Subject: Navy SEAL Taylor Powell

Mission: Find a sexy fake girlfriend...with even sexier benefits!

Lieutenant Taylor “The Wizard” Powell has a reputation for getting out of tricky situations. Bad guys, bombs, weapons—no problem. Finding a girlfriend in order to evade matchmaking friends? Not so easy. He’s banking on contractor Cat Peres to help him out...not realizing his tomboy friend has a whole lot of sexy surprises hidden in her tool belt.

Cat can’t remember a time when Taylor wasn’t the object of her hottest dreams—so she can’t help but agree to his plan. Their only rule? Friends, no matter what. Except the deliciously hot chemistry that ignites between them takes them both by surprise...and having nothing between them might just ruin everything.

Can’t resist a sexy military hero?

Then you’ll love our Uniformly Hot! miniseries.

Harlequin Blaze’s bestselling miniseries continues with more irresistible men from all branches of the armed forces.

Don’t miss

HER SEXY MARINE VALENTINE by Candace Havens March 2016

NO SURRENDER by Sara Arden April 2016

DARING HER SEAL by Anne Marsh May 2016

Dear Reader,

The friends-to-lovers theme is one of my favorites because there is a deeper level of intimacy between people who’ve known each other for a long time. And, of course, it’s fun to see them discover each other in this sexy new way.

Added to that, I had such a great time exploring beaches and bonfires and oceanside fun in A SEAL’s Touch. In doing so, I realized that there’s something extra sexy about a beachside romance, especially when it’s between two people who’ve been friends for years. Add in a military ball and there’s more romance than either Taylor or Cat had bargained for.

But it was so fun to write, especially because I enjoyed seeing these two characters who thought they were so wrong for each other realize just how right they were. I hope you enjoy reading Cat and Taylor’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it!

I’d love to hear what you think. Stop by my website, tawnyweber.com, for lots of book information, contests, giveaways and more!

Happy reading,

Tawny Weber

A SEAL’s Touch
Tawny Weber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than thirty books, TAWNY WEBER writes sassy, emotional romances with a dash of humor featuring hot alpha heroes. It’s all about the sexy attitude! A fan of Johnny Depp, cupcakes and her very own hero husband, Tawny enjoys scrapbooking, gardening, spending time with her family and dogs, and hanging out with readers on Facebook.

Fans are invited to check out Tawny’s books at her website, tawnyweber.com. For extra fun, join her Red Hot Readers Club for goodies like free reads, complete first chapters, recipes, insider story info and much more.

To James.

My best friend, who has my heart and my trust.

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

Extract

Copyright

1

FRESH OFF A mission deep in the vicious heart of the Afghan desert, Taylor Powell strode down the gangplank of the aircraft carrier, his pack under one arm and the sea air dampening his skin. The sun, just starting to peek over the horizon, would melt the mist away soon enough, but for now Taylor welcomed the chill.

It’d been damned hot where he’d been.

His fingers tapped a tattoo on the butt of his sidearm. Yeah. It’d been hot. A ghost of a frown slid over his face, the only sign he’d allow as images flashed through his mind. Maybe a little too hot.

He breathed deep the fresh sea air, letting it cool his lungs and his thoughts.

“Yo, Wizard. You owe me fifty bucks.”

“Don’t you mean you owe me fifty?” Taylor slowed, throwing a grin over his shoulder at SEAL team member Shane O’Brian. “Face it, Scavenger. You’re getting soft.”

“Soft, hell,” Shane muttered with a grin.

“Now that you’ve hooked up with that sweet little brunette, you’re like a stuffed teddy bear. Supposed to be so big and tough, but feather soft inside.”

“Feather soft, my ass.”

Taylor made a show of looking the Scavenger up and down, from the tip of the guy’s combat boots to the brim of his cap tilted low over his eyes. An inch taller than Taylor’s own six feet-two, the only things that kept O’Brian from skinny were his muscles.

“You putting on weight?” Squinting at the other guy’s flat stomach, Taylor shook his head. “Shoulda stuck with rations instead of scarfing down seconds of your lady’s cooking.”

“You miserable all by your lonely self?” Scavenger shot back. “Poor guy, stuck bouncing from woman to woman because none of them want to keep you?”

“Yeah.” Taylor’s grin turned wicked. “It’s rough having women fall all over me, every one of them hot for good times, good sex and no strings. I gotta tell ya, I’m not sure how I sleep at night trying to figure out which one I’ll hook up with next.”

“Dog.” Scavenger threw back his head, laughing. “You would be such a dog if you really thought like that.”

“Can’t say I mind the bevy of beautiful women and lack of strings,” Taylor admitted with a shrug. After all, he liked—no, he loved—sex. But the only thing he was willing to commit to was his country.

“Then you’re in for a good time.”

“You don’t say.” Catching Scavenger’s grin, Taylor frowned. “Correction, say. What’s up?”

Scavenger shrugged but unless the guy was standing at attention or facing an enemy, he had a lousy poker face. Still, it was hard to tell which was more apparent. Amusement. Or guilt.

“You sending me a stripper for my birthday?” Taylor hazarded a guess. “I’m partial to blondes with big—”

“Your birthday isn’t until December and with any luck...”

Damn.

“With any luck, what?”

When Scavenger didn’t respond, Taylor grabbed his arm.

“What?”

“It’s nothing.” Scavenger grinned. “The ladies are on a tear, is all.”

“Ladies?” Uh-huh. “So what kind of trouble is your girlfriend starting?”

“Hey, don’t blame Lark. Alexia started it.”

Damn and double damn it all to hell.

“Matchmaking?”

“You’re quick,” Scavenger said in an admiring tone.

Quick?

Hardly.

Given that the commander’s wife had been trying to hook him up for months, that Irish’s new bride had started asking him to dinner to meet her friends and that even the sweet hippie Aiden had married was talking about casting charts to find his perfect match, he was feeling pretty slow.

But he wasn’t going to admit that.

“Nobody quicker,” he said instead as they crossed the asphalt. “Which is why you owe me fifty bucks.”

“The hell I do. I hit the ground first. It was my shot that took out the security system.”

“You should have hit the ground first since you jumped first. What’d you do on the way down, man? Take a side trip? I landed first. It was my shot that took out the mark.”

“Yo, Ice. Got a second to settle an issue?” Scavenger called out to the guy a few steps ahead of them.

“Settling issues is my specialty,” the tall, blond SEAL said, his expression as deadly serious as his aim.

“Who hit the mark?” Scavenger asked, jerking his thumb between the two of them. “Me or the Wizard?”

“Are you kidding?” The Nordic mountain slowed, his pale blue eyes shifting left then right, piercing both men. “While you guys were getting ready to play hopscotch with guerillas, I was infiltrating a high-tech installation’s security, weaving a virtual time bomb through their system without setting off any alarms.”

Hopscotch. The image flashed through Taylor’s mind of a baby-faced terrorist, barely five foot nothing in ragged clothes and dirt-encrusted bare feet. There should be rules about who could play. There should be rules about who was safe.

A vicious knot wrapped itself around his guts and was ignored. He’d learned a long time ago that rules were like fairy tales. Believing didn’t make them real.

But there was no point telling Ice that.

The man was a SEAL.

He already knew.

So Taylor pretended he was trying not to grin and gave a cocky nod.

“Yeah. You were busy playing hero.” He waited a beat. “So who hit the mark? Me or Scavenger?”

Ensign Dag Eckart gave a sad shake of his head before striding off. Taylor exchanged grins with Scavenger as they waited with matched stances. Feet wide, arms crossed, chins high. It only took about a dozen steps before, without a hitch in his stride, Ice jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward Taylor.

“Son of a bitch,” Scavenger muttered as Taylor let out a loud whoop.

“Drinks are on you, my friend,” he said, slapping the other man on the shoulder as they headed toward the base. “Olive Oyl’s. 2100.”

“I want a second opinion,” Scavenger said, looking around for the rest of their teammates. “I’ll find a second opinion.”

“Knock yourself out.” Taylor grinned as they approached debriefing. “You have till 2100.”

As they rounded the building, they almost plowed into one of their teammates leaning against the wall.

“Yo, Mouse,” Scavenger said, bumping the smaller man with his shoulder. “You get lost?”

Taylor smirked. Even though he was new to the team, everyone knew there was no place Mouse couldn’t find.

