Subject: Navy SEAL Levi Brandon

Mission: Sort out his accidental marriage...without sleeping with his “wife!”

Devil-may-care Navy SEAL Levi Brandon faces a terrifying task: telling Ashley Dixon that their faux wedding during their last mission together was actually real. It’s bad enough that she completely loathes him, but she’s DEA. Levi will be lucky to get away with his life...

Now Ashley and Levi have returned to Fantasy Island to sort things out...and are tempted to play a dangerous game of lust and restraint. A game of dares. All Levi has to do is keep himself from having sex with the hottie DEA agent. But Ashley’s playing to win—and darers always go first.

“I dare you...”

“No sex for one week.”

“Sure,” Levi said agreeably. “But if I take your dare, you take mine.”

Ashley’s hand shot up. “No. I’m done negotiating with you.”

Of course he kept right on talking, as if she hadn’t said anything. “For each night I go without sex, I get to choose a drink for you from Fantasy Island’s cocktail menu.”

She really, really needed to ignore the pulse of heat that suggestion generated in her stomach. And lower. This was Levi. She didn’t even like him, but apparently her body thought angry sex was something she should try at least once in her life. Preferably tonight. He had her, and he knew it. She just couldn’t walk away from a dare.

“You want to get me drunk?”

His teeth flashed as he snagged the drinks menu from the bar and waggled it in front of her. “We both know I’m talking about the other menu, babe. The secret menu, where the drink names are code for sexy stuff.

“I pick the drink. You do the deed...”

Dear Reader,

The idea for this book came to me while trolling Amazon looking for a fun, racy-but-not-so-racy-he-can’t-open-it-in-public gift for my husband. Did you know you could buy dirty Truth or Dare games for couples? Let’s just say I learned a thing or two. Levi Brandon and Ashley Dixon have plenty of learning to do about each other, as well. These two barely got along on their last undercover mission together, so discovering they might be accidentally married has sparks flying. Soon they’re on Fantasy Island to sort out their marital status, but they can’t stop fighting. Or daring each other. And the dares just get sexier and sexier...

Dares are a chance—a permission slip—to live out a secret fantasy. And what better time to do that when you’re on a tropical island with a bad boy SEAL? Ashley is hardly a wild child (hello, she prefers to play by the rules), but rugged, sexy Levi tempts her to lose her inhibitions. And when she loses a bet and has to pay a very sensual forfeit, bringing her fantasies to life suddenly seems like the best of ideas.

Daring Her SEAL is the final story in my SEALs of Fantasy Island trilogy, which started with Teasing Her SEAL and then continued with Pleasing Her SEAL. Each couple has explored a very different set of sexy fantasies—and I hope you enjoy Levi and Ashley’s story!

Happy reading,

Anne

Daring 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.

For Lisa. Never, ever underestimate the power of your smile. I can’t tell you too often that you’re as fabulous as the heroine in any book and I’m rooting for your happily-ever-after.

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

16

Extract

Copyright

1

“CAN YOU BE married without having sex?”

In all fairness, Levi Brandon needed the answer ASAP. His SEAL team leader paused, however, in the act of piling into the C-23 Sherpa transport aircraft as if Levi had farted in front of the President or something equally crass. The pained look on Gray Jackson’s face was the only high point in Levi’s day since he’d rolled out of bed for a dark o’clock training exercise only to discover that the US postal system and karma had caught up with him.

Gray slapped him on the back, harder than was strictly necessary. “Little personal, don’t you think, Brandon?”

“I’m talking about myself, here,” he said, humping his gear on board. The plane was a no-nonsense set of wings and wheels, perfect for the day’s HALO training exercise.

While Gray mulled over his answer, the rest of SEAL Team Sigma loaded up with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Levi wasn’t the only guy who felt jumping out of a plane at thirty thousand feet wasn’t the best way to pass the time. He preferred keeping his feet on the ground or his fins in the water, thank you very much. On the other hand, at least when he jumped, he felt something. Even fear was marginally better than the emotional desert in which he usually existed.

“Last time I checked, you weren’t married, planning on getting married, or even dating the same woman for consecutive nights. The better question is...can you go without having sex?” Gray dropped onto the bench beside Levi, buckling up as the door slammed shut and the plane started its taxi down the runway.

He’d tried dating when he was younger. Hell. The word younger made him feel like Methuselah, but the feeling wasn’t inaccurate. Courtesy of Uncle Sam, he’d seen plenty and done more. The civilian women he’d dated once upon a time didn’t understand what his job entailed. They’d seen the movies or read the books, but they still popped out perky How was your day?s like the words were Percocet. And too many times he’d been under orders not to discuss what had gone down.

Or he’d had days that were all training or sitting in a foxhole, waiting for the action to start. Nothing to talk about there, so he’d stayed mute and his gal of the moment had gotten upset. And then when shit did go down? What woman wanted to hear about the kill shot he made at long range or the building he’d cleared at the end of an M4? Sure as shooting, she hadn’t been planning to help him pack for combat deployment, and he hadn’t been packing socks and briefs, anyhow.

Sex was much simpler. He gave an orgasm; she got an orgasm. Or three. Everyone walked away happy, and the next time he jumped out of a plane there were no pesky emotional entanglements messing with his free fall.

He certainly had no plans for celibacy. On the other hand, fate had just slapped him with the moral equivalent of a chastity belt. Levi pulled the marriage certificate out of a pocket of his flight suit and waved it in the air. He needed a second opinion, and sure enough, Sam leaned over and snagged the paper. As the team medic, Sam Nale had even fewer personal boundaries than the rest of them, probably because he’d patched them all up on more than one occasion. Funny how once you’d had your fingers in a guy’s bullet holes you felt like you knew him.

“Levi brought reading material.” Sam unfolded the paper, read it over and whistled, the sound all but drowned out by the steady drone of the engines as the pilot took them to altitude. “And trouble. You’re married?”

“Not on purpose,” Levi admitted with a scowl.

Mason Black held out a hand for the certificate. “When did this happen?”

“I’m blaming you.” Levi flipped Mason the bird. His teammate was a big bear of a SEAL, a damned good sniper, and the second member of their unit to find true love when they’d been undercover on Fantasy Island three months ago.

Not that Levi understood how two experienced warriors like Mason and Gray could fall in love while taking down a drug kingpin, but that was apparently what had happened. Levi had been looking forward to giving both of them crap about it for years to come—until he’d checked his mail this morning and discovered he had his own romantic woes to contend with.

“Your girl asked Ashley and I to be the stand-in bride and groom for a beach ceremony. She didn’t tell us we were getting married for real.”

Mason grinned. “Heads up. Every photo shoot with that woman is an adventure.”

“Yeah,” he grumbled, “but can you really imagine me married? To Ashley?”

Ashley Dixon had been a DEA tagalong on their last two missions. As far as he could tell she disliked everything about him—she’d been happy to detail her opinions loudly and at length. Naturally he’d given her plenty of shit while they’d been in their field together, and she’d really hated him calling her Mrs. Brandon after they’d played bride and groom for Mason’s girl.

After they’d parted ways on Fantasy Island he hadn’t thought of her once. Okay. He’d thought of her once. Maybe twice. She was gorgeous, they had a little history together and he wasn’t dead yet although he was fairly certain he would be if he pursued her. She wasn’t the kind of woman who shared her toys, and monogamy didn’t work for him. So how the hell had he ended up married to her?

Mason returned the certificate and Levi jammed it back into his pocket. “Does Ashley know about this?”

He doubted it. “She hasn’t said anything.”

Because if she had known, she’d have found a way to tell him everything he’d done wrong that had led to an actual wedding—with an email, a phone call, or an RPG with a scathing note attached to the warhead. He’d butted heads with her every time he turned around on their past missions.

Well, every time except one. There had been that steamy alleyway kiss when they’d been surprised by a member of the motorcycle club they’d been investigating. He’d pinned Ashley against the wall and kissed her hard, because at the moment the only good excuse he could come up with for their presence in the alley was sex.

She’d kissed him back, too, in the interests of not jeopardizing their cover, but she’d made it clear later and in private that the next time his tongue got anywhere near her mouth she’d cut it off. His kiss had pissed her off that much, he thought with a smirk, and now he was gonna rile her up even more with his hey-babe-we’re-married bomb. That was the only silver lining in this whole situation.

