SUBJECT: Navy SEAL Mason Black

MISSION: Remain undercover...even if it means going commando!

Wedding blogger Maddie Holmes is twelve times the bridesmaid and never the bride. Still, being on the sidelines of everyone else’s happy endings has its perks, like staying at the luxurious, decadent Fantasy Island. The resort isn’t just romantic—it’s filled with sinful temptations...like delicious hottie resort chef Mason Black. And Maddie can’t wait to take a bite!

There’s just a teeny problem with her plan. She has no idea that Mason is an undercover Navy SEAL who needs photographs Maddie took that put both his mission and her life at risk. Mason’s plan? Retrieve the pics and indulge in a few X-rated fantasies with the curvy redhead...and hope like hell that being between the sheets doesn’t blow his cover.

“I’m not sure one apology is going to be sufficient...”

“I make a mean chocolate-chip pancake,” Mason offered, surprising her. “I could make you a replacement.”

Somehow, Maddie didn’t think his pancakes would be second best. Nope. Just like his smile, she had a feeling his pancakes would be addictive. He was a big, scary-looking guy offering homemade breakfast. Talk about checking all the right boxes.

“You cook,” she blurted out. He was a chef at the resort, even if he wore camo pants, a black T-shirt and combat boots, and looked more like a badass than a cook.

“Yeah. I do. Really well. I take it that’s a no on the pancake offer.”

Actually, she wanted to scream yes, please, and not just for his pancakes.

“That’s not what chefs wear.” She flicked a finger up and down, indicating his clothes.

He grinned. “I’m not in the kitchen right now, sweetheart. I’m allowed to be out of uniform.”

And now she was thinking about him naked...

Dear Reader,

The idea for Pleasing Her SEAL came to me when I was writing Teasing Her SEAL. I was in a panic, trying to come up with some kind of erotic, slightly-kinky-but-not-too-kinky fantasy that my heroine and her SEAL could bring to life. Apparently, my own life was rather boring and I was fresh out of fantasies that didn’t involve tropical islands and certain notorious pirates. So I did what any self-respecting author does when she needs to fact-check something—I did a Google search. There are plenty of top-ten fantasy lists out there and more than one involved bringing food into the bedroom. Strawberries, champagne and body chocolate? Yes, please! Suddenly I had plenty of ideas for Pleasing Her SEAL.

We all want to be sexy and desirable—and we all have a few hidden fantasies. Wedding blogger Maddie Holmes is curvy and funny, with a mouth that won’t stop and a definite sweet tooth. US Navy SEAL Mason Black is undercover as a resort chef on Fantasy Island. He’s also on a mission to get close to Maddie—really, really close. Soon he’s wooing her with whipped cream, frosting and a very naughty candy necklace.

I hope you enjoy Maddie and Mason’s story! I’d love to hear from you—so stop by and visit me on Facebook and on Twitter, @anne_marsh.

Happy reading,

Anne Marsh

Pleasing Her SEAL

Anne Marsh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

This one’s for Gwen Hayes. Yes, again. Because no books get written without the awesomeness of Gwen and, when you read this, we’ll be cruising the Caribbean and plotting literary world domination. We’re going to be unstoppable.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Extract

Copyright

1

Ladies, it’s Saturday and I’m surrounded by honeymooners. This is one step up from my usual weekend wedding gig, where my people options are usually the geriatric crowd, the toddler dancing crowd (always good for a much-needed cardio burst and the cutest, stickiest kisses), or the drunken groomsman crowd (good for equally enthusiastic but much damper kisses—eww). I counted not one, not two, but three couples wrapped around each other by the pool. I have dubbed them the Octopi because they seem to have eight hands each and at least seven of them are engaged in activities best left to the bedroom or a soft porn channel. Go, Octopi! Speaking of that, watching the Octopi procreate underscores my own single state. You’ve found The One and you’re hearing wedding bells, or you wouldn’t be visiting this blog. Any tips for where to look for a good guy? Because this wedding blogger is feeling lonely in paradise.

—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle

“HOOYAH, HOOYAH, HOOYAH, HEY.” US Navy SEAL Mason Black fist-bumped his knuckles with Levi Brandon’s. He didn’t have far to reach since both men were currently sharing the same palm tree backrest and catching their breaths after completing their mission.

“Today’s gonna be another easy day.” Levi automatically finished the chant. The words took Mason back to BUD/S training when making the SEALs team had still been seven weeks of hell away. Operating on four hours of sleep or less a night, he’d worked with his teammates to carry their Zodiac over their heads through the pounding surf, crawled through mud flats and made best friends with a three-hundred-pound log that was their instructors’ idea of exercise equipment. Good times.

Levi grinned as if he hadn’t just been embroiled in a firefight. “I’m hoping there’s a beer in my future.”

The current op wasn’t so bad and beat the hell out of completing the O course at BUD/S. Not only had the rain finally stopped, which went in the plus column, but one hell of a tropical sunrise lit up the horizon. Since he was waiting for the Zodiacs from the US Navy cruiser anchored just offshore, Mason had every reason to stare at the horizon. His team was minutes away from successfully finishing their undercover op on Fantasy Island.