Taylor’s grin faded when he caught a better look at the man’s face.

Haunted was the only way to describe it.

“Mouse?”

Nothing.

Damn it.

“Ensign Bertowski,” Taylor snapped.

“Sir?” Bennie Bertowski, call sign Mouse, blinked, the horror fading from his eyes as he looked from Taylor to Shane then back again. He blinked then came to attention with a salute. “Sir.”

Shane started to reach out but when Taylor gave the tiniest shake of his head, the other man let his hand drop to his side. Mouse was his. Taylor had recruited the guy; had mentored him once he’d joined the team. Pulling him out of this was his responsibility.

“Debriefing in ten,” Taylor said, keeping his tone crisp. “Stow your gear first.”

“Yes, sir.” Mouse opened his mouth as if to say something but then shook his head. “I’ll be there.”

With a nod to his superior officers, he strode off toward the armory, his weapon over one shoulder, his parachute pack over the other.

“Not the first time he’s had issues with a mission,” Shane observed when Mouse was out of earshot.

“It’s only his third mission.” Taylor shrugged off the tickle at the base of his neck. “He graduated top of his BUD/S class. He’s got what it takes.”

“They don’t all make it,” Shane pointed out quietly, his eyes on the retreating SEAL. “Not even getting through BUD/S is a guarantee.”

“This one was rough,” Taylor said dismissively, thinking of his own troubles shaking off the mission aftermath. “He’ll be fine.”

He’d make sure of it. The SEALs, the team, they were a brotherhood. Taylor hadn’t had siblings growing up and he’d be damned if now that he’d found them he was letting a single one go without a fight. Especially not one he’d brought in himself.

* * *

AT 2105, TAYLOR PULLED into Olive Oyl’s bar, his Harley’s tires kicking up crushed shells as he roared across the parking lot. Long and lean, the weathered building’s large windows showed that it was already packed inside.

With purple neon lights from the bar sign washing over the chrome of his bike, Taylor parked, swung his leg free and hooked his helmet over the handlebar. It’d be safe. Nobody messed with the SEAL’s property here. The bar patrons knew better. Hell, even the punk kids who cruised the beach knew better.

Heading for the door, Taylor’s head filled with the images of ones who didn’t. With the ugly words spewing from young mouths, rifles firing from bodies that shouldn’t yet be able to lift them.

Shake it off, he warned himself. Just as he’d warned Mouse to do when he’d taken him aside after the debriefing. They were trained to do the job and part of doing that job meant letting go once it was done. So he did what he’d instructed the other man to do. He shoved the memory, the horror, into a tiny corner of his brain and locked it away.

When he headed into the bar, it was with easy anticipation. And why not? The music was rock, the beer was cold and the place was filled with friends. One of whom owed him fifty bucks. Grinning, he set off to find his money.

Taylor stepped into the smaller room toward the back of the bar and gave an appreciative smile.

“Hello, ladies,” he said quietly.

Six women, all uniquely beautiful, turned to greet him. All but Alexia, who was well into her pregnancy, crossed the room with hugs at the ready.

“If it isn’t the Wizard himself,” Alexia said with a soft smile when he joined her. “The guys are playing pool so you’ll have to entertain us for a while.”

“I’m here to please.”

He nodded his thanks when the roving waitress in blue sailor pants, a cropped top and cute sailor cap brought him a beer.

“Taylor, you’re not dating anyone, right? Because I have the perfect woman for you.”

Damn.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t taken Scavenger’s warning to heart. But he’d thought he’d at least get to finish a beer before the matchmaking began.

His eyes shifted from woman to woman. Alexia to Livi, Sage to Eden. Lark to Frankie. Then, before he could stop himself, his gaze slid toward the door.

Taylor was a man so renowned for his bravery that he had enough medals to cover half of his chest. He was so clever at getting out of sticky situations that his friends called him Mr. Wizard. And he was so well trained that he could face down a trio of terrorist-armed suicide bombers and automatic weapons without blinking and then disarm them all with nary an explosion.

A healthy, red-blooded male, he appreciated women.

A man raised by a single mother, he respected them.

He admired their shape, their softness, their strength. He treasured their laughter and their hearts.

And he knew exactly how scary they could be. Faced with a half dozen luscious examples of womanhood, his mind raced for the best way out of a potentially explosive situation.

Before he had to, Frankie came to his rescue.

“Hey now, hold on,” the bubbly redhead interrupted. “That’s not fair. I’ve been waiting for Taylor to get back on US soil because I have a great gal I was going to set him up with.”

Taylor frowned. That wasn’t exactly the rescue he’d been hoping for.

“What? We’re setting Taylor up?” Her eyes wide, Lark said, “I want in on this. There’s this lovely woman at the gallery who’d be perfect for him.”

“I can cast your astrological chart first,” Sage offered, her thumb ring glinting as she leaned forward to lay her hand on his arm. “Forewarned is forearmed, and all that jazz. If you want, I can cast charts for your date, too.”

That set off a cacophony so loud, Taylor couldn’t tell if they were arguing, debating, agreeing or planning his demise.

“Ladies, ladies,” Taylor interrupted, one palm up to echo his tone. Friendly demand. “As used as I am to women fighting over me, please, don’t get yourselves into an uproar. There’s no need.”

“But you deserve someone special,” Eden said with a warm smile.

“To hell with that. We need to get you off the market so all the single women quit trying to glom onto our guys after you’re done with them,” Livi said with a wicked laugh.

“Not necessary.”

“Why?” Alexia shifted in her chair and angled her head to give him a narrow look. “Are you seriously involved with someone?”

Taylor opened his mouth to offer an affirmative before making the mistake of looking into Alexia’s eyes. Damn it. He couldn’t lie. Not to her. Not when he cared.

“I am seeing someone,” he said instead, sidestepping the truth enough that guilt danced right on by. After all, he’d had a great view of a sexy blonde when he’d rolled out of her bed two weeks ago. There was the other blonde working the counter at the pizza place a few weeks back who’d provided dessert along with extra pepperoni.

Hell, he’d seen at least a dozen women in the past couple of months. On the low side, but the mission had meant he was gone for ten days.

“You’re dating someone?” Alexia clarified, her narrowed eyes echoing the doubt in her tone. “Seriously dating someone?”

Taylor only hesitated for a heartbeat before widening his smile.

“Serious as a heart attack.” That was about what it would take for him to date anyone seriously.

“Taylor...” Livi leaned close, her new-mom instincts obviously smelling the lie. “You’re telling us that you, the perpetual bachelor, are seriously dating a woman? As in, you’ve gone out with her more than twice, you’ve had a conversation that lasted longer than fifteen minutes and you’d consider introducing her to your mother.”

Why did she have to bring his mother into it?

Taylor’s mom had pounded the virtue of truthfulness into him from a young age. But four years of special ops training, nine in the Navy and six days as a prisoner of war should help him overcome that little issue.

So he did what he’d learned so well to do.

He lied.

“Sure am.”

After exchanging looks with the other women, Alexia smiled.

“Good,” she said.

“Good?” Whew. He lifted his beer, surprised that it’d gone that easy.

“Yes, good,” Alexia said with a smile. “You can bring her to the bonfire Saturday night.”

Taylor was fast, but he couldn’t think of an excuse before Sage reached over to give him a hug.

“Just go with it or they’ll be fixing you up with every single woman they know,” she whispered into his ear. “Agree and escape.”

Run? The idea went against everything in him, against his every belief. Then he looked at the eager faces of the women around him, saw the questions and doubts in their eyes.

“Sure. No problem.” Before anyone could call him on that, he lifted his beer. “First, a refill and then I’ll give her a call.”

Turning on the heel of his boot, he did something he’d never thought possible. He ran.

And wondered, where the hell he was going to find a fake girlfriend?

* * *

“CATARINA MARGARITE.”

Middle-naming her?

Chin sinking until her shoulders damn near cupped her ears, Cat Peres winced. Crouched down on the side of her mother’s house next to the crawl space access, she slid her eyes to the left then the right.

Nobody in sight.

Slowly, as if the slightest shift of her hair would alert the world, she turned her head to the east then the west.

Nobody there, either.

Thank God.

Cat was a strong woman. A brave woman.