“Trickery’s the only way Levi’s getting our Ashley to say yes.” Sam high-fived Mason. “Ten bucks says she’ll skip the annulment and go straight to the kill you part of marriage. She gets to be a widow—you get to be dead. Problem solved.”

Which was no fun at all. Levi would prefer to aggravate her, get underneath her defiant, snarky surface, if only because she was the one woman who’d never, ever contemplated saying yes to him.

Mason grinned. “I bet you can’t get her to voluntarily say ‘I do.’”

Levi wasn’t Superman. No one could get Ashley to agree to anything she didn’t want to do without wielding some powerful ammo. “Say ‘I do’ to what?”

“You.” A big, obnoxious grin creased the face of the other SEAL.

“Are you doubting my powers of persuasion?”

The skeptical look Mason sported said that was an affirmative.

Gray cursed as if maybe, in some weird parallel universe, a Levi existed who actually wanted to be married to Ashley Dixon. “Ashley could out-stubborn a mule. She’d take a hell of a lot of persuading.”

“Just a matter of leverage.”

“Two minutes, ladies.” Gray stood and motioned for the team to head to the back of the plane. Air tore through the cabin as the National Guardsmen chauffeuring them to the day’s jump lowered the back ramp to reveal nothing but blue sky, empty air and a long drop to the landing zone. Levi slapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder, taking up his position behind the other SEAL as he braced against the plane’s upward pull.

He had never been wild about heights, but jumping out of a plane at thirty thousand feet beat the three-hour commute his brother bitched about, even if he was Navy and frogs weren’t meant to fly. The good thing about HALO jumping, however, was that once he’d gotten his ass out the door, the hard part was done. Gravity took over, and as long he’d packed his chute correctly the happy ending was practically guaranteed.

“Ready?” Gray bellowed the words in Levi’s ear, fighting to make himself heard over the slipstream’s roar. “Don’t make Ashley a widow. She’s gonna want the chance to kill you herself.”

“You betcha.” He touched the knuckles of his free hand to Gray’s. Seconds later, their team leader bellowed the order to jump and Sam flew out of the open bay. Gravity and the engine wake did their thing, sucking Levi out of the plane as he whooped, riding Sam’s ass as they hung in the air for a long moment.

Then they plummeted through the air at terminal velocity, facedown, arms and feet up as strips of road and field swung in crazy circles beneath them. Seventy seconds of flying—or falling—and he pulled the rip cord at four thousand feet above ground level, popping his chute. On a mission rather than a training run, he might wait until as low as a thousand feet to minimize the amount of time hostiles had to spot him. Today, though, he’d maximize his chances of getting to the ground intact. If his chute failed, he’d still have time to deploy the back up. The chute shot out of his back, the canopy catching air and jerking him sharply upward. Bingo.

Sure, Ashley would prefer skipping the divorce and aiming straight for widowhood, but he had no intention of making it easy on her. If she wanted to get rid of him, she’d have to work for it.

2

HIS WIFE WAS fucking gorgeous.

Not that Levi deserved any kind of credit for Ashley’s good looks, but if he had to end up accidentally married to a woman whose dislike for him made ISIS and the President of the United States seem like cozy besties, at least he’d scored a hot bride.

The assessment officially made him shallow, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that they were legally married. The woman bent over her desk, working a cable behind the computer monitor while she sweet-talked the hardware, would rip him a new one when he shared the news with her. In the meantime, however, he might as well enjoy the show.

Husky phrases drifted to him. Come on, baby. Work with me. Yeah, he might get something out of this little field trip. Taunting Ashley was a helluva lot of fun.

He leaned against the doorframe. “You got computer woes too?”

The DEA’s office sure wasn’t Sexyville. After he’d breached the security at the front desk, he’d followed directions and ridden a beige elevator, taken two equally beige corridors, and then forded a sea of chest-high gray cubicles occupied by suits of both the male and female variety. Heads turned as he passed, because his off-duty jeans, motorcycle boots and black leather jacket weren’t standard office wear. He hadn’t come here to give a fashion show, though, so he kept moving.

After infiltrating third-world countries, locating Ashley’s office was easy. Plus, the scenery was motivational. The way her skirt hugged the curves of her ass fed his Victoria’s Secret fantasy, and her blouse wasn’t half bad, either. The silky material draped over her boobs and he’d bet the fabric was as soft as the skin it only partially concealed. When she delved further into the tangle of cables, she flashed him the shadow of a black bra strap. Hooyah.

“Dixon?” he prompted, when she didn’t look up from the mess of cables she was untangling.

She glanced his way automatically, a polite smile pasted to her face. Naturally her smile disappeared real quick when she realized who’d knocked on her door.

“You.” Her voice held a wealth of disapproval, but that was nothing new. Frankly, he had a hard time imagining welcome, pleasure or anything remotely happy painted on her puss. She didn’t like him, and he never seemed to get things right as far as she was concerned. Too bad, so sad. Wait until she heard what he had to say.

“In the flesh.” He stepped into her office because he didn’t need to attract any more attention from her floor mates. She had ten feet by ten feet to herself, along with three pieces of battered office furniture, a dusty plastic plant and a series of action figures suspended from the ceiling by what looked like fishing line. Stepping closer and blocking her access to the room’s only exit, he offered her a lazy grin. “I didn’t recognize you wearing clothes.”

She’d rocked a very nice string bikini on their undercover mission to Fantasy Island, and...what? He was supposed to pretend he hadn’t noticed? Hello. Parts of him were biologically incapable of not noticing, no matter how much vitriol she shot his way.

And bingo...her polite can-I-help-you? expression morphed into one hundred percent pissed-off female as she straightened up.

“I’m licensed to carry concealed. Don’t make me shoot you.”

Concealing a weapon in her current getup seemed challenging, but Ashley liked her guns and he’d seen her produce firearms from beneath the smallest of bandage dresses out in the field. He had no idea how she did it, but he respected the hell out of it. He also needed her to listen to him for five minutes.

She made a sound delightfully close to a snarl. How nice to know he still could get under her skin. Smiling at her, he said, “I need to talk to you. Take a smoke break.”

Brown eyes narrowed. “It’s with and not to. And smoking kills.”

She put the desk between them. And while he enjoyed the way her ass wiggled in the skirt as she sauntered to her chair in three-inch heels, he still needed to talk to her. With her. She never missed an opportunity to point out that he was wrong, did she?

Of course, he also didn’t care much about getting it right, so he advanced on her, flattening his palms on her desk. Naturally, the surface was all neat and tidy, her office supplies arranged at right angles and the folders stacked precisely. She’d never liked messes. When he deliberately nudged a pencil out of its careful row, she glared.

“We can do this the hard way. I can carry you out over my shoulder.” His dick twitched at that. Hell. This was Dixon.

She didn’t sit down, just folded her arms over her chest and inhaled as though she was trying to find her patience or her balance or something. “Step inside and shut the door.”

Huh. Who knew he’d find that order a turn-on? It was likely only because he hadn’t gotten laid in over a month. Lurking in foxholes wreaked havoc on a man’s social life, and he’d come straight to Quantico once he’d arrived stateside. Ashley might be annoying as hell, but she deserved to know about their marriage, just in case she had any wedding plans of her own. He was in outright Boy Scout territory, making sure she didn’t commit bigamy or mess up her taxes any. Maybe she’d even polish his halo for him. With her tongue.

Or she just might kill him. He’d give it even odds at the moment. She leaned toward him, not intimidated in the slightest.

She’d slicked her dark, glossy hair back from her face in a severe style that made her look all cheekbones. With less than two feet between them, he could smell her perfume, which was another first for him. She didn’t wear that stuff in the field, and apparently he’d been missing out. She smelled like warmth and fruit and some kind of flower thing. Damned if he knew what it was, but he liked it. He should get a bottle and spray the boys in the foxhole next time he had to camp out for a week in the jungle.

She made a give-it-up gesture. “Some time this century, Brandon.”

Given their eager audience—he’d counted ten agents and four secretaries plus a maintenance guy messing with a thermostat—he kicked the door shut with his booted foot. Probably not what she’d intended, but she should know by now that she needed to be specific with him.