One more checkmark in the “mission complete” column.

If he’d been a paperwork-and-spreadsheet kind of guy. Which he wasn’t.

Nope, he mused to himself as he went to work with a SIG Sauer and a sniper rifle. Rather than riding the commuter train, he’d be extracted from the island by Black Hawk and flown to the nearest US military base to debrief. And instead of writing quarterly reports or coding software, he’d helped lead the hostile extraction of a South American drug lord who’d made the mistake of booking a luxury vacation for himself and his new girlfriend on Fantasy Island.

Mason’s SEAL team had moved in early, posing as resort staff, and intercepted the guy as soon as he’d stepped foot on the island. Pretending to be a gourmet chef had actually been fun. Poolside ceviche lessons were a nice change of pace from dodging bullets, and he genuinely liked cooking. The female students weren’t bad looking, either.

SEAL Team Sigma had established an undercover camp on Fantasy Island’s undeveloped side. Unlike the resort digs, their camp was basic. A few hammocks, a couple of tents and enough hardware and weaponry to take over a small country. They could be packed and wheels up in two hours, and that portability alone made the place more perfect than a country club. Better yet, the rugged terrain all but guaranteed that no resort guest would stumble across the SEALs.

The faint sound of Zodiacs cutting across the lagoon announced that it was showtime. Diego Marcos, the captured drug lord, started cursing up a storm behind his duct-tape gag and pulling at his zip-tied wrists. The scumbag wasn’t going to quit until he was in US custody aboard the Navy vessel cruising offshore, and maybe not even then. Not Mason’s problem. The girlfriend, however, looked peaked and more than a little teary, so Mason helped her to a seat on the sand with a hand under her elbow.

She might or might not know squat about her beau’s drug-running activities, but she’d come here with him and now she was tarred with the same brush. Marcos shot her a look, not quite managing to mask his concern. Mason got that. Separating your personal life from your professional life was hard.

Mason didn’t like the worry in her eyes, either, so when she stared up at him, he broke out his Spanish for Dummies. “No te preocupes que vas a estar bien.”

The way her eyes welled up at his words wasn’t a good sign. Or maybe she’d just had enough. Someone, somewhere was going to miss her. That unknown someone would want to yell at her for her bad choice in men and then maybe add an “I told you so.” He could imagine all too easily how he’d feel if she was one of his sisters or his cousins, seven females he loved more than life itself and who’d managed, collectively, to date every badass bad guy out there. Some of them more than once.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and fell back. He couldn’t let her go, and he couldn’t give her a do-over. So the best thing was to get out of her personal space.

“Softie,” Levi mouthed.

Yeah, but he was also the softie in charge at the moment. Their team leader, Gray Jackson, was supervising the medevac of an injured team member, so Mason had command.

Something flashed at his nine o’clock. Light on glass, like a camera lens. Typical. Right when the mission wrapped and they were all free to ride off into the sunset, everything went FUBAR. Lifting his binoculars, he zoomed in and, damn, it was the hot chick who’d attended the cooking lessons. She’d liked his ceviche. He’d liked...her.

She was gorgeous, with a smile that lit her up from the inside out, radiant red hair bouncing around her shoulders. During the class, she’d worn a polka-dot sundress with tiny straps crisscrossing her shoulders, and his new mission had become finding a way to nudge those thin ribbons down her shoulders and get to know her. Biblically.

He nudged Levi with the toe of his boot. “We’ve got company.”

“Tell me it’s the Budweiser truck.”

“We’re on an island, dumbass.”

“Don’t be so literal.” Levi saluted him with his middle finger. “And let a man dream. Where’s our hot spot?”

“Up on the hill. Nine o’clock. We’ve got a resort guest out and about.”

Levi snatched the glasses away from him and examined the hillside. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “Jogger?”

“No such luck. That’s Madeline Holmes. She’s a wedding blogger and right now she’s snapping pictures of the lagoon.”

She was also his personal eye candy, her happy-go-lucky smile drawing his attention every time he was near her. And if he’d taken advantage of this island op to put himself in her vicinity as often as possible, that was need-to-know information.

“And in another ten, our pickup crew.” Levi cursed. “Options?”

Their mission was already FUBAR in some respects: Remy taking a bullet to the abdomen and being airlifted to a hospital, Gray bleeding emotionally because he’d taken a header for the visiting doctor who’d flown out with the injured SEAL. Pick one. Hell, pick both. This was why an insertion into civilian space spelled danger. Everything was easier in the jungle. Something moved, you shot it. Not, of course, that he wanted to shoot the woman.

“What are the odds she’s taking selfies?” Levi asked.

Zero to none. A familiar calm descended. His pretty redhead was a threat to his team, so he’d neutralize her. No matter how alive she made him feel, the mission and the team came first. “I’ll take care of it. You hand off our guests here to the Navy boys.”

“Got it.” Levi turned toward the approaching Zodiac. “Try to remember that we’re on a no-kill mission, okay? Plus, she’s friends with Ashley, and you don’t want to piss off Ashley.”