She’d spent one windy winter working the high beam. She had a black belt in karate. And she made her living intimidating big, burly men sporting power tools.

But the sound of her middle name ringing out from her childhood home? It sent a cold chill down her spine.

She wasn’t ashamed of that.

She might be strong and brave, but her mother was a scary woman.

Unwilling to risk a repeat, she shot to her feet. Hammer still in hand, she sprinted up the cement steps and yanked open the screen door. Even as she made a mental note to oil the hinges, she dashed across the kitchen, her sneakers sliding on the wet tiles. Arms pin-wheeling, she struggled to keep her balance.

“Holy crap.”

“Catarina,” her mother snapped. “Watch your mouth.”

“Right. Sorry.” Pulling a face, Cat stopped in the doorway between the tiled kitchen and carpeted living room to take off her slick shoes. “I didn’t realize you’d mopped.”

“It’s Thursday.”

Thursday? Already? Cat grabbed the cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and pressed her thumb to the home button. Freakin’-A. It really was Thursday.

Laundry was done on Monday, dusting on Tuesday, bathrooms Wednesday and floors Thursday. Cat knew the other days got their own chores, too, but she’d managed to block those out. Another few years living on her own and maybe she’d forget the rest, too.

Sliding her thumb over the screen, she started to pull up her schedule as she moved into the living room.

“Clean your tracks,” her mother instructed as soon as her foot hit the carpet. Cat sighed and, still reading her phone, did an about-face toward the broom closet.

“You can’t do a proper job with that phone clutched in your fist,” her mother called out, proving once again that her X-ray vision could see through walls.

Rolling her eyes, Cat slipped the phone into her pocket and got to work removing evidence of her slide across the floor. As she mopped, she went over the schedule, trying to figure out how she could be in San Diego and El Cajon at the same time. She was overseeing four jobs next week, two small enough that she could set up the crew and go, but as lead carpenter on one and job supervisor on the other, her presence was sort of vital. She wished Marco would get his act together and schedule these jobs right. She had no problem calling the San Diego couple and rescheduling, but then she’d have to listen to another one of Marco’s fanatical customer relation lectures.

Debating, she tucked the mop away.

“Hey, Mom? Is tonight Aunt Ceecee’s book club or is it next week?”

“You got problems with Marco again?” Lucia Perez tut-tutted as she arranged silk roses into a crystal vase. A mirror image of her youngest daughter, her hair was black where Cat’s was caught somewhere between brown and blond, her eyes brown while Cat’s were sky blue. And while all of Cat’s sisters had inherited their mother’s petitely lush curves, Cat was long, leggy and on the skinny side of slender. And much to Lucia’s dismay, Cat’s only nod to femininity was the long hair she kept pulled into a tail.

“No problems,” Cat said, denying her mom’s accusation. “I just needed to check something.”

“If Marco is going to put you in charge of all that work, he should let you be in charge. Selfish man. He’s just a figurehead. Like your papa, you do all of the work, take all of the responsibility. He takes all of the glory and the money.”

Cat loved her job as a contractor and once she’d gotten past the heartache of losing him, she’d loved following her father’s footsteps at Peres Construction. Sure, it’d be nice if she’d been able to step into her dad’s position, but she understood the necessity of proving herself—of working her way up the ladder—until she could take her dad’s place as Marco’s partner. It was bound to happen soon, too, with her uncle making noises about retiring.

She was close. So close.

But Cat was a smart woman.

Smart enough to know that close didn’t matter to her mother.

“That’s a pretty arrangement,” Cat complimented, also smart enough to change the subject. “Are you doing a flower show this weekend?”

“Leda and I are going to Vegas this weekend,” her mother said with a worrisome look in her eyes. “You should come with us. You could drive.”

Ah, there it was. Motherly pity. If she’d stopped at fixing the leaky kitchen faucet and replacing the furnace filters instead of reframing the crawl space vent, she might have actually escaped, pity unspoken.

Oh, the pity would still be there. Just not there, out loud. After all, Cat was single, childless, with nary a date on the horizon to fix that.

“Mom, I’m not tagging along with you and Mrs. Powell.” Before her mother could say anything, Cat held up one hand. “First off, you both like fighting over who drives too much for me to take that away from you. Second, I don’t gamble and don’t want to see a show. Third, I have to work this weekend.”

“Work?” Lucia pursed her lips, too ladylike to spit out the pshaw Cat knew was on her mind. “You know, if you were your own boss instead of working for that tyrant Marco, you’d be able to take time off. You’re a smart girl, a hard worker. Why haven’t you gone out on your own yet?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?

Oh, she could run her own company. And she’d be good at it. She was an excellent carpenter, a fair plumber and a decent electrician. She knew how to get respect from the crew, how to handle costing out jobs and what to send the accountant.

She’d learned all that at her father’s knee. She’d idolized him, admired him and wanted nothing more than to be like him. When her sisters were learning to flirt and wear makeup, she’d been learning the ins and outs of construction.

But she didn’t want her own business.

She wanted the family business.

Knowing her mother wouldn’t like that answer, she simply shrugged.

“Business is good,” was all she said. And it was. Real estate had bounced back over the past couple of years, but it still wasn’t near the peak it’d been during the bubble. Most people weren’t buying new, they were adding on, refurbishing or remodeling.

“You should be dating eligible men on weekends, not working. If you don’t date, how are you going to find your soul mate, Catarina? You waste your life swinging a hammer instead of dating, you’ll find yourself old and shriveled, alone in your twilight years without the joy of marriage or grandchildren to keep you warm.” Lucia stopped only long enough to take a breath before continuing her lament on her youngest daughter’s failings.

Familiar with the list, by the time it reached her choices in footwear, Cat could only sigh. She had four older sisters, each one of them fitting perfectly into Lucia Peres’s idea of what was acceptable. Three of them had provided grandchildren, two worked at the flower shop with Lucia and all four were unquestionably female, right down to their pierced ears and lipstick fetishes.

And then there was Cat.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“You can’t be fine,” Lucia insisted as she tucked another flower into the vase. She stepped back to give the arrangement a narrow-eyed look then nudged a flower down an inch before shifting that look to her daughter. “You work too much, so you’re a slave to the business.”

Cat pursed her lips to keep from pointing out that her mom was spending Thursday evening with the dining room table covered in silk flower arrangements, undoubtedly to be used as window displays for the flower shop. Maybe it was only slaving if she used real flowers?

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“You don’t look fine. You look tired. Why are you not using face cream, Catarina? Or better, makeup? A nice bright lipstick would show off that lovely smile.”

“I was up late,” Cat returned in excuse. She’d ended up finishing the payroll reports for Marcus.

“When was the last time you went on a date?”

Did a beer after shift with the crew count? Unless they were all naked and ingesting the beer off each other’s bodies, Lucia would probably say no.

“I date.”

But her mother kept on going.

“You’re wasting your youth with that silly business. And it’s not even yours, Catarina. You’re wasting your youth on someone else.”

“I’m not wasting anything. I’m using my youth to build up experience and knowledge so when I run my own, I’ll be a success.” Cat paused. “Like Daddy.”

Lucia gave a heavy sigh, her eyes sad as she set the flowers aside to take Cat into her arms.

“Of all my daughters, you’re the most like your father. But you need to be you, Catarina. You need to live your life. Live your dreams.”

“I am living my dream,” Cat declared.

“Don’t you have dreams of children? Of a family?” Her mother threw her hands in the air. “Or, your father forgive me, of regular sex?”

Regular sex?

With a silent laugh, Cat let her mother’s lecture wash over her while she shifted her gaze to stare through the window at the Powell house.

Yeah.

She had dreams of amazing sex.

Mind-blowingly amazing, panty-meltingly hot sex.

But all of her dreams revolved around the only man she could imagine was capable of that kind of sex.

Taylor Powell.

2

FRIDAY EVENING, CAT, her tool caddy in hand, let herself into the Powell house. Leda had asked her to do a few repairs in the upstairs bathroom, so Cat headed right up the stairs, her boots rapping against the glossy wood. Leda and Cat’s mom had headed for Vegas around noon, but Cat had the key. And she knew her way.

She should. She’d run tame in this house most of her life. She’d taken piano lessons from Mrs. Powell for a month before they’d both realized that it was a lost cause. Then, knowing Lucia’s obsession with turning her daughters into ladies, instead of telling Cat’s mother that it was pointless, Leda had spent an hour twice a week teaching Cat to appreciate music even if she couldn’t play it herself.