“How do you want me?” he drawled, keeping his eyes on her. Her lips tightened. She was wearing lipstick in a nice nude shade. No flashy come-do-me red for her in the office. Did the agents she worked with know the calm ice-princess facade was a front? She had a wild child hiding underneath that gorgeous face, and she was a demon in the field. She would have made an excellent SEAL.

“Sit,” she snapped, as if he was some kind of trained poodle. News flash. He only pretended to be civilized. If she didn’t play nice, he didn’t have to, either. He definitely wasn’t planting his ass in a chair while she stood over him in the power position.

Time to take charge.

“If I sit like a good boy, will you park that pretty ass of yours on my lap?”

* * *

ASHLEY’S BRAIN SPLUTTERED to an outraged halt, because who said sexist stuff like that these days? Naturally, Levi used her momentary distraction to circle the desk between them. She hesitated a moment too long, distracted by the sexy SEAL prowling toward her. Dark hair buzzed short with military precision, brown eyes that crinkled at the corner when he laughed, and just the hint of a dimple in his right cheek...damn it. She’d seen him in action and the man was quick. He also fought dirty, and any words that came out of his mouth were just one more weapon. She should have remembered that.

He pulled her toward him until her thighs were plastered against him, his muscular, denim-covered leg thrusting between hers as he danced her backward smoothly. Her back hit the wall, her heart simultaneously taking a nosedive toward her stomach. Darn it. Being close to Levi was too much like riding a roller coaster.

A sexy, dangerous roller coaster with bad manners.

His big body radiated heat and carefully leashed power as he boxed her in, and she didn’t know if she should take a moment to admire the sheer masculine ballsiness of the move—or knee him in the nuts on principle. She hadn’t known he was in town, although it wasn’t as though they shared social plans. They’d worked in the field together. Sometimes they’d killed together. None of which was drop-in-and-have-a-beer material.

His mouth shifted, brushing her ear. “Hello again, Mrs. Brandon.”

How much trouble would she get in if she pulled her gun in the office? Because the thought of plugging Levi’s fine ass with a bullet got more and more appealing by the moment.

“That joke got old about the twentieth time you trotted it out on Fantasy Island after we did the beach thing. Do I look like a missus? Maybe I missed the part where you tattooed property of on my ass.”

She bent her knees, ducked under his arm and pushed him hard against the wall. He let her slam him into the paint job and that pissed her off even more. Life was one big joke to Levi Brandon and she hated it when he played with her.

“It’s not a joke, babe. We’re married.”

“Uh-huh. Tell that one to the judge and back the hell off.” That was another thing about Levi—he could deliver a joke with a perfectly straight face.

“You need to listen to me on this one.” He flipped her around smoothly, face to the wall, wrists pinned over her head. Since the man had to have almost a hundred pounds on her, she was at a definite disadvantage in close quarters.

“Scared?” Sure, it wasn’t nice to taunt him, but around him her inner five-year-old came out to play.

“Not exactly,” he said cheerfully. “But someone’s going to end up in the ER if we keep showing each other our moves. Plus kink’s not my thing. I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

“So you’re manhandling me to be nice?” She didn’t bother hiding the disbelief in her voice. Truth was, Levi did what he wanted and he didn’t worry about the consequences. It must be nice. She was also fairly certain he had a much broader acquaintance with kink than she did.

In answer, he kicked her legs wider, which was a challenge given the lack of give in her skirt. Heat hit her hard between her thighs, her panties dampening as she felt him against her back. Chemical reaction. That was all. Sure, it sucked that she got horny around Levi, but he came in a pretty package and looking at him had never been a hardship. It was when she had to listen to him that things went to hell.

It took him less than fifteen seconds to find the gun tucked in the small of her back. He slipped it out of her waistband and set it on her desk. “Sexy.”

“Back off and tell me why you’re here.” Had the Marcos brothers managed to shake the charges against them? If they’d been assigned a third mission together, surely the special agent in charge would have notified her.

“You think I need a reason to be here? Maybe I had a couple of weeks of leave coming to me and just missed your lovely face.” He pressed harder against her, tucking his dick against her butt as if he had some kind of right to do so. Clearly, it had been too long since she’d had sex—working undercover with SEAL teams had definitely put a crimp in her social life—because she couldn’t even work up much outrage at his erection. He was huge, he was turned on and apparently her sexual drought had lasted long enough that she was willing to cut him some slack. Sucker her brain crowed at her libido.

“Well, I’m not helping you with that.” She wriggled her butt against his front just to make her point and he hissed.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Dick’s got a mind of its own and it really, really likes your skirt.”

And that was the problem with Levi. The outside package was hot—hello, she’d never met an ugly SEAL—but then he opened his mouth. Too bad she couldn’t duct tape his lips shut and just admire the view.

“Could you be more offensive? Is this your idea of a joke?” Because she didn’t feel like laughing and she was this close to kneeing him in the balls the next chance she got.

“You hear a punch line coming out of my mouth?”

“You want to know how many practical jokes I’ve been the butt of over the years? When you’re the only female on a team, you hear it all.”

He whistled. “You work with some nasty people, Dixon.”

She drove her head back, pulling free of his hold and swinging her elbow toward his cheekbone. If she accidentally introduced his head to her desk on his way down, she didn’t care. He hit the floor with a thud and a laugh, twisting to avoid her office furniture. Great. The agents on the floor below would be banging on the ceiling.

Grabbing her gun, she loaded it with swift efficiency while he rolled lightly to his feet. “A vagina doesn’t make me stupid.”

He gave her a look she couldn’t interpret. “I’ve never thought you were stupid.”

Well. Okay, then.

He grinned at her and kept right on running his mouth. Levi never had known when to quit. “Deadly. Irritating as hell. Adorably geeky when you get your computer on. Those adjectives all work for me, although after you seeing you in your skirt, I’m adding sexy because I believe in calling it like I see it. You should dress up for me more often, babe.” Chuckling with amusement, he added, “I have nothing but respect for your skills. I just give you shit because I give all my guys crap.”

She pretended she didn’t feel a small spurt of warmth at his compliment. After all, she was still debating hurting him.

“I’m just one of the guys now? Go away.” She dropped into her office chair and motioned toward her door with the gun. She’d left the safety on, which was more than he deserved. “That was fun. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

He leaned against the edge of her desk and fished an envelope out of his jacket. “We’re married. Read for yourself.”

She opened it and pulled out a fancy-schmancy certificate with black calligraphy and plenty of gold foil. Once upon a time, the thing had probably been elegant as hell, but now it was full of creases from repeated folding. Hot sauce decorated one corner. Obviously, whatever it was, he highly valued it. Not.

The letter was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Brandon and she got a bad, bad feeling in her stomach. “This is dated three weeks ago.”

He shrugged. “I was in a foxhole. The postal service doesn’t deliver out there.”

She read on and froze. “How can we possibly be married?”

“I imagine it was that part where the minister asked us if we ‘did.’ Shoulda lied, babe.”

“That was a fake ceremony.” She set the papers on her desk. Levi had to be joking for some sick, twisted, unfathomable reason. They couldn’t be married. They were the two least compatible people on the planet, not to mention she’d sworn off marriage after watching her parents’ union explode so spectacularly.

And if those weren’t good enough reasons, she had a performance review in four weeks, and a congressional hearing to attend in two. She’d blown the whistle on a team of DEA agents who’d treated their Central American posting as party central under the mistaken assumption that they could do whatever they wanted with impunity, so it definitely wouldn’t look good if it came out that she’d been involved in a fake wedding ceremony in Belize. A ceremony where the real bride and groom were supposed to be a notorious drug kingpin and his girlfriend, but they’d been a no-show because they’d been arrested and carted out to international waters by an undercover SEAL team. She could practically see the headlines now: DEA Agent Is Wedding Proxy for Drug Lord.

Levi lifted his broad shoulders in another shrug. “Apparently, the minister didn’t get the memo and someone in the registry department agrees with him—and sent us that commemorative piece of paper.”

“It has to be a prank.” God knew, the SEALs loved a good joke. This one seemed kind of elaborate, but sometimes the guys had too much thinking time on their hands. “Did you call the registry department and verify this? Or do you believe anything someone writes on a piece of paper?”

“The registry department,” Levi said tightly, “apparently had a close encounter with a tropical rainstorm two weeks ago. Most of the roof went and the filing system took a direct hit. No one is answering the phones because half the staff is on leave while the government rebuilds. The half of the staff that is still working has neither the time nor the inclination to wade through thousands of waterlogged pieces of paper looking for a certificate that might or might not be there.”