Jesus. Did he look that cranky? Or like the kind of guy who would take out an innocent civilian? He agreed with the warning on Ashley Dixon, though. She was a DEA loaner and honorary member of the SEAL team—and she could be mean as hell if you riled her up. Moving rapidly, he stripped off his more obvious weapons and dropped them on the sand. Since he was supposed to be undercover, working on the down low, he couldn’t show up toting forty pounds of lethal hardware.

* * *

MORNINGS SUCKED. PREDAWN ALARMS sucked even more because no one, ever, had accused Madeline Holmes of being a morning person. Still, she’d given it a shot, scrambling up the hill even as she willed the sunrise to hold off. Hitting the snooze button the third time had been a mistake.

In order to make the sunrise, she’d rolled out of bed and settled for a tank top, shorts and sneakers. Usually, she put some thought into her clothes. Okay. Lots of thought. Clothing was like armor. Pretty armor. Instead of rocking her suitcase full of brand-new vacation wear, however, she was climbing Mount Everest. She hadn’t shaved her legs or brushed her hair and she stank of eau de bug spray.

Go, her.

As the air lightened around her, she pushed harder because the sun was coming up fast and, color her romantic, but she wanted to catch the first rays of dawn, the colors exploding over the edge of the horizon. This was probably her one and only chance to visit a place like Fantasy Island, so every moment needed to count—and the pictures would be awesome blog material. And the more footage she got, the better. Everything rode on this trip.

She was lucky to be here, even if she’d come alone. The Fantasy Island marketing team had reached out to her about advertising on her blog and, ka-ching, she’d found herself here on an all-expenses-paid vacation. Now she had to earn her keep or her chance at big-time success would go poof.

The place was paradise, so how hard could it be to talk the island up on her blog? The only thing missing was the naked hot guy. Or loincloth-wearing hot guy. She preferred a man of mystery to a letting-it-all-hang-out-in-the-breeze guy. If she’d understood the island’s advertising correctly, she might be able to have her choice of either. Or both.

Whatever she wanted.

Fantasy Island advertised itself as an idyllic slice of paradise located on the Caribbean Sea—the perfect place for a destination wedding or honeymoon. The elegant type on the resort brochure promised barefoot luxury, discreet hedonism and complete wish fulfillment. Maddie’s job was to translate those naughty promises into sexy web copy that would drive traffic to her blog and fill her bank account with much-needed advertising dollars.

The summit beckoned and she stepped out into a small clearing overlooking the ocean.

“I need to work out more.” At least her asthma hadn’t kicked in. After a quick check of the camera that she’d set up yesterday to do time-lapse photography, she unwrapped her breakfast. She had a purloined croissant and a mocha, which was the perfect sunrise-watching food. While she munched and she shot, the air lightened around her, the birds and the howler monkeys competing to see who could make the most raucous noise. Being awake this early was...almost okay.

The noise of a boat coming in hard and fast on the quiet side of the island was a surprise. With her camera lens, she zoomed in on a pair of black rubber dinghies bouncing over the lagoon’s calm surface. Huh. She squinted, trying to make out the details. Not only did the guys riding the Zodiac look mean, but they were toting a small arsenal, too.

“Good view?” At the sound of the deep male voice behind her, Maddie flinched, arms and legs jerking in shock. Her camera flew forward as she scrambled backward. As adrenaline surged through her, she sucked in air—happy place, happy place—but her lungs betrayed her anyhow, her airway closing up tight. It felt like an elephant had parked its ass on her chest.

Strong male fingers fastened around her wrist. Panicked, she grabbed her croissant and lobbed it at the guy, followed by her coffee. He cursed and dodged.

“It’s not a good day to jump without a chute.” He tugged her away from the edge of the lookout, and she got her first good look at him. Not a stranger. Okay, then. Her heart banged hard against her rib cage, pummeling her out-of-air lungs, before settling back into a more normal rhythm. Mason. Mason I-Can’t-Be-Bothered-To-Tell-You-My-Last-Name-But-I’m-A-Stud. He led the cooking classes by the pool. She’d written him off as good-looking but aloof, not certain if she’d spotted a spark of potential interest in his dark eyes. Wishful thinking or dating potential—it was probably a moot point now, since she’d just pegged him with her croissant, followed by her mocha. Usually she couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, but she’d scored a bull’s-eye on the front of his T-shirt.

She sneaked a peek at him. He didn’t seem pissed off. On the contrary, he simply rocked back on his haunches, hands held out in front of him. I come in peace, she thought, fortunately too out of breath to giggle. The side of his shirt sported a dark stain from her coffee. Oh, goody. She’d actually scalded him. Way to make an impression on a poor, innocent guy. This was why her dating life sucked.

She tried to wheeze out an apology, but he shook his head.

“Let’s get you breathing.”

