates realized he’d been compromised.

“Is the advance party inbound by air or water?” Levi asked.

Gray didn’t hesitate. “Two helos, both of which are scheduled to be met by the resort’s jeeps. We’ll put SEALs into the driver’s seats. Marcos will be told his advance team is securing the resort. We need to minimize the risk to the island’s civilians. Thoughts?”

Ashley picked up the ball and ran with it. Gray was fairly certain there wasn’t anything the woman didn’t know. “It’s low season and the resort is running at about thirty percent of capacity. There are twenty bungalows. Six are occupied, but three of us are singletons. Eight guests are currently in house.”

Good. Fantasy Island would be clear before Marcos made his grand appearance. If Monday’s arrivals vacated in a week, that meant Laney Parker would be okay and not in the line of fire. She hadn’t signed up for this particular battle, and he wouldn’t pitchfork her into the middle of it.

As the meeting wrapped, Gray did a last inventory of his team. They were ready, but that had never been in doubt. Despite the teasing and good-natured bickering, every man there would lay down his life for the team. They were organized, well trained and efficient as hell. Marcos wouldn’t know what had hit him.

When Ashley stepped past him, however, he snagged her wrist. “I’ve got a question.”

“Anytime.” She dropped onto the pile of duffel bags next to him. “Ask away.”

“You ever heard of a cocktail menu? A special one?” He took a shot in the dark, because Laney’s tone had held a certain something. He needed to know what she’d really meant.

Ashley laughed. “So you’ve heard about the infamous drinks menu?”

“Give me details.” The way she was smiling, he was in trouble. He definitely didn’t know enough.

“Well, the next time you boys decide to go undercover at a resort, you might want to pick one that doesn’t specialize in kinky sex.”

“I’ll give my boss a heads-up,” he said dryly. “I hadn’t planned on having kinky sex on this mission.”

Absolutely not. Hell, even plain old vanilla sex was pretty much off-limits. While there weren’t hard-and-fast rules about personal activities while undercover, bedding a civilian who could blow his cover was definitely pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable. He couldn’t and wouldn’t jeopardize the mission.

Or Laney’s life.

“Maybe you should rethink your position.” She elbowed him, eyes twinkling at the pun. “Because apparently the resort staff can be more than a little adventurous, as can the guests. The names of the drinks are code for various fantasies you might want to act out. It’s all secret and hush-hush, a way for guests to discreetly communicate their desires to each other.”

Fantasies about sex. That sounded pretty damn erotic, but he’d seen how other people’s kinks played out when he’d worked undercover as a biker. M-Breed’s members had engaged in frequent sex, often public, and never nice. On the pool table, up against the wall, in a bathroom stall. Take your pick, do whatever the hell you wanted to do. Gray had managed to avoid the gang’s groupies, because no way he wanted a woman who was into him only for the drugs or position she thought accompanied sleeping with him. His fantasies were different.

He frowned. “How did she know about the menu?”

Ashley raised a brow. “Which she on this island propositioned you? And did you turn her down flat or take her up on it and she shocked your delicate sensibilities?”

“I gave one of the guests a massage,” he said gruffly. “She said something to me at the end.”

Ashley whistled. “You must give a really good massage. Give me a name.”

“Laney Parker.” Why was he so reluctant to give up her name?

“She was your client? In that case, I may have told her about it.”

“And how come I wasn’t informed?”

Ashley winked at him. “I didn’t think you’d be interested. Not your kind of scene.”

He wondered when he’d started coming across as uninterested in sex.

“I don’t like surprises,” he said. Although he’d definitely liked Laney. If he’d known what she was asking him, he would have followed up. He definitely wouldn’t have let her run off on him.

Ashley’s eyes flashed. “You’re not exactly vanilla.”

Neither were most fantasies.

She poked him in the chest. “Do you even know how to flirt?”

Shit. Did he? “I know how to play games,” he grumbled.

Levi smacked him on the shoulder. “Ashley’s the best. You can take notes.”

“This from you.” Disapproval radiated from Ashley’s voice. “You’re the team man whore.”

“And you’re not on the prowl? I’ve watched you hanging out by the pool.”

“I’m undercover.” She jabbed a finger into Levi’s chest. “I’m playing a part. Someone has to get in there and keep an ear to the ground.”

“Duly noted,” Gray growled. “Don’t make me put the two of you in time-out. Break it up, move it along.”

Ashley blew Levi a kiss and headed back to the beach and her kayak.

“That girl is trouble.” Levi shook his head. “Maybe that’s why we don’t let women join the SEALs.”

Gray grinned. “They’d kick our asses, and we like being in charge.”

“True.” Levi made a face at Ashley’s departing figure. “She’s damned good at it.”

* * *

SLIPPING INTO THE water was like coming home. Diving had been one of Gray’s favorite parts of BUD/S training. The world seemed different beneath the surface, everything more buoyant and streamlined. The bay was mostly sandy-bottomed and dotted with coral heads. Butterfly fish swarmed him as he dove toward the bottom, bright yellow and black sides flashing. Any closer and the fish needed to buy him dinner first, one particularly bold specimen bumping against first his mask and then his dive gloves.