Ouch.

“Since it’s easy to blow someone off when there’s two thousand miles between you and them, I planned on going down there since I had some leave coming to me,” Levi continued. “Because I assumed you’d want this taken care of.”

For once, she had to agree with him. “If this is true, I want a divorce.”

Immediately. How fast could you get divorced in Belize?

“I wasn’t looking for a life sentence, either.”

No. It had to be a fake, a joke, anything other than real. “We can’t possibly be married. Whatever you did, fix it.” She slapped the papers against his chest.

“How is this my fault?” He got that stubborn, badass look on his face, but to hell with him. He didn’t scare her and she was tired of his crap.

“You’re here. You’re the one telling me we’re married. Prove it to me.”

He yanked the hem of his T-shirt up, revealing flat abs and, God, a perfect six-pack. “You want to skip straight to the honeymoon? Good idea.”

* * *

“YOU PIG. DO NOT get naked in my office.” Ashley pokered up the second he flashed her.

Ice queen didn’t like his approach? Too damn bad.

She didn’t get to tell him what to do. This mess wasn’t his fault. Of course, if he was being honest, it wasn’t hers either, but he didn’t feel like being fair right now. Hell, he’d just discovered that he was married to a woman who wanted to murder him. It hadn’t been a good week.

He leaned in and delivered his ultimatum. “Put in for vacation time, because we need to go down there and sort it out.”

If looks could kill, he’d be dead, planted and decaying. Vacationing with him was apparently not on her bucket list, but she’d just have to get over it. If he had to deal with this, so did she.

“It can’t be legal. We didn’t fill out an application or sign anything. This isn’t my fault.”

And that automatically made it his?

“You can’t make me go,” she continued petulantly. Fighting words. Yeah...she was pissed off, all right. He entertained the idea of unloading her gun, but he wasn’t suicidal.

“I think I can.” He knew the look she got when she was thinking about taking him out, and chances were his teammates had been right. Given the right opportunity, she’d skip the annulment and go straight for the kill shot.

“Really?” She drawled the question and his blood pressure soared. “Walk me through it, big guy.”

Jesus. Maybe, just once, she could lay off the sarcasm and admit that he was right. It wasn’t even like he wanted to be right about their just-married status. He’d have been deliriously happy to find out he’d been mistaken. “I’m not the one who has something to lose.”

She smiled and, okay, it was probably wrong that the mean look she got right before she went after him turned him on so much. He had a kink in his think that he should work on. Later. After he was single again. “Did you ask permission of your commanding officer before you went and got yourself married on a mission?”

“Nope, but I’m thinking the worst I get is an ass-chewing for being dumb enough to stand in for the groom.” His unit had already made it clear they’d never let him live the marriage down. They’d started calling him Wedding Ken and one wiseass had bought him a pair of matching his-and-hers ring pops. “But I can go out and announce to all of your colleagues that we’re married.”

She didn’t back down. “Awkward, but I’ll live.”

One of the useful things about Ashley was that she froze when she lied. She probably didn’t realize that she stilled, as if all of the brain cells in that downright enormous brain of hers diverted to creative thinking and forgot to keep her body in motion. The way she’d stopped moving when she’d dismissed his threat screamed concern. All he needed to do was push a wee bit harder and she’d be on that plane with him.

“I’ll give them all the details, Dixon. With photos. You in a white bikini with BRIDE bedazzled over your perky little ass.”

“You wore matching swim trunks,” she pointed out, her magnificent boobs rising and falling as her temper picked up steam. The top button on her blouse was in serious danger of blowing, a development that he’d enjoy as he had nothing but admiration for her breasts, but she’d care. Maybe he’d let her know. In a minute. Or six.

“I passed your HR department on the way in.” He grinned, keeping half an eye on that button. “Shall I plan on making a pit stop there...?”

“What are they going to do? Throw me a bridal shower?” The button didn’t budge, damn it, but a mocking smile curved her lips. Kissing the smirk away became his new plan B.

“After I pay a visit to Human Resources, you’ll be drowning in paperwork. I’ll be on your life insurance, your 401K beneficiary form, and your DNR. You’ll spend years untangling our lives. Plus, it’s not like we eloped to Vegas on our downtime. We got hitched on a tropical island that promotes kinky sex.”

She treated him to another eye roll. “I’m trying not to remember that part.”

Then she was going to love what he had to say next.

“I read the news this morning. The DEA is in the middle of a sex scandal, babe, and some of your agents in a South American country that shall not be named? They liked to attend cartel-sponsored sex parties and Fantasy Island won’t look good in that light. When you take the stand in the Marcos case in two weeks, the defense lawyer will have a field day with you.”

He watched her gorgeous face as she chewed his words over. If Marcos’s lawyer found out she and Levi had gotten married on a tropical island known for sex games, the headlines wouldn’t be good. At best, her reputation would be shot. At worst, she’d be looking at a demotion or getting fired.

“You’d get in trouble too,” she countered. Right. They’d covered his lack of permission from a superior officer—and his lack of concern. His wasn’t a career-ending move even if Command wouldn’t be thrilled. He hadn’t been on leave and he sure hadn’t asked permission—but he also hadn’t thought he was really tying the knot.

“And I’ll get a slap on the wrist. You want to risk your next promotion? Because I heard you had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that you’re over the moon about.”

“This is blackmail.”

He shrugged. Having had some experience with skirting the grayer edges of the law, he knew better than to admit anything out loud.

“You’re willing to commit a felony to force me to accompany you?” Her voice rose, and the button on her blouse slipped further.

In answer, he blew her a kiss.

“You suck,” she bit out.

“One hundred percent, babe.” He definitely had her now. “I get the pleasure of your company for one week on Fantasy Island. You get radio silence about why we’re headed out there and a bonus vacation at a swank resort.”

“Two things.” She held up a finger. “One, I always get even.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Two, blow my credibility with my team, and I will kill you.”

“Hey, you want me to go away.” Christ, she’d felt good pinned beneath him. Marriage didn’t have to be all bad. “Well, in order for that to happen, you got to give me something, starting with a divorce. You’re coming with me, babe,” he said, because he loved needling her and damned if this wasn’t the first time in a long time he’d come out the clear winner in their battle of wits. Fighting with Dixon was tricky business.

She slammed her head against the back of her chair, fingers digging into the armrest. “Fuck.”

He winked at her. “Only if you ask nicely.”

3

FANTASY ISLAND LOOKED GOOD. Or maybe that was Ashley’s unwilling company.

Ashley had pointedly ignored him on their flight from Virginia to Belize. They’d hitched a ride on a military carrier, so it hadn’t been the kind of flight with peanuts and mile-high sex, which was too bad. She looked even better than the island, although he wasn’t stupid enough to say that out loud with any degree of sincerity. She still wanted his head on a platter for the we’re-married-for-real revelation he’d laid on her in Quantico. And, yeah, she was also sore about his making her come down to Belize. Too bad for her, because he liked pushing her buttons. She was cute as hell when she got mad.

She’d braided her hair back in a no-nonsense twist. The severe do, combined with her white T-shirt and khaki flight suit, shouldn’t have been sexy. Unfortunately for him, he appeared to find everything about her attractive. She was like fire and he couldn’t not touch.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this kind of curiosity about anything, but he felt it in spades around Ashley and never mind that dragging her out here topped the list of stupid things he’d done in his lifetime. Sure, he probably could have handled all this himself via a couple of quick phone calls—even if the registry department was waterlogged and sans roof—but what fun would have that been? So, instead, he’d blackmailed her onto the military transport and then called in a few favors for a helicopter to make the hop from Belize City to Fantasy Island. He must have left his brain in his last foxhole or stood too close to a mortar round. That was the only explanation.

As soon as the bird hit the landing pad and the rotors stopped, Ashley was out and striding down the path. She hadn’t even bothered grabbing her bag. He knew she didn’t want to be here, but he hadn’t realized she’d literally be running to check out their marriage ceremony. She was breaking all known speed records for tracking down a divorce and he didn’t think it was because she only had a week’s vacation time to spend on the island.