It hadn’t been fear of her mother—well, not just fear of her mother—that had Cat going along with the lessons. Nope, her ten-year-old self had sat through hours of Beethoven, Bach and Tchaikovsky in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Mrs. Powell’s only son.

She’d lived for those glimpses of the fourteen-year-old Taylor coming home from baseball practice with his grass-stained knees and his crooked smile. For the offhand “hey’s,” the rare times he’d sit and chat. She’d ripped herself away from her obsession with power tools to learn baseball just so she’d have something to add to the conversation.

At twelve, she’d learned to work on engines so she could help him rebuild the engine in his ancient Chevy. When she was fourteen, she’d snuck out one night to follow Taylor on a date. She hadn’t been able to get an up-close look, but she’d seen enough going on in the backseat of that Chevy to send her budding hormones haywire. All she’d wanted, all she’d been able to think about for months, was getting him to do to her what he’d been doing to Marcy Carter.

But by fifteen, after a lot of reflection and watching of the bimbo parade across the street, she’d been smart enough to figure out that she wasn’t Taylor’s type. No amount of wishing would make it otherwise. She’d never be petite and curvy. She’d never be giggly or girly. She’d never be his girl.

So she’d settled on being his friend.

But...

At the top of the stairs Cat turned left instead of right, heading for Taylor’s old bedroom.

She and Taylor might just be friends, but they were friends with benefits. The naughty sexual benefits might all be in her mind, but that was beside the point.

She stopped in the open doorway of the bedroom and breathed deep. It smelled like the rest of the house: clean and slightly citrusy. But she liked to think that she was breathing in a little of Taylor. She dropped her tote by the door and stepped into the room.

Even though he hadn’t lived here since he’d left for college, Mrs. Powell hadn’t changed her boy’s room. Instead of sports figures or rock bands, the framed shots on Taylor’s wall were beach scenes and inspirational military posters.

A California king, his bed was too big for the small room but Taylor had hit six-two in his midteens, so Mrs. Powell had probably been thinking of her son’s height. Cat, however, thought of all sorts of things when she saw Taylor’s bed.

Picturing him lying there, his blue eyes bright as he reached out to touch her. His fingers would be a little rough when they skimmed under her shirt, sliding along her skin. He’d smile, that crooked grin of his making his dimple wink when he stripped her naked.

Cat ran her hand over the denim bedspread then, with her eyes closed, sat. Her cheeks tingled with heat but she still gave the bed a little bounce. She’d been doing this since she was seventeen and had started doing repairs for Mrs. Powell. Sneaking into Taylor’s room when nobody was home, bouncing on his bed.

She justified it by accepting that this was the closest she’d ever get to bouncing on Taylor himself.

Laughing at herself, Cat gave one last bounce on the trim blue spread before jumping to her feet and crossing the room. Before she grabbed her tote, though, she took a trip through Taylor’s past via the scarred bookcase next to the door.

Trophies for everything from track and field to shooting to debate. Framed photos of Taylor and his mom over the years. Adorable at twelve in his Sea Scout uniform. Sexy at sixteen with his first car, a beat-up Chevy. Hotter than hell a dozen years ago at his high school graduation; Leda’s smile wide enough to crack her face. And Taylor in Navy whites. Cat sighed, tracing her finger over the image of that gorgeous face. His brown hair shorn so short that those big blue eyes looked huge in his serious face. It was the only photo that didn’t feature his crookedly sexy grin.

Cat sighed. Then, rolling her eyes at the silliness of her crush, reached down to grab her tote. Time to get to work.

Leda wanted the drip fixed in the bathroom sink and the broken tile by the tub replaced. So Cat pulled out her pipe wrench and started work. And if she let her imagination roam to dreaming about Taylor naked in that shower, hot water spraying over his muscular body, dripping down that hard flesh, so what?

It just proved how good she was at her job, multitasking while on the verge of a climax.

* * *

“LIEUTENANT POWELL, DO you have anything to add to your report?”

“No, sir.” Taylor stood at attention, back straight, chin high and eyes straight ahead.

He felt the stares of the chief warrant officer, of the captain, of the O5 from Naval Intelligence. He heard papers rustling, the click of the keys as someone took notes.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been called in for a personal debriefing. It wouldn’t be the last. That didn’t make it any easier.

No question about it, life was ugly.

Sometimes his part in it made it better.

Sometimes it made it uglier.

Taylor accepted that.

Debriefings only put a spotlight on the good, on the ugly.

“Lieutenant, you engaged with a minor subject. You left said subject for dead, is that correct?”

Still at attention, Taylor didn’t spare a look for the NI weasel. But he did take great pleasure in mentally flipping the guy the bird.

“The enemy was armed,” he repeated. Again. This time he added, “Said enemy had a finger on the trigger and one of my teammates in the crosshairs. According to intelligence provided by NI, everyone inside the installation was to be considered a terrorist. Standard—”

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” the captain interrupted. “You’re not here to justify following orders or for doing an exemplary job.”

Right.

Even though it felt like it.

But Taylor was too well trained to let his thoughts, or his dislike of the NI weasel, show.

“I’m not concerned with justification,” the weasel said. “Lieutenant, given the severity of what you faced, have you requested a medical exam?”

“I wasn’t injured. Sir.” Since it was his only option for expressing his opinion of that idea, Taylor snapped out the sir with as much disgust as he could.

“And if you were ordered to report to NCCOSC?”

Damn and double damn. No way Taylor wanted to deal with the Naval Center for Combat & Operational Stress Control. He didn’t deny that they did some good, but he didn’t need it.

All he said was, “I follow orders. Sir.”

Without looking, he could tell the guy wasn’t done. But once again, the captain interrupted.

“That’ll be all, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

Without hesitation, Taylor turned heel and strode out. He didn’t breathe until he’d cleared the room, shut the door.

He let his shoulders relax, yanking off his cover. He smacked it on his thigh then slapped it back on his head, tugging the brim low.

With a brief nod to the officer manning the desk, Taylor double-stepped it into the hallway. He didn’t make it two feet before he was hailed by his commanding officer.

“Yo, Wizard.”

“Sir.” Taylor gave Irish an easy nod before tilting his head toward the door at the end of the corridor. “I’m done here. So I’m officially on leave now, right?”

Taylor waited for Irish to do him a favor and dismiss him. But after a long stare, instead of nodding Taylor away, the commander pointed at one of the wooden chairs lining the hall.

“Not quite yet.”

“Another debriefing?”

“Nah. Just a little guy talk and a friendly warning.”

The tone as much as the words themselves told Taylor that he didn’t have to stand on ceremony. He grabbed a chair, flipped it around and straddled it, using the back of his hand to shove his brim up so he had a clear view.

“Talk.”

Irish, in uniform, doffed his hat and sat opposite, leaning his elbows on his thighs.

“NI is on a fishing expedition. You know it. I know it. The brass knows it. So I’m not going to bother pointing it out.”

“I appreciate you not mentioning it.” Taylor’s lips wanted to twitch but he was a strong man. He kept control of them.

“I’m a good guy that way.” Irish shrugged.

“That’s what I always say.” Taylor waited for the laugh, but Irish’s face didn’t budge.

That’s when he remembered the friendly warning part of Irish’s comment.

Crap.

He waited.

Irish looked down the hallway to the left.

Then he looked to the right.

Taylor just looked at him.

When Irish looked back, he tilted his head toward the office Taylor had just left.

“The NI ass-hat has an agenda.”

“Besides SEAL baiting?” Taylor murmured, thinking back on the debriefing. To the leading questions, to the pointed use of information. “They gonna institute post-operative health checks?”

“Not sure.” Irish glanced toward the door then shrugged. “I don’t think NI is looking for anything that simple.”

Taylor didn’t, either.

Considering what that meant, they were both silent for a moment.

“So that was the friendly warning?”

“Nope.” Irish shook his head. “We’ve got a para-dive training operation coming up. We’ll be operating out of Coronado. So if you have any projects you wanna take on, now’s the time.” After a beat he continued. “Or if you need downtime, more than a few days’ leave, it’s good timing.”

Damn.

Was he that obvious?

No, he realized, he wasn’t obvious. Irish had been on the mission. So he was likely on the same page.