He’d grabbed the tank ostensibly because someone needed to map the bay’s bottom. He could do it, so why not? He was restless. That was all. He preferred to be on the move, to be doing something, and the riskier and faster that something was, the better. Not that checking out the bay scored high in the adrenaline category. The entry was shallow and the water almost currentless. That would change, of course, as he pushed around the promontory and into open ocean, but for now it was easy money.

Swimming out of the bay and around the island’s coastline produced no surprises. As he swam, he checked the ocean floor for obstructions, booby traps, anything that would hinder a Zodiac or a landing party. Fantasy Island, however, was as pretty below the surface as it was above, all white sand and the occasional coral head. He was all clear if the second team infiltrated by water.

The last time he’d done this hadn’t gone as well. He’d led an amphibious operation to select possible beach landing sites. The aerial pics had shown mangrove, swamp and jungle, none of which made their potential targets vacation destinations. Worse, the nautical charts were one hundred fifty years old and missing major terrain features. Swimming through the surf and the reef to make the inner lagoon had been like diving in a washing machine with blades. Fantasy Island definitely won in the looks department.

When he finally surfaced, treading water two hundred yards off shore with a quarter tank of air left, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Laney. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who sat still. He watched, transfixed, as she pounded up the quarter-mile stretch of sand, sprinting barefoot. God knows, he should have submerged and gone about his business, but looking away was surprisingly difficult. Ponytail whipping back and forth, the muscles in her thighs flexed as she worked for more speed, and her swimsuit top...yeah. He liked that part of the view best. She was spectacular. When she reached the end of the beach, she flopped down on the sand. He grinned. Good to know she wasn’t Superwoman. Then, when she fished in her beach bag and produced her phone, his grin got even wider. The woman had a serious cell phone addiction.

Giving in to temptation, he swam in slowly, enjoying the sensual way she dug her fingers into the sand, soaking up the heat as she chatted. Then he counted. Wait for it...by the count of thirty, she’d popped up and was pacing back and forth. He should swim away. Reconning the bay was one thing and an acceptable use of his time. Cozying up with Laney, however, wasn’t really part of his job description. He wasn’t supposed to be here. On the other hand, he was a SEAL. Being somewhere unexpected wasn’t unusual.

Deflating his BC, he planted his feet on the sandy bottom. Who was he kidding? He was headed straight for shore. Toeing off his fins, he submerged and let the small waves push him toward the beach.

4

“CARSON HOSPITAL DOESN’T have your acceptance letter on file. Tell me you signed the letter.”

What were the ethics of lying to one’s mother? Three thousand miles apart, and Laney still fought the urge to look over her shoulder, because a stellar international calling plan made it sound as if Ellen Parker were standing right behind her. Tossing her cell phone into her beach bag had been her first mistake. Answering at the Jaws ringtone had been her second.

Unfortunately, her mom was a pro and correctly interpreted the ensuing silence. A top-notch hospital administrator and former oncologist, she excelled at detecting bullshit. “That letter is your second chance, Laney Parker. Do you know how many favors I had to call in to get it?”

Laney had a lot of experience fielding unhappy phone calls from her mother. And, in this case, her mom actually had a valid point. Thank you seemed too...bland. Unappreciative. Because, in truth, she did appreciate her mother’s attempts to fix the disaster she’d made of her medical career.

“I’ve signed it.” She just hadn’t mailed the letter yet, because that would mean admitting she wasn’t going back to S.F. General.

She’d been sacked. Let go. Fired out of hand. No, not fired, exactly, because she’d been politely asked to submit her letter of resignation so everybody could pretend she’d simply decided to exchange her dream job covering San Francisco’s busiest trauma bay for the much tamer, less exciting challenges of a small city ER. Her mother exhaled, the sound magnified by a stellar cell phone connection. “Give me the tracking number and I’ll follow up on it.”

Her mother made no mention of Laney’s vacation-cum-honeymoon. Of course, her mother was also a fixer. As was her father. Realizing Laney was faced with a broken engagement, an AWOL fiancé and the general end of life as Laney knew it, her mother had homed in on Laney’s unemployed status as the problem du jour and, any other time, Laney would have genuinely appreciated the effort. After all, she didn’t want to be unemployed and broke for long, especially given what this trip had cost her.

She just didn’t want to give up on all of her dreams in the span of the same month. And she definitely didn’t want to be banished to Stockton and its less-than-riveting medical practice.

You’re an adrenaline junkie.

Who had voluntarily stranded herself on a hot, tropical, ultra-boring Caribbean island. She flopped back down onto the sand. Was there a twelve-step program for people like her? Working as a trauma surgeon might be exhausting, and it almost entirely negated the possibility of a personal life—as her ex-fiancé could attest—but she missed her ER rotations. She itched to be doing something other than working on her suntan, and laying the groundwork for a future case of skin cancer didn’t cut it.