She had to agree with his priorities. Plus, if he wanted her breathing, he clearly hadn’t morphed from resort chef to serial killer, so he had some other reason for being up here. Who knew? Maybe he was a secret sunrise aficionado. With a grimace, she dumped her bag upside down on the ground, looking for the inhaler hiding somewhere in the mountain of stuff she carted around. Mason made a choked sound, but she ignored him. So she had a lot of stuff. Preparation was the key to surviving, right? Plus, she really, really hated cleaning out her bag. Mason rifled through the contents, his fingers skimming over her secret chocolate stash, mini samples from her Birchbox subscription, three pairs of sunglasses, a paperback and a clear plastic pouch of emergency tampons. Since he didn’t look as if he wanted to run back down the hill screaming, she concentrated on breathing.

“Got it.” Uncapping her inhaler, he handed it to her. Dark brown eyes watched her as she primed the device and shoved it into her mouth. “I scared you.”

“You think?” The albuterol went to work, her lungs opening up like her puffer was a magic wand and she’d just chanted open sesame. She hated having to rely on the device, but sometimes she couldn’t talk herself out of panicking.

“That wasn’t my intention.” The look on his face was part chagrin, part repentance. Worked for her.

“I’ll put a bell around your neck.” Where had he learned to move so quietly?

“Why don’t we start over?” He stuck out a hand. A big, masculine, slightly muddy hand. She probably shouldn’t want to seize his fingers like a lifeline. “I’m Mason Black.”

“I know who you are.” Or mostly. The last name was new information.

Belatedly, she shoved her hand into his. Good Lord, the man had her acting as though she was fifteen. Not that she’d mind having her fifteen-year-old body back, but that year in high school had been the Year of Brody. Brody had sat next to her in her chemistry class, his mere presence driving textbooks straight out of her mind and reducing her to a stammering, drooling idiot. He’d made her tingle and flush, transforming chemistry class into both her favorite and her worst period of the day.

Mason Black was even more devastating. And, like her chemistry crush, she wasn’t entirely positive he knew her name. After all, he’d just introduced himself to her as if they were total strangers and she hadn’t ogled his body while he taught Fantasy Island’s guests to make ceviche. Which she totally had.

She was also still holding his hand.

Oops. Letting go, she took a step back.

“I’m Maddie Holmes.”

“Uh-huh.” He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology.”

She leaned toward him before she could stop herself. “Okay.”

Did she still sound breathless? Maybe she could blame her asthma. He examined the ground and her gaze followed his. Right. Her camera...and her breakfast. Her breakfast was beyond repair—even she wasn’t going to eat a chocolate croissant that had bounced off Hot Chef’s chest and hit the jungle floor—but her camera was a different story. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands and then handed it to her.

“The first apology is for scaring you. It wasn’t intentional.” His lips curved up in a grin. “And the second apology is for your camera. And your croissant.” She liked the slow way he smiled at her. It made her feel all melty, like the insides of her croissant.

“It was chocolate,” she pointed out. “One apology may not be sufficient.”

“Call me crazy, but aren’t cameras a bit more expensive than breakfast pastries?”

“I have more than one camera,” she explained. “But at the moment, I’m completely croissant-less.”

“I make a mean chocolate-chip pancake,” he offered, surprising her. With that brawny body, she’d assumed he was an oat bran and protein powder kind of guy. “I could make you a replacement.”

Somehow, she didn’t think his pancakes would take second place. Nope. Just like his smile, she had a bad feeling his pancakes would be addictive. He was a big, scary-looking guy offering homemade breakfast. Talk about checking all the right boxes.

“You cook,” she blurted out when the silence stretched on too long, and then wanted to smack herself. Duh. Obviously, he cooked. He was a chef at the resort, even if he wore camo pants, a black T-shirt and combat boots, and looked more like a badass than a chef.

“Yeah,” he agreed, rocking back on his heels to survey her, presumably for further damage. “I do. Really well, although I’m hearing a no on my offer.”

Only because she was biting her lip. She wanted to scream “yes, please” and not just for his pancakes.

“That’s not what chefs wear.” She flicked a finger up and down, indicating his clothes.

He grinned. “I’m not in the kitchen right now, sweetheart. I’m allowed to be out of uniform.”

And now she was thinking about him naked.

“I’m playing paintball with some of the guys,” he continued.

“At dawn?”

He shrugged. “You all like to eat. I have a job to do most of the time.”

“You don’t have any paint on your shirt.” Although if his alleged teammates had hit him on the butt, she’d be happy to check out that portion of his anatomy, too.

He sighed. “That’s because I’m good.”

Again...maybe. Not that he had any reason to lie to her about paintball, but she had a suspicious nature. She tried to peer over his shoulder, but it was roughly the size of a small tree and offered plenty of places for a gal to dig in. His black T-shirt clung to him in all the right places, and black and green paint streaked his face. The colors drew attention to the strong line of his jaw and a really great pair of brown eyes.

She was staring.

Shoot.

“I saw boats.” She pointed to the lagoon over his shoulder. “Two of those black inflatable dinghy things.”

He turned around, crossing his arms over his broad chest. That move pulled the shirt tight. Since she was an equal-opportunity kind of gal, she checked out his ass, too. Which was tight and firm, unlike hers. She definitely needed to take up paintball.

He shrugged and pointed to the dinghy-less, bad-guy-less lagoon. “There’s no one there now.”

“But there was.” She hated mysteries.