Taylor stared at his boots, letting his mind empty of everything but the feeling of support from his commander. By extension, from his team. They were trained to have each other’s backs in battle, to know that they were covered on a mission, that they always had support. But knowing it extended to everyday life, to the ugly and beyond...

“I’m fine,” Taylor said again. But this time he meant it. “All I need is a little time, a little distance. I’ve got the next few days’ leave. I don’t need more than that.”

“Good enough.”

Standing, they shook and turned their separate ways.

All of a sudden Taylor stopped and turned around.

“Yo, Irish?”

The commander stopped walking and glanced back over his shoulder. “The friendly warning?” Irish grinned. “You’re on shaky ground with the ladies. They figure you lied about your date, that you’ll show with a bimbo du jour instead.”

“Seriously?” With a huffing sort of a laugh, Taylor shook his head. “Don’t the women have anything better to do than worry about my sex life?”

“They couldn’t care less about your sex life. It’s your love life they’re interested in.” Irish patted one hand to his heart. “Such potential, so much to offer. You’re being wasted, you know. It’s a crying shame.”

Shit.

“I’ll figure it out,” was all he said, though.

An hour later he’d put the mission effects, the ass-hat, the matchmakers and the debriefing out of his head. Nobody looking at him would see a SEAL, lonely hearted or otherwise. All they’d see was a man in a leather jacket and worn jeans flying by on a tricked-out Harley.

Taylor loved what he did.

His life was his career. Being a SEAL was who he was. What he was. All he wanted.

But sometimes it sucked.

Fury, pain and misery all balanced on a knife’s edge. If they tilted one way or the other, he knew he’d lose it. And lose it in an ugly way.

The wind pounding against him loud enough to drown out the sound of his Harley, Taylor raced along SR 75. He barely noticed the beach, the other cars, the time. Instead, he focused on the speed. On the feel of the motor roaring beneath him. On nothing.

Right now, all he wanted to think about was nothing.

It might have been an hour later, it might have been five. But by the time the sun was down, the nasty edge was gone. He didn’t care where or when, he just knew he’d left it behind somewhere.

Without thinking, without questioning it, Taylor got off the highway, downshifting as he maneuvered his way through his old neighborhood. A part of him always expected to ride into a hazy circle of shimmering smoke. The kind that sci-fi movies always showed when someone flew back through time.

Suburbia, USA, with its tidy, tailored lawns lining rows of tidy tailored houses behind sidewalks that hosted kids on bikes, dogs on leashes and a few power-walking octogenarians. It looked the same now as it had back when Taylor had been one of those biking kids. Sure, the Chos had moved five years back, but the Pereses were still across the street. Mike Barnes had moved to Connecticut but his parents still lived on the corner.

Taylor pulled his bike into the driveway and cut the engine. On his way to the front door, he lifted his hand to Mr. Blaine when the old man waved from his front porch.

Home.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

There was no place like it.

“Yo,” he called out as the door swung shut behind him. “Ma?”

He heard a thump then a muffled bang, but no response.

“Ma?” His long legs ate up the stairs, two by two as he did a quick mental review of his last CPR certification, tried to remember if his mother was on any meds and scanned his brain for the nearest location of her HMO.

He barreled past his childhood bedroom and skidded into the doorway of his mother’s bedroom. Even as a quick glance assured him it was empty, he heard another thump coming from the hall bathroom. But this one was accompanied by cussing.

Very female, very un-motherly cussing.

In a blink his tension dissipated, his worry faded.

He knew that cussing.

When the next round included anatomically incorrect suggestions with farm animals, he grinned. Yeah. He knew that cussing really well.

Hands in the front pockets of his jeans, he sauntered down the hall. Stopping in the bathroom door, he paused for a second to smile in appreciation of the sweetly curved ass encased in denim so worn it was white at the seams and had a hole starting just above the back pocket.

The legs were about a mile long. The kind of legs that went beyond wrapping around a guy’s waist. Legs that long would reach his shoulders.

He almost groaned when his eyes reached a pair of black leather boots similar to the ones he wore on duty. Was there anything sexier than legs like that in black boots? Sure, knee-high black boots with a little shine and skinny laces would be hotter, but boots were boots.

“Hellooo,” he murmured.

“What?” The hips moved, the back arched and the owner of those sexy legs lifted her head so fast he heard it hit something under the sink. Cussing again, this time with more heat, the body did a quick one-eighty. Sitting on the floor, rubbing her head, the woman glared at him with enough heat to start a fire.

“Taylor?”

“Cat?” he said at the same time. He automatically started to reach out and help her to her feet, but at the last second couldn’t. Touching her so soon after that image of her legs wrapped over his shoulders didn’t seem like a smart idea.

When the hell had Kitty Cat gotten hot?

Unable to resist, his gaze took a follow-up tour of the front view. Her hair, too gold to be brown, too dark to be blond, was tied back, highlighting a face too strong to be called pretty. Eyes the color of the ocean at sunset stared back under sharply arched brows. The rounded cheeks, a slight upper bite and the scar on her chin were all familiar.

The way her faded green T cupped her breasts was new, as was the sweetly gentle slide from breast to waist to hip where the T met denim.

Oh, yeah. Kitty Cat was definitely hot.

“Hey there, Mr. Wizard,” Cat greeted after checking her fingers to see if her head was bleeding. “How’s Mrs. Powell’s pride and joy?”

“As good as ever. How about the Kitty Cat? How’re you doing?”

“Same ole, same ole,” Cat said with a shrug that did interesting things to that T-shirt of hers.

Things he had no business noticing.

Locking his eyes on her face, Taylor asked, “Where’s Ma?”

“She’s with my mother. They’re on another one of their wild trips to Vegas.” Cat tossed the pipe wrench into her toolbox, the loud clang knocking loose the last of Taylor’s odd and inappropriate lust. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“I’ve been out of the country.”

“Saving the world again?” Cat teased, getting to her feet. “Did you come home to wash your cape and tights?”

Taylor grinned.

There she was, the cute kid across the street again. She’d been making superhero jokes since he’d earned his SEAL trident.

“Gotta do my part,” he said easily. “But all that superhero stuff works up an appetite. I figured I’d cop a meal from Ma. You know, some home-cooked goodness.”

As he’d told Irish, all he needed was a little time, a little distance. And home.

Throw in his buddy Cat and his mom’s cooking and everything in life was just fine.

* * *

HE LOOKED SO damned yummy.

For the first time in her life Cat wished she could cook more than her soup, salad and sandwich trilogy. For Taylor, she might actually consider throwing away her hard-and-fast rule about never playing the little woman.

Maybe.

If only for a weekend.

Thankfully, her lack of kitchen skills meant she didn’t have to face tossing aside her principles. Instead, she could order pizza.

“You sticking around for a while?”

“Yeah.” Grinning at the surprise on her face, Taylor reached out to tug at a long strand of hair that’d escaped her braid when she’d been checking her head for damage. “Why not? I’ve got a bed here. I’m sure there’s lasagna in the freezer and Ma has ESPN.”

“Sure,” she said, laughing. “You’re going to hang here alone, eating leftovers and watching sports instead of hitting the town with a hot date? You know, celebrating yet another successful mission.”

He shrugged, but Cat saw something flash behind his eyes. Was that pain? Before she could get a closer look, his cell phone chimed.

“Problem?” Cat asked when he frowned at the message.

“Maybe.” He stared at his phone for another second then thumbed it off.

“Can I help?” she offered automatically.

He started to shake his head then stopped.

Brows together, Taylor took a step backward. He looked at Cat from head to foot and back up again.

“What?” Cat’s brows pulled together. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t trust the expression in his eyes.

“Want to do me a favor?”

She wanted to do him any way she could get him. But she didn’t think he’d want to know that.

“What kind of favor?”

“It’s a little complicated,” Taylor said, leaning against the counter and crossing his legs at the ankle.

Cat held her breath, heat spiraling low in her belly as she looked up the length of those long, muscular legs all the way to his zipper. From where she was kneeling, all she had to do was lean forward a little and she could grab that zipper in her teeth and tug it right down.

“Cat?”

“Hmm?” she murmured, wondering if he’d be able to stop her before she got a peek at the good stuff.

“Favor?”

Huh?

Oh.