“You left your stuff,” he hollered after her, ignoring the resort staff already moving in to grab their duffels. Problem solved, although he usually preferred to handle his own gear, and not just because he usually packed ammo instead of swim trunks.

She tossed him a saucy look over her shoulder. “Make yourself useful, Brandon.”

“You want me to be your porter?” Like that was happening.

Screw it. He grabbed his own bag and hoofed it after her. He’d keep his stuff where he could see it, especially since he had a Glock and a few other toys cozied up with his skivvies. Fantasy Island should be safe as Fort Knox, but he hadn’t survived this long by taking chances. He owed Ashley that much, at least. The helicopter started back up. Guess their pilot wasn’t planning on sticking around.

She was already halfway down the path, speed walking as if she was competing for gold. Or maybe she just wanted to beat him to the front desk. Didn’t matter. She could win all the minor skirmishes she wanted, but he’d won their war. She was here. He fell in beside her.

“You’re a bad penny,” she announced, not taking her gaze off the path in front of her. It was getting close to sunset, and the sunlight was filtering through the palm trees. Monkeys chattered away overhead, and the birds yelled back. Kind of like him and Dixon really. Plenty of noise but no real conversation.

He shot her a grin. “I do keep turning up, don’t I?”

“What?” She gave him a hard look and he figured she was seconds away from elbowing him.

“Just thinking aloud,” he said, because that was the truth. “So you think they got the bloodstains out of the gravel yet?”

They both looked at the road where they’d taken down Marcos. Everything seemed normal.

Ashley didn’t stop her mad dash for freedom. “You’d better hope they don’t remember your pretty face or connect it with the disappearance of the Marcos bridal party.”

He honestly didn’t expect it to be an issue. The staff had been rotated out since their last covert visit and people tended to see what they wanted to see anyhow.

When they made it to reception, naturally Ashley wasn’t done fighting him. Since he’d booked the reservation, he ponied up his credit card—and she promptly whipped out hers. While they argued over who got the privilege of paying the bill, the stuffy guy at the front desk shoved wet towels and champagne drinks with ridiculous red cherries in their direction, as if cotton and alcohol could fix their relationship problems.

Not a chance in hell.

And honestly? It kind of bothered him that Ashley wouldn’t let him take care of her. Fantasy Island’s room rates were sky-high, and he didn’t know if she had that kind of cash. He’d planned on blackmailing her—not bleeding her dry.

“You embarrassed the check-in guy,” he pointed out when they were finally being whisked away to their villa in a golf cart. Stuffy Guy had eventually stepped in and solved the argument by taking both their credit cards.

She gave him the look he’d decided to christen Code Yellow. If it worked for Homeland Security, it worked for him. She wasn’t ready to shove him out of the moving vehicle (Code Orange) or shoot him with his own weapon (Code Red), but neither was she volunteering to strip naked and fulfill all his sexual fantasies (Code Green). “We’re going to have one of those modern marriages, where everybody pulls his or her own weight. Got it?”

Somehow, he didn’t think that was really a question. “I made you come down here. I pay.”

“It’s not that simple, Brandon.”

“Maybe you should call me Mr. Brandon. We could take the nineteenth century approach to our marital union.” He kind of liked the sound of that but she huffed in response and drilled holes into the back of their driver’s head.

“Actually, I’m gonna call you Blackmailing Bastard,” she announced. The driver clearly didn’t care for their hostilities, because the golf cart hurtled along the path as though it was shooting for liftoff. Guess the guy wanted to dump them ASAP and Levi could hardly blame him.

When they reached the villa, Ashley bounded ahead while Levi grabbed the bags and discreetly tipped their driver. He had no idea how come his charming bride hadn’t cut that sexist gesture off at the pass, but he’d take it. As soon as he stepped inside, he spotted the enormous gift basket parked in the middle of a rose-covered bed. A single, really large bed.

Damn it. He hadn’t had the best of connections when he’d called the resort to book a last-minute room. Apparently, the words married and recently had gotten mistranslated along the way into I want hot sex in the honeymoon suite.

Ordinarily, he’d have been fine with the misunderstanding—he had no problem with a little opportunistic sex—but this was Dixon. Having actual intercourse with her was as likely as peace in the Middle East or the zombie apocalypse. They’d have to compromise, however, and hopefully she wasn’t a bed hog, because given what this place was costing him, he was not sleeping on the daybed, the floor or anyplace else that didn’t offer a million-dollar mattress.

“Someone thinks we’re on our honeymoon.” She poked the basket and he had no idea how to interpret the strange look on her face. Ashley being Ashley, though, he figured she’d tell him exactly what she was thinking and then follow it up with multistep directions on how to do exactly what she wanted.

“Technically not wrong,” he pointed out. “What did we score?”

She smiled. Slowly. Yeah, he might be newly married but he already knew he was in trouble here—and that was before she started pulling stuff out of the gift basket as if she was unloading cans of Campbell’s from a grocery bag.

“We’ve got edible panties. Edible boxers.” She arched an eyebrow. “Which probably offers more calories than your average woman consumes in a day, so you’ll excuse me if I’m not feeling hungry.”

She might not be, but he suddenly was. He dropped down onto the bed, shoving rose petals out of the way. “Are you playing show and tell?”

“You first.” She snorted. “Some of this stuff should come with directions or an operating manual.”

“Novice.” He flicked her knee with his fingers.

“Because you’re an expert with—” she squinted “—chocolate body butter?”

Not yet, but he could be. Licking the stuff off Ashley’s body suddenly didn’t seem half bad.

“We also have a pair of his and hers nipple clamps.” She waved something around that looked like a medieval torture device in miniature. Or an eyelash curler. Apparently he hadn’t seen everything in his bachelor days. “You could be a gentleman and volunteer to go first.”

“Not a chance in hell.” Not that he didn’t like the mental image of him touching her nipples, but pain wasn’t his thing. “Your boobs are too pretty to mark up.”

She made a face he’d seen a dozen times in the field. He razzed her and she gave it right back. “Flatterer. You just like me for my boobs.”

“And I’d like to keep mine in one piece,” he said, grimacing slightly. Contrary to what she seemed to believe, he actually did have limits. Plus he truly did like more about her than her lovely anatomy. She was a damned good agent. He respected the way she single-mindedly went after her targets and showed no mercy. She knew her way around a gun. And she didn’t hesitate to get dirty. Really dirty. There were four good reasons right there to like Ashley.

“And here we have our pièce de résistance—” She pulled an enormous purple dildo out of the bottom of the basket. “Apparently the resort staff isn’t sure there’s enough of you to keep me happy and have thoughtfully provided us with Purple Monster. Catch.”

Karma was a bitch. Levi caught the dildo automatically, then looked at what he had in his hand. Yep. Twelve inches of battery-operated love machine. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Examined the toy again. It definitely merited a second glance because he was pretty sure fitting that much latex in anyone was an anatomical impossibility. Still, his brain did its best to imagine all sorts of scenarios involving Ashley, twelve inches of purple penis and himself.

“Enjoy,” she said wryly. “I’m going to get a drink at the bar.”

* * *

PLENTY OF ADJECTIVES described Levi. Infuriating came to mind. Along with stubborn, pain in her ass, aggravating, and...sexy. Her SEAL was hot. When he flashed her that devilish grin, she was torn between hitting him—and kissing him. Which was going to be her little secret. The look on his face when she’d tossed him that dildo had been pretty priceless. Too bad her phone had been across the room, because a picture of him holding the purple monster would have been ideal counter-blackmail material—which she needed desperately because he was a sneaky, conniving, underhanded bastard. He hadn’t given her a choice about coming here, and that pissed her off. She wasn’t his beck-and-call girl—or his wife, no matter what a piece of paper might say—and the faster he understood that, the better.

Fortunately, the bar was right where she’d left it on her last visit to Fantasy Island. Although her flight suit and boots weren’t resort wear, she needed to get out of the villa.

Maybe she should head back to the front desk and see if she could score a second room, because putting some space between her and her irritatingly hot SEAL seemed prudent. Plus if he was going to insist on paying for their stay here, she had a golden opportunity for some good, old-fashioned revenge. She’d run up so many room charges that his credit card would demand a cease-fire. She could host an open bar and clean out the gift shop—if there was anything left to buy after all the welcome gifts that had been stockpiled for them in the room.