“It could be the Belizean police doing a routine drug check. They patrol up and down the coastline, and we’re only a few miles offshore.”

That sounded feasible. On her last visit to Cancun, back when she’d had vacation time, benefits and a nine-to-five job, she’d spotted AK-47–toting Mexican police patrolling the beaches. The hotel had assured her that was standard operating procedure, although she’d almost choked on her margarita the first time she’d spotted the patrols. She stared at the camera in her hands.

“I have photos,” she said.

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you,” he pointed out. “But I’m happy to look at anything you want to show me.”

That almost sounded like a double entendre, but he said the words with a straight face, making it impossible to be sure. Instead, she focused on her camera and—damn it—its trip to the ground hadn’t done it any favors.

“The memory card’s gone. It must have popped out when I dropped the camera.”

And flown over the edge, she decided a few minutes later, on its way down, down, down for a tropical swim. Mason helped her look, but the card was nowhere to be found. Of course, since she was searching for a teeny piece of plastic in the great outdoors, her odds hadn’t been high to start with.

“I’m thinking I owe you more than a short stack,” he said with a grimace. “Now you’ve lost your pictures, too.”

This was where being prepared came in handy. “Not really. I had the camera set up to do time-lapse, and all the shots should have been transferred to my laptop if the Wi-Fi isn’t moving on island time.”

“Good to know,” he muttered, his eyes on the camera in her hands. “What were you shooting?”

“Not what you were shooting.” When he gave her a lopsided grin, she told him the truth. “Sunrise pictures. Romantic stuff for my wedding blog. Brides will love having their pictures taken up here. I’m shadowing a wedding later this week, and the bride already picked out this spot for her photos. They’re a gorgeous couple.”

She whipped open her planner and flipped to the section where she’d jotted down her notes for the beach wedding. There were certain shots she definitely wanted to make sure she captured, and she did better with a list.

“This is my bride and groom. He’s a hottie. My blog readers will love him.”

Mason took the groom’s picture from her. “This is your guy?”

“Uh-huh.” She’d been in correspondence with Julieta, the bride, more than once before she’d arrived. The Mrs. Guzman-to-be was a pretty blonde, while her groom had the Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome part down. He rocked a white linen suit in the photo Julieta had sent to give Maddie an idea of what they’d be wearing and, if he showed up looking like that, her photos would be outstanding. “What do you think?”

Mason snorted. “Not my type, sweetheart.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Well, Mr. Guzman clearly appeals to the future Mrs. Guzman, and that’s all that counts.”

“They here on the island already?” He returned the photo and she stuck it back in her planner.

“Not yet.” Which was both surprising and not. “Julieta’s dress is here—that’s the bride-to-be—but I haven’t actually seen them check in yet. Mr. Guzman runs some kind of import-export business and has stuff come up at the last minute all the time. Maybe he had a business thing. It must be nice to have a private plane and go where you want, when you want.”

“Maybe.” Mason gestured at her tripod. “You done here? Want a hand bringing this back to your villa?”

“A hand down the hill would be great,” she said, still thinking about her missing bride and groom. She’d been counting on shooting their wedding for her blog; if they were no-shows, she’d need to make alternative arrangements. “Maybe I’ll see if his brother has arrived yet. Ask him if Mr. Guzman’s plans have changed.”

Mason started breaking down her tripod. “He’s bringing family to his wedding?”

She shrugged. “Just his brother, Santiago, according to Julieta. He was planning to get to the island a few days before her, so she was hoping to pawn some of the prewedding tasks off on him. He should have arrived yesterday or today.”

She let him help her fold up the tripod, and then they headed toward the path that led back to the resort. Since the sun had risen, the lighting was no longer ideal, and she now had a date with her bed. A date that would be even better if Mason followed her home. No. He wasn’t a stray puppy. She didn’t get to bring him home.

He strode ahead of her, so she followed along, admiring the way his cargo pants bunched over his butt as he walked. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—and she’d definitely take a rain check on those pancakes.

2

WHEN THEY REACHED the base of the hill, Mason called squad halt on the operation. Maddie had given him permission to lead her down the hill, and down the hill only, so he handed over the tripod and flashed her a quick salute.

She blinked at him, taking the tripod automatically. “Uh. Thanks.” Her gaze dipped to the coffee stain on his shirt, her face radiating embarrassment. “Sorry about that. And about scalding you.”

She turned pink as if he were actually bothered by a few ounces of hot coffee. He’d been shot at, pinned down and ambushed more times than he could count. Coffee was the least of his worries, although her blush was cute.

“No worries, sweetheart. See you around?”

“Pancakes,” she answered, sounding slightly breathless, and he couldn’t hold back his grin. God, she was fun. When she went left, he hung back. Partly just to watch her go because, hell yeah, he enjoyed the sassy swing of her hips. Maybe she was trying to drive him crazy. It was a possibility.

Mr. Guzman, his ass.

The groom-to-be in Maddie’s photo was Diego Marcos and he would be arriving precisely never. His reservation had been canceled, courtesy of SEAL Team Sigma. The possibility of Marcos’s brother showing up on Fantasy Island, however, was an unpleasant wrinkle that he’d need to alert the rest of the SEAL team to. If they didn’t have intel on where the brother was, they needed to get it stat.