She blinked, wrinkling her nose before meeting his questioning look with a sheepish smile.

“Whatever you want,” she said, forcing her attention—and her gaze—off the size of his package and back to the conversation. He lived on base, so it couldn’t be construction related, unless it was for a friend. Maybe he needed his bike tuned or some help for his mom.

“Go out with me Saturday.”

“Wh—?” She cleared her throat and, figuring she needed all the help she could get, slid to her feet. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard. What was the favor?”

“I need a stand-in date. It’s no big deal.” Taylor grinned, reaching out to tug her ponytail. “Just some friends getting together.”

“Uh-huh.” Cat searched his face, trying to see what that meant. Did they get together naked?

“A few of my friends on the team. Their ladies.”

Cat’s heart raced. Afraid she’d hyperventilate at any second, she focused on her breathing instead of the idea of her and Taylor, naked. Together. Naked together.

With his friends, she reminded herself.

But that didn’t dull the heat of the fantasy. After all, someone had to take pictures.

Mmm, pictures.

Cat rubbed her hand over her mouth to make sure she wasn’t drooling.

“You wanna go? Be my date for the night?” The way he said “date” with that little laugh made it clear that while she might be fantasizing about the night ending with mutual tongue baths, he was just looking for a buddy for the evening.

And probably not a bootie buddy.

“Why me?” Cat couldn’t help but ask.

“Over the last year or so, the guys on the team have been hooking up. You know, marrying, living with their ladies, that sort of thing? It’s like an epidemic.”

“And you’re afraid you’ll catch it?”

“Nah, I’m immune,” Taylor said with a grin as he folded his arms over that gorgeous chest.

She pouted over the loss of view, but the sight of his bulging biceps was a nice consolation.

“If you’re immune, what’s the worry?” Then Cat grinned and answered her own question. “The ladies are planning a mission of their own?”

“If I don’t bring a date—a nonbimbo date—they’re going to execute Operation Bachelorhood Screw-Up,” he agreed with a laugh.

And that was it for bootie buddy fantasy—poof, all gone.

“It’ll be fun. You’ll like everyone and you’ll fit right in. You know, like one of the guys.”

Cat’s bottom lip trembled. To keep him from seeing, she grabbed her crowbar and went to work on the broken tile.

One of the guys.

Except she wasn’t. She was a girl—no, a woman.

Maybe it was time Taylor realized that.

3

“YOU CAN’T GO on a date with Taylor Powell looking like that.”

Ashlynn Brown, BFF and big mouth extraordinaire, sounded horrified. Cat would put it down to a dramatic personality, but while Ashlynn was definitely dramatic, she was also a makeup artist at one of the posh boutiques downtown. And ever since her family had moved down the street from Cat’s fifteen or so years ago, she’d proven time and time again that she knew way more about all things girly than Cat could ever hope to.

Or would ever want to.

Still...

“What’s wrong with the way I look?”

Cat frowned at her reflection in the dresser mirror. Instead of her usual ponytail, she’d pulled her hair back in a French braid. Her blue-and-white-checked shirt was tied at the waist, cuffed at her elbows with enough buttons open to show the slick black fabric of her tank-style swimsuit. She could only see herself from the hips up, but her knee-length, cuffed shorts should be fine.

“Is it the sandals?” she asked, inspecting the leather straps and the turquoise polish on her toes. “Should I wear skids instead?”

“The shoes are the least of the issue,” Ashlynn declared, throwing her hands in the air. “You’re going on a date. A date with the sexiest guy to ever graduate from State High. Taylor Powell.”

Ashlynn paused to give her heart a little pitty-pat.

“The oh-so-fine, wish-he-were-mine Taylor Powell. Abs-of-steel and buns-too-good-to-be-real Taylor Powell. I-wish-he’d-do-me—”

“I know who Taylor is,” Cat interrupted with a laugh. “All of that aside, he’s a friend. A good friend who needs a favor.”

“The favor being a date.”

“A fake date,” she pointed out absently as she checked her wallet. Cash, cell phone, keys. All set.

“Fine. Fake date. Whatever. It’s still a date. Going on a date with a man like Taylor Powell looking like just one of the guys is wrong. You owe it to His Hotness to look your best. No—” Ashlynn dropped her head and lifted one hand in the air “—you owe it to yourself.”

“Oh, I do, do I?” Dropping her wallet onto the purple-striped comforter, Cat settled on her bed to watch the show. Ashlynn was nothing if not entertaining when she went on these rants.

“You do. You’re living the dream.”

“You dream about dating Taylor?” Cat gave silent thanks that she’d kept her own Taylor fantasies to herself. Not that dating factored into any of them. Bonking, boinking, bouncing—they were all there, though.

“Everyone dreams about dating Taylor Powell. Women who haven’t even met the guy are dreaming about him, they just don’t know his name. Fake or not, this is a dream date. Which means you go on it looking like a woman. Not a beer buddy.”

“Hey, I’m wearing my date sandals. I even polished my toenails.”

“You always polish your toenails. That and your sexy underwear are the only signs you ever show that you’re a girl.”

“Comfy undies are a priority.”

“Cat,” Ashlynn groaned, drawing the single syllable out into three.

Cat rolled her eyes. She had no illusions about tonight. It was a favor for a friend. No different than if the two of them went to a ball game or grabbed a couple of beers after working together on his car.

“Get real, Ash. If I dress all girly in ruffles and lace—or even slutty leather—Taylor will just laugh at me. Is that anywhere on your dream list?”

“I didn’t say you should dress like a girly girl. I said like a woman. You know...a little makeup. A bikini instead of a tank suit. Maybe a dress—and before you roll your eyes, I’m not saying a ruffly one.” Ashlynn frowned. “Do you actually have slutty leather?”

“I have a leather tool belt.”

“Nah.” Her head in Cat’s closet now, Ashlynn waved that away. “That’s only sexy if you’re naked.”

Oh, the images that put in her head. Cat puffed out a breath, wondering if when he saw her naked but for a tool belt, Taylor would see her as a woman. The kind of woman he’d like to match nakedness with. Even as her practical side rolled its eyes, a little voice whispered that this was it. This was her chance to play girl to Taylor’s boy. Or better, woman to his man.

Cat was tempted. Hell, those images alone were enough to make her think crazy thoughts, to pretend that a dress would make Taylor see her as a bedtime playmate. But a dress wouldn’t hide the fact that she was about a half foot taller, a couple bra cups smaller and her blond hair way darker than Taylor’s usual type.

After all, she’d spent years studying that type.

She’d also spent years studying possibilities. So she knew that it was impossible to turn a cozy cottage into a sleek penthouse.

“How about this?” Ashlynn asked, turning from the closet with a hanger held high. On it was one of the few dresses Cat owned. Denim—her favorite go-to fabric—fell in slim lines to midcalf. The floral sweetheart bodice was held together with suede laces that matched the braided shoulder straps. “This looks good on you, it’s not frilly but it’s still feminine. You’ll be comfortable in it.”

She’d been comfortable when she’d worn it to a family reunion and to her electrician’s wedding. And while she’d felt normal in it, not as if she was wearing a costume, she’d still been hit on every time she’d worn it.

Cat frowned at the dress then at Ashlynn.

“I don’t have a bikini,” she said, looking for an out. Or her sanity, which seemed less findable.

“Don’t you have other swimsuits? What about that blue one?”

“The one Sophia got me?” Still not sure what her sister had been thinking, Cat shook her head. “I’m not wearing that in public. Besides leaving half my boobs on display, it requires a close relationship with a woman with hot wax and ripping skills.”

“High on the thighs?”

“It doesn’t touch my thighs. I swear, the legs on that suit start at my belly button. Which is just about where the top stops.” She’d return it, but she had no idea where her sister had bought the thing. Instead, it had been tucked away in the holy-hell-what-were-they-thinking drawer, along with the various pieces of sexy lingerie her sisters all figured she, as the only single one among them, must wear on a regular basis.

“Fine, I guess your suit will do. Let’s fix the rest of you.” Before Cat could blink, the other woman threw the dress on the bed, had a bag from her purse in one hand and grabbed Cat’s hand with the other.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Here,” Ashlynn instructed, pointing to the chair by the window with one hand while pulling out bottles and tubes. “You’re going to the beach, you want natural light.”