God. She couldn’t hold back a laugh as she recalled his expression when she’d unpacked the basket. She’d half suspected that he’d ordered the stuff just to get a rise out of her, but the purple dildo had surprised him.

Not that she was usually into toys—and the twelve inches of that particular device were just too optimistic—but she could have been convinced. No. Bad libido. No convincing, no weakening, and no flirting with the enemy.

She’d gotten her boots off, her pants rolled up and her feet in the sand when Levi showed up a half hour later. Frankly, she was surprised he’d taken as long as he had. The man enjoyed torturing her and he definitely enjoyed a beer, so her presence at the resort’s tiki bar was win-win for him. He was hard to miss where he stood in the bar’s entrance, scanning the place for her. Six feet of hard, brawny SEAL made quite the impression.

And the way he sauntered across the bar toward her made her want to fan herself. The man was hot. He practically prowled, his movements powerful and self-assured as he came toward her. When he dropped onto the swing seat next to hers, the close-up was even better and since he hadn’t opened his mouth yet? She could still enjoy the view. Almost immediately, he started whistling obnoxiously, his hip bumping hers every time he rocked his swing forward.

“Go away,” she said.

Naturally, he grinned and moved closer. Maybe she should try negative reinforcement. If she demanded he sit in her lap, would he run toward the opposite end of the island?

“Not feeling friendly?” He made a face and yanked the lime out of the longneck the bartender slid over the counter. He took a long pull, the muscles of his throat working. Not that she was staring or anything, but ignoring Levi just wasn’t possible.

“I’m not in the mood for your shit,” she admitted.

“You want to talk next steps? Review the plan?” He leaned back against the bar, staring out at the beach. It was dark now, but there were plenty of stars visible in the sky and just enough light to make out the small waves washing up on the sand. If she’d actually been here on her honeymoon, it would have been perfect. Instead, she got Levi. Go figure.

“I’ve already got a plan.” As if she’d leave something this important to Levi. “I checked with the manager. Told him we had some questions about our ceremony and needed copies of the paperwork. He’s got the wedding coordinator coming in two days and he’ll call the minister for us tomorrow.”

Levi grinned at her over his beer. “In that big of a hurry to be rid of me, huh?”

“You really want to be married to me until death do us part?”

He threw up a hand. “You can stop right there. I’ve seen you with a gun.”

She snorted. “You’re the better shot.”

Computers were her strength, but Levi could make shots that should have been physically impossible.

“I’m not planning on shooting you,” he said dryly, but his eyes twinkled at her. And...was that a hint of a dimple in his cheek?

God. He could be so cute.

“That’s my point.” She took a pull on her own beer. “You wouldn’t last a month at being married. In fact, I bet you wouldn’t stick it out a week before you hit the road and ran.”

He shrugged. “It would depend. Are you planning on being a good wife in this hypothetical scenario of ours?”

She saw red. “That sounds like code for putting out every night.”

“At least.” He grinned at her again. “In fact, since we’re married, we should take advantage of each other.”

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Like you really want to have sex with me after blackmailing me. That would be a new low, even for you.”

He shrugged his shoulders again and then, shoot, his eyes lit up. “I’m up for it if you are,” he taunted.

Even if he hadn’t blackmailed her into coming with him, Levi’s pretty package was wasted on her. He was the sexual equivalent of the loaner sweatshirt that got passed around when a girl was cold. Every female had had a piece of him, so no way was she sleeping with him, too. “No sex,” she said firmly.

In addition, if it turned out that they really were married, she wasn’t risking an easy annulment, so it was better to make her position clear now. Before she finished her cocktail and returned to their villa to deal with the one-bed-and-a-basketful-of-sex-toys situation. Mr. Manwhore might be the last SEAL on earth she’d sleep with, but she wouldn’t put it past him to pursue her. He liked sex, and their ostensible marriage would put a crimp on anyone’s style.

“Okay,” he said agreeably.

Right. She snorted and he looked at her.

“Like you could go a week without having sex.”

“I absolutely can.” He sounded confident. She’d give him that.

She, on the other hand, was hyperaware of his long, powerful legs stretched out in the sand next to hers. He was still wearing his BDUs and combat boots, and for no particular reason, the sight of him ready for anything got her going. Or maybe it was just that he was a gorgeous, available jerk and she’d been without a boyfriend for too long.

“Pull the other one,” she said dryly. “I’ve seen you in action, remember, and going without sex while you’re out in the field doesn’t count.”

“You think I’m going to cheat on you while we’re married?” He managed to sound surprised, but it wasn’t like he was the poster child for monogamy.

“We’re not really married. Anything we do doesn’t count.” She wasn’t sure she really meant that, but there was no point in setting herself up for disappointment with Levi.

“I keep my promises.” He set his beer bottle back on the bar with a small click and leaned forward—surprise—to take her hand, his calloused fingers threading through hers in a rough-tender caress that was inexplicably good. His thumb found a sensitive spot in her palm and rubbed. Okay. Maybe she was the one who wouldn’t make it a week.

Which was undoubtedly his point.

“I dare you,” she blurted out, her mouth rushing ahead of her brain. “No sex for one week.”

“Sure.” He nodded agreeably. “You said the sex shop’s closed, so no worries.”

She’d never thought he would take advantage of their possibly married state. He wasn’t that kind of guy. They were plenty clear on that particular point—it was just everything else they disagreed about.

“But,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “If I take your dare, you take mine.”

Her hand shot up. “No. I’m done negotiating with you.”

Of course he kept right on talking as if she hadn’t said anything. “For each night I go without sex, I get to choose a drink for you from Fantasy Island’s cocktail menu.”

She really, really needed to ignore the pulse of heat that suggestion generated in her belly. And lower. This was Levi. She didn’t even like him, but apparently her body thought angry sex was something she should try at least once in her life. Preferably tonight.

He watched her calmly, but there was no mistaking the tension in his big body. He had her and he knew it. The problem with having worked with Levi in the field was that he’d learned things about her, like the way she responded to a challenge. Jesus. Emotionally, it made her feel like a five-year-old—when parts of her definitely were all adult around him—but she just couldn’t walk away from a dare.

“You want to get me drunk?” Somehow, she didn’t think he was talking about alcohol.

His teeth flashed as he snagged the drinks menu from the bar and waggled it in front of her. “We both know I’m talking about the other menu, babe. The secret menu, where the drink names are code for sexy stuff. Pink Panties. Angel’s Tit. Tie Me to the Bedpost. I pick the drink. You do the deed.”

4

THE EXPRESSION ON Ashley’s face registered a whole lot of hell no and you’ve got to be kidding me. If he’d been any kind of gentleman, he’d have looked away. Seeing as how he’d moved into bastard territory long ago, however, he merely flipped the menu open and ran his finger ostentatiously down the list of cocktails.

Her long lashes flicked down, her brown eyes following his finger as a truly spectacular blush painted her cheeks. Special Agent Dixon wasn’t a pretty blusher. No delicate shade of pink there. Her whole face flamed as though she’d been dipped in Day-Glo red. The color was kind of cute, actually, although he’d have bet his last paycheck that nothing shocked her.

He’d have lost that bet.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. Guess that won him points in this game of one-upmanship they were playing. He was actually capable of shocking snarky, no-nonsense, I-can-beat-your-ass Ashley Dixon. Today was a red-letter day, and he’d fucking mark it in his calendar. They’d worked together for the last year, and he could count the number of times he’d seen her look out of her element or anything less than perfectly confident. The woman was a chameleon, capable of fitting in anywhere and with anyone. She thought she knew the best way to handle every step of their missions. Worse, she’d been right. She pointed out her accuracy constantly and it was not an endearing trait.

“Sex on the Beach, Screaming Orgasm, Bend Over Shirley.” He winked at her. “Or should I substitute your name for that last one?”

Her blush got deeper. Any brighter and orbiting astronauts would be able to spot her cheeks from space. Together for less than twelve hours, and already he’d pushed her to Code Red. Provided he survived, this week together was turning out to be one of his better ideas.

She sucked in a breath, which undoubtedly meant she was about to start talking or yelling, and that was his cue to keep right on going. Once Ashley got started, she didn’t stop until she’d won.

“Nothing to your liking, Dixon?” He gave her his most winning smile. “Let’s try—”

“Shut up,” she growled. He recognized the look on her face. If she’d been a fellow SEAL, they’d have been rolling around on the sand by now, trading punches. Still, her expression was priceless. He reached for his phone. A moment like this deserved to be immortalized.