And added bonus... If Maddie ever found out what Mason had done, he’d be on her shit list for more reasons than scaring the bejesus out of her.

He opened his hand and looked down. He’d taken advantage of her panic to pop the memory card out of her very expensive camera. He’d always used an inexpensive point-and-shoot himself, but then his usual model was a dead enemy target that needed documenting. Sunrises clearly required better technology.

Unfortunately, boosting her memory card might not have been enough. If she’d transferred pictures via the resort’s Wi-Fi, he had a bigger problem than the square of plastic in his hand.

By the time he’d made it back to their base camp, the prisoners were long gone on the Zodiacs, and the rest of the SEAL team was waiting for him. He’d take camping over five-star luxury resorts any day. The entire team, minus Remy, who was now somewhere between here and Belize, was present.

Gray nodded acknowledgment when Mason stepped into the campsite. Gray was one of the biggest SEALs Mason had ever met. The team’s standing joke was that Gray didn’t parachute out of the plane so much as he plummeted. Like a rock. Although he sprawled at ease on a pile of backpacks, there was nothing casual about the glance he raked over Mason. Blood stained his camo. He’d stayed with the injured Remy until the medevac lifted off.

Mason was last to arrive at the debriefing about to start. It was standard operating protocol to review every mission, identifying areas of concern where they could improve next time. The team sat in a semicircle, their attention focused on Gray. As soon as Mason dropped to the ground next to Levi, Gray reviewed the mission that they had just completed, beginning with their target’s arrival on Fantasy Island and ending with Remy’s medevac to Belize for emergency surgery. Since Gray’s maybe-girlfriend Laney Parker was a surgeon and she’d accompanied Remy on the flight, Mason figured his teammate had a fighting chance.

When Gray finished the medical update and Levi had confirmed Marcos’s handoff to the US Navy, Gray dropped a new bombshell. “We’re not done here,” he said.

“We get to vacation for real? Hooyah.” Levi leaned forward. “I’m borrowing your black AmEx, Mason.”

“Dumbass,” Sam said. Their field medic was a laidback Alabama boy, but his lean build and easy smile were deceptively mellow. He could kick butt with the best of them, and no one on the team swam faster or blew more stuff up. “He means you get to work overtime.”

Gray shook his head. “Real mature, Sam. And accurate. Our mission parameters have changed. We were charged with bringing in Diego Marcos, but now we’ve got a second target. Marcos has a brother, who operates as his right-hand man.”

“Would that be Santiago Marcos?” Maybe Maddie had it wrong. Maybe she wasn’t planning to shoot the wedding of a notorious drug dealer who, according to her, had invited his equally notorious younger brother to the celebration.

Gray eyed him. “Are you psychic? Or is there something else we need to know about? Levi already mentioned that you hit a snag earlier today.”

Maddie was definitely a complication. A beautiful, very alluring complication.

“We had a resort guest up on the hillside lookout spot.” The place had some froufrou name like Lovers Lookout. He didn’t think Gray needed to know that, or that the spot apparently starred front and center in Maddie’s bridal portfolio. “She had a camera.”

Gray scrubbed a hand over his head. “How long was she up there? Did she shoot the Zodiacs coming in?”

Yeah, but that was only the first problem in a long list. “The guest is Madeline Holmes. She’s a blogger, one of those girls who hangs with Ashley.”

Ashley waved a hand. “Maddie runs Kiss and Tulle. She covers destination weddings, wedding favors, wedding cakes, wedding dresses. Last month her blog had over two hundred thousand unique visitors.”

“In other words, any noun that can be modified by the adjective wedding,” Levi interrupted. Mason was willing to bet that Levi wouldn’t recognize a wedding blog—or a wedding anything—if it bit him on the ass.

Ashley made a face. “Pretty much.”

“Well, today she was covering sunrises.” He had no idea why a bride would want to hike up a hill at dawn in her dress for a few photos, but far be it from him to judge. “And she set up her camera yesterday to do time-lapse photography.”

“She likes to vlog,” Ashley said with a sigh. “And live post.”

Whatever vlogging was, he’d bet it was a security risk because Ashley made another face.

Gray cursed. “Give me options.”

“I snagged her media card, but she claimed she’d already transferred her pictures over the resort’s Wi-Fi.”

Ashley leaned forward. “I’ve been monitoring traffic in and out, but she’ll likely keep copies on her laptop. Unfortunately, our resident wedding blogger has been experimenting with time-lapse photography. Even more unfortunately for us, her photos got picked up by a national travel site.”

Ashley flipped her tablet around, exhibiting a series of sunrise photographs shot over the pier. The first half dozen shots were harmless unless you had a thing against waves and pretty colors. The next-to-last picture, however, was a problem. It showed a Zodiac shooting through the opening in the reef and heading toward the dock. Mason had a bad feeling that if he zoomed in, he’d see Marcos’s bodyguards bouncing over the water in that Zodiac. Worse, there was no sign of the Zodiac tied up to the dock in the next and final frame. The boat had disappeared in the thirty minutes between shots.