Today was another postcard-perfect Caribbean day with blue sky and full sun. She crossed her legs lotus-style at the surf’s edge, searching for ever-more-elusive inner peace while her mother ran through the next steps in the get-Laney-gainfully-employed-again plan. It was a good plan, but the sand was wet and getting places it had no business being in her bikini bottom. The heat prickling her skin also indicated a pressing need on her part for more sunscreen. Maybe the resort gift shop stocked SPF 700. She’d check it out as soon as she hung up on her mother.

“I’ll get you a tracking number,” she said.

Her mother’s short huff of disbelief echoed down the line as she correctly interpreted that promise. “You didn’t send it.”

“I will.” There. She was committed. Stockton awaited and her future was settled. That was carefully orchestrated plan number one.

“You know I just want what’s best for you.” Her mother took a deep breath. Laney had already heard the speech that followed—multiple times. She didn’t need or want to hear it again. No matter how well-intentioned her mother was, she and Laney didn’t always see eye to eye.

“Absolutely.” Laney counted to thirty, but relaxing was more challenging than she’d anticipated. After all, she was playing singleton on an island designed for couples. Gray’s face popped into her head. Maybe he could be convinced to play.

Danger.

Her mother wrapped up her phone check-in to take her next call. Laney wasn’t sure her final thanks even registered. Her own phone chirped a reminder that she had a spa appointment in fifteen minutes. She turned off the reminder and tossed the phone back into her bag.

No more massages.

Avoiding Gray? That should be carefully orchestrated plan number two. She had twelve nights left on Fantasy Island, and she’d scheduled approximately two hundred hours of yoga, kayaking and beach sprints. Hot sex wasn’t on that schedule.

And Gray wasn’t interested anyhow.

“Massages are not good for me,” she said aloud. Weren’t massages supposed to be relaxing? Instead, she was tense, which might have to do with the unwarranted attraction she’d felt for her masseuse. She flopped down on the sand, feet in the water, hoping a change in perspective would help. The palm tree overhead was sporting a bumper crop of coconuts. Given the way her week had gone, it was all too easy to imagine getting concussed by a falling coconut. She’d seen stranger things in the ER.

A crab scuttled up the side, pinchers waving. Closing her eyes, she replayed yesterday’s cabana scene, hoping for a better ending. Nope. Her humiliation was still complete. She’d tried to order a guy off a menu. That wasn’t her. And it hadn’t been fun. She made a mental note to tell Ashley that her recommendation sucked. Or, possibly, she simply sucked at having fun. She certainly needed more practice.

Cracking an eye, she glared at the crab that had paused halfway in its ascent. “I am officially the most boring, least fun person on the planet.”

The crab didn’t answer. It was probably a male.

It was certainly pretty enough to fit in. Fantasy Island had some of the most gorgeous men on staff that Laney had ever seen. Gray, for example, was supremely handsome if grumpy. He was also reserved, impossibly self-controlled and not much of a talker—but he had magic hands. She could attest to that. And, best of all, he would have been a temporary man. When Laney’s two weeks were up, she would have been able to board a plane and he would have stayed put, safely left behind on this teeny-tiny island and at least three thousand miles from her new trauma bay. That would have made him perfect because, after her failed engagement, she needed a break from commitment and notions of happily-ever-after.

The gentle tug on her foot was unexpected. She jerked upright, kicking out hard. Had the crab enlisted reinforcement from his crab buddies? Did they stock alligators on the island?

“It’s just me,” said a gruff male voice. Oh, God. She knew that voice. Its owner had figured prominently in some very racy dreams last night, saying You’re beautiful while the voice’s owner did wicked, wicked things with his fingers. She wasn’t sure which had been her favorite part.

“Why are you here?” She kicked out, splashing water at him. She’d liked him better in the dream, probably because she’d been saying sexy, smart stuff rather than staring at him with her mouth hanging open. In response to her complaint, he wrapped a big, warm hand around her ankle and gently tugged her foot to the ground.

“We need to discuss your need for the rough stuff.” Seconds later, a body followed the hand as Gray leaned up on his elbows. The man had no personal boundaries at all, because his world-class swim move put him between her legs and gave him a view of her bikini bottom that neither she nor the suit’s maker had ever intended. She hoped nothing had shifted. God, this was so not how she’d planned her day.

He eyed her prone position on the sand. “Enjoying the beach?”

“Conducting an amphibious assault?” She yanked on her ankle.

His thumb stroked over her ankle. “Not today. This is an assault-free zone.”

Right. Not sure how to interpret that remark, she tried to scoot backward but Gray tugged her forward. He might not be much of a smiler, at least not around her, but there was no denying that he was a handsome bastard. She stared suspiciously at him, but his face gave nothing away.

“Do you ever crack a smile?” She blurted the words out and then flopped back on the sand. Wow. Talk about smooth. He let go of her foot, though, so she inched away. Maybe she could keep going until she hit Miami. Or possibly New York. That might be far enough. Because while he didn’t smile with his mouth, he did plenty of smiling with his eyes. Like now, for instance.

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