“Jesus, Brandon. Have pity on the bartender. He’s gonna think we’re having marital problems already.”

He thumbed on his phone and raised it. “Say cheese.”

She slammed her hand down over his, pinning his fingers to the bar. With her other hand, she pocketed his phone.

He whistled. “Nice move.”

If he were a lucky man, she’d kill him quickly. Since, however, he was currently married to Dixon and stuck on a tropical island after taking a vow of chastity, his luck was clearly nonexistent. Too bad about the phone, though, because the pictures would have been spectacular. He wiggled his fingers beneath hers.

“We’re done talking,” she snapped. Frankly, he was surprised she got the words out, because she had her teeth gritted so tightly she might need dental work. Her chest rose and fell beneath her shirt and damn it—was that a push-up bra? He leaned forward to get a better view. Why, yes, his cranky, ass-kicking wife was indeed sporting Victoria’s Secret. His favorite kind, too, the type of bra that cupped a woman’s breasts and laid them out framed in lace. He could run a finger down the deep valley her lingerie had created. Follow the path with his tongue and then his dick if he could sweet-talk her into a better mood...

“If you don’t stop staring at my boobs, I’ll hurt you.” Her grip on his fingers tightened. Nice to know she’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat and interrogation techniques. He’d caught Mason teaching her a few new tricks, too, the last time they’d been on Fantasy Island. His fellow SEAL had claimed to be QAing the DEA’s training program, but Levi was pretty sure the guy had just been stirring up shit. Dixon was mean. She didn’t need more ways to hurt a guy.

Speaking of which...he pulled his fingers free. No point in leaving her with the opportunity, and they both knew she couldn’t hold him if he wanted out.

“Is touching allowed? Good to know.” Grabbing her hand before she could snatch it back, he turned it over and pressed a kiss into the palm. The way she dug her nails into his skin was plenty of answer. His Dixon was voting no on the touching. He wasn’t playing fair, but boredom had to be the reason he’d started fantasizing about her underwear. He also wanted to kick ass, preferably beginning with the minister who had fake-for-real married them and ending with Gray Jackson, the SEAL lieutenant commander who’d brought them on the undercover mission to Fantasy Island in the first place. Not that Jackson had had anything to do with their not-so-faux beach wedding, but it was the principle of the thing.

“This is your fault,” she huffed.

Like hell it was. He had no idea what specifically she was blaming him for now, but he’d deny everything to his last breath. That was his plan and he’d stick to it. “What’s my latest sin?”

She tugged. He held on. “Our marriage. Our being stuck here on this island together. I’m busy, Levi. I have a life and I’m supposed to be preparing for a job interview next week. Flying down to Belize to sort out your screwup wasn’t on my to-do list.”

Wait. They were back to this again? “I get it. It’s my fault.”

Never mind that two people had to say I do to get married.

“You said I do,” she bit out. “The minister asked you to say vows and you did.”

“You did, too.” He should know. He’d been there.

“You said it first. You were supposed to pretend to say the words.”

“And we were supposed to have a pretend minister. So signals got crossed somewhere. We’ll uncross them.” He leaned back in his seat and motioned for the bartender. Another beer sounded like his safest bet at the moment.

The beach wedding had actually been kind of cool, although the costumes had sucked. Mason’s sort-of girlfriend had rounded him up at sunset, claiming she needed a stand-in groom for a beach wedding shot for her blog. Since she was a professional blogger and photographer, the request had sounded legit—particularly since he’d known that the actual bride and groom had been detained by his SEAL team earlier in the week.

Since it was indirectly his fault that Maddie was in a bind, helping her out had seemed like the decent thing to do. Plus, Mason had definitely had a thing for the pretty photographer, which had been reason number two to lend an assist. Ashley had allowed herself to be sucked into the crazy, too.

It was hard not to like Maddie. She was cheerful and bubbly, her zest for living putting a smile on the faces of everyone around her. That probably explained Ashley’s participation. Or maybe it had been her annual be-nice-to-strangers-and-nice-women day. Fuck if he knew or cared.

So maybe he’d said yes a little too enthusiastically when he’d been asked to participate. He also had a vague recollection of signing something that the minister guy had thrust in front of him. Confessing that the details were fuzzy probably wasn’t wise.

One thing he definitely remembered about their wedding, however, was the clothes. Somehow, he’d always thought weddings involved big white dresses and dress uniforms. Turned out he’d been wrong. Wonderfully wrong. Ashley had arrived on the beach rocking a white string bikini with BRIDE spelled out in sequins over her outstanding ass. He’d offered to sound the letters out in Braille, she’d slugged him, and the ceremony had proceeded from there. If only they’d ended up not married, it would have been perfect.

“You still got the swimsuit?” Because truth be told, he wouldn’t mind seeing it again.

“I’m ordering a new one,” she said tightly. “NEWLY DIVORCED.”

“That’s a bunch of letters. Your ass is gonna need to get a whole lot bigger.” Ashley had a great butt, curvy and apple shaped. Not that he’d ever been granted touching privileges, but he had eyes in his head and the sequins had screamed look at me.

She sighed, as though he’d screwed up yet again and it was killing her. “Are you telling me my butt looks big?”

He didn’t think she’d misinterpreted his words that badly, but Ashley definitely liked to mess with him. “Stand up and I’ll give you my honest opinion.”

“You suck,” she told him without heat.

“Imagine what I’ll be like after fifty years of marriage.” He grinned at her. “I’m like fine whiskey. I just get better with age.”

“More like old produce,” she muttered. “You stink and you’re slimy.”

“I’ll put my trunks on. We can get some honeymoon shots. Or—” He grabbed his beer and discovered it was empty.

“Or what?” she asked impatiently, signaling the bartender for a refill for him.

“Or you could just strip my trunks off of me. I’m flexible that way.” Coming on to Ashley Dixon, DEA agent and sometime-SEAL-team partner. Was that really what he intended? His dick was definitely up for it—she was a gorgeous woman—but his head also had zero problems with it. Betrayed on all fronts.

The bartended picked that moment to return with Levi’s fresh beer. Ashley promptly swiped it. Apparently they’d already moved into the splitting-community-property stage of their breakup.

The bartender’s head swiveled between them as he took in the tension. “Everything okay here?”

“See?” Levi snagged the beer and took a swallow. Since they were married, she could share. “Even the bartender thinks you’re going to lose it.”

Ashley made the teakettle noise again, the bartender beat a hasty retreat, and Levi mentally adjusted the guy’s tip up. One of them needed to get something out of the situation.

“Murder is now a definite possibility,” she growled.

He wasn’t sure why she thought he was an ogre or Bad Marriage personified, but he hated it when she started slinging stereotypes around. Just because he’d never chosen to get married didn’t mean he’d screw it up if he did. “If we’re married, I’ll fix it.” He would, too.

Her eyes narrowed. “How? By killing me?”

And this was why they could never have a conversation. She was stuck on felonies and bloodshed.

“You’re awful menacing for a newlywed on her honeymoon.” He fought to keep his temper under control. So she’d been surprised by their newlywed status. He had been, too. Didn’t mean she had to be a bitch about it.

“I’ve had provocation,” she said darkly and knocked back his beer. Her throat worked as she polished off his drink and he made a note to order two beers in the future.

“And I paid for that,” he said mildly.

She looked down at the empty bottle. “Sorry.”

She wasn’t. Not even remotely based on the satisfied smile she gave him, but that was okay. If she wanted a beer, he’d get her a beer. The whole reason for coming down here had been to take care of things. Dragging her along had been an impulse, but he still couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

If they were married, he kind of liked the idea of having this week to themselves. It was no honeymoon, but it felt right. Almost as right as the unexpected urge to take care of her, which was stupid. Dixon was about as cuddly as piranha-cactus cross. She’d sooner cut his balls off than accept a helping hand from him. Honestly, he didn’t see what the big deal was if he gave her an assist, but she’d always been funny that way.

“I’ll fix it,” he repeated. “You just tell me what you need.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s an open-ended statement, Brandon. You might want to rephrase.”