Gray nodded slowly. “We need to see what else she got.”

“There’s more,” Mason said. “Maddie mentioned she was planning on shooting a wedding later this week and the bride’s and groom’s pictures are a match for Diego Marcos and Julieta Ortiz. She’s been emailing Julieta and she expected them to show up yesterday. She doesn’t know their real names, but she knows their faces.”

Gray pointed to Ashley. “Have the resort notify Maddie that the wedding has been canceled.”

Ashley nodded. “Got it.”

“She also mentioned Santiago,” Mason divulged. He relayed what she’d told him about Santiago coming to the island to attend his brother’s wedding. “What do we know about him, and do we have confirmation on his current whereabouts?”

“He could have been part of the advance team we took out. I’ll reach out to command and see what they’ve got for us. In the meantime, no one breaks cover until we’ve got a bead on where Santiago is currently. Mason, you stick by Maddie’s side. Use the time to find out exactly what she has—or doesn’t have—on her laptop and to re-verify the identities of the other guests on the island. Make sure no one slipped past us, because if Santiago is here, he knows that Diego isn’t and that’s a problem.”

“Smash and grab on the laptop?” Levi stepped up like he was ready to volunteer.

“Do I need to define undercover for you?” Gray crossed his arms over his chest. “You steal or break her laptop, and she’s got a problem that becomes our problem. How much crime do you think there is on a luxury private island? The first people she’s going to point a finger at will be staff.”

“We could bring her in,” Mason suggested reluctantly. “Interview her. Or ask US Customs to intercept her on her return trip.”

If Maddie had had her camera trained on the lagoon overnight, there was a very good chance she’d captured faces. Given what even amateur photo-editing software could do these days, leaving any images in Maddie’s hands was a security risk. Put it together with the rest of her vlogging and... Diego’s brother could connect the dots. Plus, if Santiago was here, Maddie could ID him, and he’d bet Santiago had come undercover if he’d come at all.

Gray nodded, apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Worst-case scenario, that works. The customs boys can seize her laptop and go over it, although she’ll be asking questions.”

“Okay, then, let’s go with plan A. I’ll find out what she’s got. If she’s got anything.” For some reason, he wanted to play nice. After all, he’d already scared her once, and she’d almost hyperventilated on the spot. She was a civilian, not collateral damage.

Ashley examined her fingernails. “She’s here for another week.”

Good to know the timeline.

“I’ll make sure she didn’t record anything.” If she had, Mason would wipe whatever device it was.

Gray frowned. “Be discreet, okay? Scrub her media and shadow her in case there’s any blowback from Diego’s people or Santiago.”

Levi whistled as the meeting broke up. “You just scored bodyguard duty. Enjoy.”

Playing bodyguard wasn’t exactly the worst job in the world. He was all for sticking as close as possible to Maddie—up to and including getting naked. No. Wait. Resist that thought, sailor.

Ashley rummaged in her bag. “I’m helping, too.”

“Really?” Levi smirked, and even Mason recognized condescension when it stared at him. “How are you going to do that?”

Ashley pointed to Mason. “Penis angle.” And then she pointed to herself. “Girlfriend angle.”

“You think Maddie’s going to make Mason her new boy toy?”

Mason punched Levi in the shoulder when his teammate snorted. Sure, he was an introvert and no flirt, but he’d dated as recently as this year. He didn’t need Levi’s lousy dating advice. The guy had a different woman for each day of the week, and he seemed perfectly happy that way. But that wasn’t the way Mason planned on living his life.

“Read this.” Ashley shoved a magazine into his hands. The cover was one of those bright pink numbers with a too-perfect model. A brunette with spectacular boobs, her hair flying in an artificial breeze while she gave the camera a come-hither face.

No, thank you. “This is waiting room material.”

Ashley grinned at him. “Maddie has a serious magazine addiction. She loves the quizzes, so think of this as enemy intel. X marks the spot, big guy.”

He paged through the magazine. He’d been on the receiving end of intel more than once and it had never smelled like perfume before, or—he paused—scratch-and-sniff ads for tropical air fresheners. When he hit Ashley’s Post-it note, he stopped reading.

“You think I should take a quiz on how to be the perfect guy?”

Mason had four sisters. Surely that ought to qualify him as something of a girl expert? His jaw tightened. On the other hand, he’d also been married and divorced, so his credentials were rocky.

Ashley slapped his shoulder. “Read it. Then ask questions.”

Since Ashley had to be one of the most tenacious people Mason knew, he read. It was quicker that way. And she was right—it wouldn’t hurt to find out what it took to be a keeper guy. Mason’s sisters loved that crap. So did his cousins. A road map couldn’t hurt. He read the first quiz question.

You kiss her for the first time. After you break your lip-lock, you:

A) Tell her you’ve been fantasizing about kissing her for days—and that the reality is even better than the fantasy.

B) Whisper that she’s the hottest kisser ever—and you’ve got a list of other places you’d like to kiss her.

C) Praise her kissing skills and beg her to do it again just so you can be sure.