Natural, like the state of her face already? But Cat knew better than to argue, so she sat.

“A little tinted moisturizer, bronzer instead of blush and a subtle smoky eye. You’ll love it.”

“How do you know these things?” Cat wondered out loud as Ashlynn smoothed lotion over her face before dipping a brush into some peachy-gold-colored cream that she’d squirted on the back of her hand.

“How do you not know these things?” Her brown eyes narrowed in concentration, Ashlynn took a second to roll them. “You have all those sisters. Yet you don’t have a clue about makeup, dressing like a girl, any of that. How is that possible?”

“Rebellion,” she said, going with the easiest answer. The truth was that, to all of her sisters, being beautifully feminine was natural. They were never seen without their makeup, their hair was always carefully styled and they wore outfits, not clothes.

“You’re lucky that rebellion looks good on you. If I weren’t your best friend, I’d have a whole lot of hate for someone who puts in as little effort as you do yet always gets all the looks and leers.”

“You want a guy leering at you?”

“I didn’t say they were all guys. Now close your eyes.”

Eyes closed, Cat asked, “You’re kidding, right?”

“About the looks and leers? Nope. I can’t believe you never noticed. That’s another thing I’d hate if I didn’t like you so much. It’s as if you’re oblivious to your own appeal.”

Maybe because the only person whose look or leer she’d ever really wanted was Taylor’s.

“It’s not like I’m a sheltered virgin,” she murmured defensively as Ashlynn drew a pencil along her lash line.

“Virgin, no. Sheltered, hmm...”

“What’s that mean?” Forgetting about the weapon of makeup destruction in her friend’s hand, Cat’s eyes flew open. “I work with a crew of forty men and apprenticed with Local One as a carpenter. I’m surrounded by men whose idea of tact is to cut their four-letter-word consumption by a third instead of doubling it when I’m around. How is that sheltered?”

“You have a crew of guys who work under you—and not in a sexy way—all of whom know you’re the boss’s niece, most of whom worked for your dad when he was the boss.” Ashlynn rubbed a stubby brush along the pencil line. “You date once in a blue moon and always go out with guys who are intimidated by you.”

Before Cat could protest, Ashlynn pointed to the ceiling with a mascara wand.

“Look up. This is waterproof so don’t worry about hitting the ocean. And I’m not saying the guys you’ve dated are wimps. You have better taste than that. I’m just saying that none of them is the kind of guy to make you crazy. To make you want to do the kind of thing that you wouldn’t want on the internet—but would risk videotaping, anyway.”

Cat really wanted to deny that but she couldn’t. She just wished it didn’t make her feel so bummed, though. Was there something wrong with her that she only attracted internet-video-safe guys?

Wand held high, Ashlynn stepped back to inspect her work. She tilted her head to one side, her brown curls hitting the right shoulder. She tilted the other way, curls brushing the left.

“Lip stain instead of lipstick,” she concluded, digging into the bag. “This will last through the afternoon, through a few bouts in the sea and at least one hot kiss.”

“I’m going with Taylor,” Cat reminded her, speaking carefully so as not to move the lips being stained. “No plans to kiss.”

“Plans can change,” Ashlynn said, waggling the stain in Cat’s face. “And when they do, your lips can handle them.”

Cat pressed her lips together, wondering how they’d feel if Taylor deemed them ready. Her stomach did a little dance before she could stop it. Crazy, she told herself. She wasn’t going to be kissing Taylor on their fake date.

“What are you doing?” she asked when Ashlynn moved around the chair behind her. “Hey, that’s my braid.”

“Who wears their hair in a braid on a date?”

“Someone going to the beach,” Cat ventured with a sigh. Yet another reason why she wouldn’t be kissing Taylor. Fake date or not, she simply wasn’t girly enough to even know that braids were a dating no-no.

“You wear your hair in either a ponytail or a braid all the time. Tonight, you loosen it up.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going out with Taylor Powell.”

“Why are you so excited about this?” Cat frowned, wishing she could touch her face. It felt normal. She dropped her bottom lip, opened her mouth wide, shifted her chin from side to side. It even moved. “You’re more excited about this than I am.”

“That’s because I’m seeing the possibilities while you’re talking yourself out of them.”

“What!” Closing her mouth so fast her teeth snapped together, Cat frowned. A part of her was relieved that she could.

“You need to spend time with a guy who isn’t intimidated by your strength. You need to have some fun, and by fun I mean with people who don’t use hammers for a living. And most of all,” Ashlynn said as she twisted pieces of Cat’s hair back while leaving the rest loose, “you need sex.”

“Sex?” Cat would have laughed if she wasn’t afraid Ashlynn might pull her hair out. “You think this date is going to net me some sex?”

A tiny bead of sweat dotted her upper lip. Cat felt as if a giant elephant was sitting on her chest, squishing out all of the air. The very idea of her and sex and Taylor in the same thought made her dizzy. A good kind of dizzy.

“Taylor Powell is a hottie and you’ve been crushing on him for years. If you feel like you look good, you’ll be more inclined to act on your crush. You act on it, you might get laid. You get laid, you’ll be able to tell me if all those rumors about Taylor’s sexual prowess are fact or fiction.”

Cat’s laughter chased away the dizziness. “Gossip?”

“I live for gossip,” Ashlynn claimed in a breathy voice as she fluffed the hair around Cat’s face. “Besides, I figure if you start having regular sex, you’ll loosen up a little. Once you loosen up, you’ll be ready for changes. You need changes.”

Cat was silent as she tried to process all of that.

“I’m not leaving Peres Construction,” she finally said. “And my chances of having sex on this date? Do a snowball and hell have any meaning to you?”

“Whatever you say.” Ashlynn tossed the brush into the bag with her makeup before gesturing to the mirror. “What do you think?”

Cat hesitated for a brief second then got to her feet. There was no point pushing. Ashlynn liked to speak her mind, but she never spoke it unless she wanted to. Cat could beat against that wall of stubbornness, but she had a date picking her up in ten minutes. Besides, the argument would be pointless. Cat wasn’t going to leave Peres Construction. And no matter what Ashlynn said, she wouldn’t be having sex with Taylor—except in her favorite dreams.

“Whoa.” She leaned closer to the mirror, then back, then close again. “I look like me. Me, only...”

Better?

“Stronger.”

Oh. Cat narrowed her eyes. Stronger was good. Her eyes looked sexy, smudged at the corners so they looked bluer. Her lips looked fuller, her cheekbones a little sharper. Instead of the weird curls she’d thought she’d have, her hair was simply full, soft, waving around her face in a dark gold cloud.

Okay. She wasn’t leaving Peres Construction.

But maybe she and the snowball would both get lucky.

* * *

TENSION THROBBED, LOW and ugly, at the base of Taylor’s neck, the roar of his Harley not doing its usual job of massaging it away.

He shouldn’t have gone by to check on Mouse. Definitely not while the guy was on duty. That dumb-ass move had only shaken Bertowski; Taylor had seen it on the other man’s face. His own lame-ass worry had put the other man off his stride, had probably done more harm than the damned mission itself. He’d claimed he was just there to invite Mouse to join them at the beach, that they could all use a break. Mouse had brushed him off like a bad habit.

So Taylor had done the only thing he could. He’d shoved his worries back into their corner of his mind, slammed the door on it and got on with the day.

He hadn’t lied, though. Nothing said relaxation like a day at the beach. Maybe the sun would relax the stress out of his head better than the bike had worn away at his tension.

And nothing guaranteed a relaxing day at the beach than an ace in the hole. Taylor pulled into Cat’s driveway, ready to pick up his ace and get the day started. If nothing else, Cat would be one hell of a fun distraction.

He’d only been here once, back when he’d been corralled into helping Cat move in. But it was easy to see that the carpenter fairy had been working her magic. The cracked driveway had been repaved with a stamped cobblestone design. She hadn’t replaced the overgrowth of dead plants, tree stumps or parched crabgrass that had passed for a yard the last time he was here, but she had cleared them away.

It was hard to picture Cat here, he thought as he leaned on the doorbell. This was a grown-up place. Whenever he’d thought about Cat over the years, he’d always pictured the skinned-knee kid in cutoff overalls with grease on her chin. She’d been a cute kid. Smart and funny.

Despite that image, he knew he could count on her. He trusted few in the same way he trusted his team. But he trusted Cat.