Hell. Was he supposed to get turned on? Probably not, he decided, although he blamed her. She was the one who’d brought up sex in the first place. Not him. He was positively an angel. Really, he’d be doing her a favor to disabuse her of the notion that there was anything nice about him.

“I treat you to an island vacation and now you’re giving me grief?”

She stared at him like he’d just crawled out of a foxhole after two weeks in the sand with no shower. “Is the word romance not even in your vocabulary?”

Sure was. He kept it in a list that included marriage, peacetime and disarmament. Those were all good words—just not for him. He knew his limitations.

“I know how to romance a girl.” The words probably would have sounded better if his voice hadn’t come out all gruff, like her question was a challenge that pissed him off.

“Not sex her up,” Dixon snapped. Jesus. Did she ever slow down and not take offense? Or was it just him that irritated her so badly? “I mean real, bona fide romance.”

“Maybe you better give a for example. Are we talking flowers and candles, or do you want me spouting poetry?”

She snorted. “I’m not anti-flower, but that’s not what I meant. You’ve got flowers and candles covered right here in this bar, and we’re about as far from romantic as it’s possible to get.”

He made a give-it-up gesture with his hand. “You’d better educate me then, Dixon. As a public service.”

“Tell me about the first girl you dated seriously.”

“Gonna have to define seriously.” Candlelight was a good look for Ashley. She smelled good—he’d noticed that as soon as he sat down. If pretty had a smell, it was Ashley. Fruit, flowers, maybe both. Hell if he knew, but he liked it. She smelled edible, and he wanted to lick her from head to toe, even though it would be a seriously bad idea. He had no doubt at all that she’d throttle him.

“Are you serious?” If her grip got any tighter on her beer bottle, she might shatter the glass. While he found her strength kind of sexy, he also found it frustrating. Her opinion of him was about as low as opinions could get. Kinda made him feel like he was the dog turd stuck to the bottom of her mental sneaker.

Whatever. Ashley kept right on yelling at him, which was also familiar territory. “You dated the girl for more than a single night. You did things that did not involve a bed, a wall, the floor, or your penis poking her. You exchanged nonpornographic words, and if pressed, you could come up with a list of at least five things you liked about her that did not involve sex acts.”

“You realize that, by that definition, we’re dating seriously, babe.”

Her forehead got the cutest little crinkle in it when she was thinking. Since his logic was solid, he tugged the beer out of her hand and stole a swallow. Beer always tasted better when it belonged to someone else.

“Arresting drug lords doesn’t count as a date,” she protested eventually. She knew he had her.

“I brought you to this gorgeous tropical island.” He waved a hand around the beach bar. “You’ve got sand, stars, and unlimited alcohol.”

Double gotcha.

She grabbed her beer back. “You don’t like anything about me.”

“That’s not true either.”

She pointed the beer bottle at him. “Prove it. If we’re dating, tell me what you like about me.”

“Might want to rephrase that, babe. Narrow your terms a little.”

Honestly, he didn’t know where Dixon had gotten the idea that he didn’t like her. She was part of his team. He had nothing but respect for her job skills. So what if they rubbed each other the wrong way and gave each other shit? That didn’t mean he didn’t like her. Liking didn’t come into it at all. The sidelong look she sent his way drove him crazy. Also made him want to misbehave, since she so clearly expected the worst from him.

“If you want an ode to your left boob, I’m happy to give it a shot,” he continued. Yeah. That did it. Ashley’s lips tightened, and her mouth flew open. She’d achieve nuclear detonation in three seconds if he didn’t start talking fast. Since coming up with haiku about her breasts on the fly actually did exceed his capabilities, he gave her the truth.

“You’ve got killer skills with hardware. That’s one. Two? You can break down and reassemble an M4 as fast as any of the guys on the team.”

“Dating isn’t a job interview,” she said dryly. “And that’s the kind of crap I put on my résumé. I’m not feeling the romance here.”

“Shut up. I’m in charge of the list. Three? You’re not afraid of anything. You got something to say? You say it. Doesn’t matter if it’s just me, or the SEAL team commander, or half of Congress. If it’s on your mind, you’ll say it.”

She laughed. “Yeah. I’m blunt. I’ll give you that.”

He hadn’t realized his list was up for discussion. “You’re happy. That’s number four. I’ve never heard you bitch about field conditions or wanting something different. Not saying you’re Suzy Sunshine, but when we’re on a job you don’t bitch just to bitch. You roll with what life hands you.”

She got a funny look on her face, but she’d started this. If she didn’t like what he had to say, that wasn’t his problem. And he actually did like her. So what if he’d never really thought it through before?

“Number five? I can hang out with you and drink a beer. Better yet, I can dare you to do stupid shit and you’ll say yes. You’ve got a secret fun side, Dixon, and I definitely like that about you.”

And conveniently, he knew just the way to do it, too.

“So how about it? You taking my dare?”

* * *

THE LOOK ON Levi’s face was pure mischief. No. Scratch that, because there was absolutely, positively nothing pure about the man. He was unashamedly filthy. Ordinarily, she kind of enjoyed that about him—not that she’d admit it—but he’d risen to the challenge and now he was proposing one of his own.

Performing a solo sex show wasn’t on the top of her to-do list, however. Of course, making a personal sex tape or sending naked selfies wasn’t on there either, so maybe she needed to loosen up. Or convince Levi to go first. There was definitely one thing they needed to get straight first.

“Wait.” She patted the suggestive cocktail menu. “Some of these drinks are a team endeavor. I’m not having sex with you—or with anyone else.”

Not that she was planning on losing the dare but, just in case, it was probably prudent to establish a few ground rules. God knew, Levi could probably have sex with an entire circus troupe, but she wasn’t watching that, participating in that, or even thinking about that. Much.

He bumped her knee with his own. It was a good knee, hard and firm. She could feel the heat of his skin through his cargo pants and the sensation promptly sent her mind into the gutter. Darn it. It had to be the island and the anything-goes sexual ambiance that actually had her picturing Levi naked.

“Got it,” he said. “Anything I pick has to be a solo act. No orgies, threesomes, or anything involving multiples.”

Was she really going to do this? It was stupid. Juvenile. There were plenty of adjectives that covered the situation, and all of them screamed stop and reassess. She hesitated, the yes stuck on her tongue.

Levi raised a brow mockingly. “Chicken?”

“Don’t be juvenile,” she sniffed. She wasn’t afraid of him. Or of losing. She’d seen the drinks menu—how bad could it be if she gave in?

Plus, who was she kidding? It was worth the risk just to watch Mr. I-can’t-keep-it-in-my-pants SEAL suffer through a week of sexual abstinence. The odds of Levi’s achieving an orgasm-free week were low.

“You’re on.” He toasted her lazily with his beer bottle. His empty beer bottle. Har. She’d won that one. “We’ve decided the rules for my part of the deal. Now let’s finalize yours.”

She concentrated on not hyperventilating while she got her thoughts together. Honestly, she had no idea how she’d gotten sucked into a sexy dare with Levi. Stuff just kind of happened around him, though, like he was a magnet for trouble. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that the man had never met a rule he didn’t want to break. If the sign read “Don’t climb,” he climbed. She’d hung the equivalent of the world’s biggest “Keep off the grass” sign on her chest with her celibacy dare, so maybe it was only natural he wanted to be all over her. Levi was perverse like that.

“I’m waiting,” he said huskily, when she stared at him, lost in those thoughts. “If you’ve got sexy conditions, you might want to lay them on me before I’m old and gray.”

It had been a while since she’d spelled out the conditions of a bet or a dare. In fact, the last time she could remember doing so was when she was all of twelve and egging her cousins on in a who-can-jump-off-the-highest-cliff contest. This wasn’t much less juvenile.

“No O-face. No orgasm, with or without a partner or partners. Accidental orgasm still counts. And no hand action. You lose and you’re voted off the island, effective immediately.” She ticked the items off on her fingers. Reaching over, she patted him on the knee, her fingertips rubbing the hard, muscled warmth of his thigh. Wow. Brandon Boy was ripped. “You got all that, big guy?”

“That might be too much for me to process,” he drawled.

“Use the big head, not the little one. You’ll be fine.”

He sighed. “Mean. I like that.”

Maybe he’d lost his mind in that last foxhole. Or been too close to some kind of major explosion. From the way he grinned at her, her face radiated her suspicions loud and clear. “You’re not supposed to like it.”

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