She was that kind of friend.

Before he could wonder where his friend was, the door swung open.

“Hi there, Taylor.”

“Ashlynn?” He smiled once he’d placed her. The bubbly brunette had moved into the house three doors down from his mom’s fourteen, fifteen years back. “How’ve you been?”

“Doing good but running late. Cat’s almost ready. Why don’t you go on inside?” Ashlynn said, giving him a hug and heading down the sidewalk like a brunette whirlwind.

Wondering if the woman ever slowed down, Taylor was grinning as he strode into Cat’s place.

Whoa. Impressed, he looked around. He remembered the place as a hive of small, dark rooms covered in ugly flowered wallpaper and stained carpet.

She’d opened it up. The walls were pale blue trimmed in glossy white with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the back. The furniture looked Scandinavian with blond wood, sleek curves and narrow lines. Books leaned against each other in the bookcase. A pair of work boots lay under the coffee table and another pair was tucked in the corner, along with a baseball bat and glove. The dining table had the inner workings of what looked like a toaster spread over newspaper and a half dozen rolls of blueprints on top. And, proving that Cat was a smart woman with great taste, a big-screen TV covered one wall.

He’d never really considered Cat’s decorating style, but he wasn’t surprised to find her taste ran to the simple and bright. As he wandered over to check out the view of the backyard, Cat stepped into the room, her scent, light and fresh, arriving a second ahead of her.

Taylor turned to say hi but he couldn’t get the word passed the knot in his throat.

Was that really Cat?

“Hey, Taylor.”

It was Cat’s voice, the husky timbre easy and cheerful.

But the rest?

A sexy goddess stood in the doorway, hair flowing like molten gold over strong shoulders, framing a face he’d known for years and suddenly didn’t know at all.

The Cat he knew had blue eyes, yeah. But not sultry eyes framed by lush black lashes.

The Cat he knew had a wide smile and a cute overbite, but he’d never noticed her full, pouty pink lips before.

And the Cat he knew might be a woman, but he’d never—not in the twenty years he’d known her—seen her in a dress. If he had ever stretched his imagination far enough to think of her in one—which he hadn’t—he wouldn’t have imagined her in a clinging sundress with a laced-up bodice. As baffling as Cat and sexy was in his head, Cat and laces was even weirder.

Laces were meant to be unlaced. They were a sexy invitation, an alluring dare.

Both of which he needed to ignore.

But weird or not, the dress suited her. The denim hugged her chest and a surprisingly tiny waist before dropping in an easy line down her hips to midcalf. Instead of the work boots or tennis shoes he’d always seen her in, she was wearing strappy brown sandals.

Her toenails were turquoise.

Taylor stared at her toenails for a long moment, trying to figure out why that, of all the changes, threw him the most.

Where the hell was the Cat he knew? The sweet, unobtrusive tomboy with the sassy ponytail. The easygoing girl next door whom he never actually thought of as a real girl. The unthreateningly unsexy, unassuming friend he’d planned to use as a diversion.

“Taylor?” Cat asked, prodding him with a fist to the shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Fine. We’re on the bike, though.”

“Will this fit?” Cat lifted the small canvas cooler off the table. “I’ve got bungee cords if you’re willing to strap it onto the back of the bike. Or I can hold it if you’re picky about what touches your chrome.”

He was more picky about who touched his chrome than what touched it.

Not what she meant, he told himself. Cat didn’t flirt and he was damned sure she wouldn’t appreciate him imagining her polishing his pole.

“You cooked?” he asked, hoping for a distraction.

“As if.” Cat laughed, pushing one hand through those long, loose curls. “I raided my mom’s freezer for cannoli and the cookie jar for biscotti. Dessert.”

Dessert. Taylor didn’t have much of a sweet tooth but he was suddenly starving for whatever Cat had.

In the bag, he mentally corrected. He was starving for what was in the bag.

“Taylor?” she said slowly, the tone both puzzled and amused. As if she knew he was confused and liked it.

“Dessert sounds good. Bring the bungee cords. You’ll be more comfortable that way.” He frowned. Then, unable to resist, added, “Maybe you should change.”

Of their own volition, his eyes dropped to her chest again, appreciating the way the delicately flowered cotton fabric cupped the gentle swell of her breasts. His fingers tingled with the need to reach out and skim over the softly tanned flesh, to untie the slender leather bow lacing the corset-styled bodice closed.

“Change?” Cat echoed, frowning down at herself. Her hands skimmed from waist to hips, folding the material against her body in a way that made Taylor want to groan. “Is there something wrong with this dress? Is it too fancy? Too casual? Too what?”

Too damned sexy.

“I’ve got my bike,” was all he said.

“No problem.” She shrugged before gathering the skirt in both hands and lifting it higher. Not high enough to show anything interesting, though. “I’m wearing my swimsuit underneath, and this skirt is full enough that I can straddle the bike.”

The word straddle sent myriad images through his mind, but Taylor shoved them right back out. He had no business thinking about Cat rising naked over his body as she straddled him. She was his friend. His younger friend. The daughter of his mother’s best friend, even.

Any one of those put her off-limits.

The three combined put her on the no-fly list.

“Let’s get going,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. A strong man, he used his training to keep his eyes off her butt as she walked in front of him.

This was good. Better than good, he told himself with a scowl. Cat looking hot would make a better impression on the ladies, if only because she was exactly the type they’d all try to hook him up with. Sexy and good-looking but sweet with a big helping of nice.

As long as he stayed focused on the nice and not the swing of her hips, everything would be fine.

“No purse?” he asked, realizing its absence when they reached the bike.

“Purse?” Cat laughed. “I don’t even own one.”

And there she was. The Cat he knew. As much to shake off the edgy need that had grabbed him by surprise as to play along, Taylor gave an exaggerated shake of his head.

“Seriously? Where’d you hide all that stuff women can’t leave home without?”

He automatically looked her up and down. Big mistake, since the visual tour made his fingers tingle again. What kind of swimsuit was she wearing under there? Bikini? One of those one-pieces cut high on the thigh and, his eyes lingered on the hint of cleavage, cut low to show her breasts?

“I have pockets,” Cat said, tucking her hands into them to prove it. She pulled her keys out of one pocket, a small leather wallet and her cell phone out of the other. “Everything I need.”

“You’re one of a kind, Kitty Cat.” Taylor grinned. “One of a kind.”

“Much to my mother’s dismay.” She gave an admiring nod at the bike. “When did you get this?”

“Couple of months ago. We can take your truck instead if you’re worried about your hair.”

Cat laughed.

“You’re kidding, right?” She pulled a band off her wrist that he’d taken for a bracelet. “I’m always prepared.”

“Still mad they wouldn’t let you into the Boy Scouts?”

“You know it.” As she spoke, she made quick work of pulling her hair back. Her fingers flew as she formed a braid. With both hands behind her head, her movements did the most intriguing things to that dress.

Didn’t matter, Taylor reminded himself. What was going on underneath was none of his business.

“Helmet,” he said, handing her his spare.

“Any last-minute instructions?” she asked once she’d put it on and mounted the bike.

“Be yourself. Have fun. And—” he yanked on his helmet and swung his leg over the bike “—pretend we’re dating.”

Emphasis on “pretend.”

Taylor kick-started the engine. He’d figured he’d have to play it up a little. But now all he’d have to do was show up with Cat looking the way she did and the ladies would fill in all of those “pretend” details.

And he’d be off the matchmaking hook.

She wrapped herself around his back, her thighs hugging his and her body pressed in temptation against him.

He’d just have to make sure he didn’t end up on any other hooks.

Especially not hooks that could ruin a lifelong friendship.

4

AN HOUR LATER Taylor kicked it on the beach. The sun warmed his body, slowly seeping through layer after layer of tension. He welcomed the heat, letting it burn away the weird edginess that’d been dogging him.

He wanted to blame the edginess on his reaction to Cat. She’d fit right in with the couple dozen people at the beach party. His SEAL teammates, their ladies, the support crew, everyone who’d met Cat had welcomed her like one of their own.

Even as Hope Goodwin and Cameron Drake, the new SEAL they all called Daffy, were greeted with a loud welcome, Taylor narrowed his eyes against the sun, staring across the sand toward the water. A half-dozen figures were riding waves, but he easily picked her out of the pack.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.