Jesus. What had happened to just kissing? “This stuff works?”

Levi ripped the quiz out and tucked it into the pocket of Mason’s pants. “Take notes and have fun, sailor.”

3

This girl might just have the best job in the world! I’m hanging out on a tropical island, the cocktails are free and hotness is a basic job requisite. Because did I mention the good-looking guys are everywhere? Yum. I even ran into a bona fide single guy yesterday and he’s got yours truly thinking that a vacation fling should be part of my plans. Fantasy Fodder—let’s call him FF for short—accidentally bumped into me when I was snapping you some gorgeous photos of the lagoon at sunrise (ladies, you’re totally going to want to do your wedding photos here, although I recommend a less obscene hour than the ass crack of dawn). Then he jumped right into rescue mode and kept yours truly from going over the edge of the cliff. So there I am with my very own white knight and rescue hottie, and he’s not even mad that I may have christened him with a venti white mocha. A guy with a sense of humor and strong, manly hands? Sign me up, ladies!

—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle

THERE NEEDED TO be a fourth, hidden option for people who wanted to increase their odds of hooking up because Maddie wasn’t an A, B or C girl. Her generous coating of SPF-100 sunscreen—thanks, Mom, for the redheaded gene—and a blue-and-white-checked retro two-piece definitely didn’t fall into the string-bikini category, although the buttons marching down her hips were a sassy touch she loved. She also appreciated her curves, even if they didn’t always fit into a standard-issue bikini. There was a whole lot of her recently thanks to a post-layoff diet of wedding cake and favors. She needed to plan on buying new clothes or minimizing the sweets.

A mental image of Mason popped into her head. He’d be anything but sweet. Bad girl. Maybe she’d been single long enough to recover from her last disastrous relationship or maybe it was something about Fantasy Island itself, because the resort certainly encouraged her erotic daydreams with their hunky help. She’d posted about her hot man on a hillside early this morning. If she couldn’t get an orgasm from him, she’d at least get a blog post. So far, the yeas outnumbered the nays two to one in her “Would you have hot vacation sex?” poll.

Since it was the low season, Fantasy Island didn’t have many guests at the moment. There had only been two other women on the seaplane that had brought her here. Laney Parker had been using up her honeymoon reservation after her fiancé had ditched her, and Ashley Dixon had won a free getaway in some sort of Facebook contest. The low occupancy was undoubtedly the reason why Fantasy Island’s owners had been willing to fly her here free so she could blog about their awesome resort offerings.

This was her big break. If Fantasy Island bought banner advertising on her blog, she’d be able to keep the lights on in her condo for at least six more months...and having one high-profile client would attract others. Business was like dating. The more popular a girl was, the more guys lined up to buy her drinks and share their contact info. So far, her blog had been a wallflower, but she was determined that those lonely days were over.

And writing about the pool scene was certainly no hardship. The pool itself was all sleek curves. Private cabanas offered guests superb views of the sea, and staff moved discreetly among the loungers, offering fruit kebobs and Evian water spritzes. Ashley waved from a cabana. She wore an electric-pink string bikini and held a paperback that almost outweighed her.

Ashley shoved her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Are you here for the cooking lesson?”

Not intentionally, but it sounded like fun, particularly if it came with a side of Mason. She dropped onto the cushion beside Ashley, taking care not to slosh the mango margarita she’d acquired at the bar.

“I could be,” she agreed. “I like free food.”

Ashley nodded. “We’re making mango-raspberry crepes with honeyed goat cheese.”

Yeah, that sounded pretty good. “I’m in,” she decided.

And then, wouldn’t you know it, Mason strode toward the pool, and he was the cherry on the sundae. He wore black linen plants that clung to his muscular thighs as he moved. Instead of looking silly in the white chef’s jacket and hat, he looked in control. Confident. He’d rolled his sleeves up, revealing powerful forearms. She was almost certain she was holding her breath, damn it. He was just one guy. One really hot, supersexy guy. His dark gaze slid over her, stopped, and he nodded. She had no idea what that meant. Hi? Glad to see you? Wait, there’s the woman I almost knocked over a cliff? The man should come with a secret decoder ring.

Ashley sat up cross-legged and closed her paperback. “Do you think we have to cook in order to eat?”

Maddie would bet the answer to that was yes. Mason wasn’t the kind of guy you took advantage of, and while she hadn’t asked his policy on free lunches when they’d run into each other at the lookout yesterday, she could certainly venture a guess. While she stared, Mason started dicing mango with easy confidence. She was all thumbs when it came to knives. Mason...was not.

“He’s going to make us work for it,” she said with a petulant frown.

Ashley sighed. “You think he’s a hard-ass about everything?”

“Probably.” If she took her friend’s words at face value, she had to admit that the man certainly had an amazing butt.

“Remember the drinks menu,” Ashley said impishly. “You could take him for a test drive.”

The rumored drinks menu, she reminded herself. The menu existed. She’d spent far too much time flipping through the twelve laminated pages of drinks with sexy names like Leather and Lace and Kinky Sex. The question, however, was whether those drink names were really not-so-covert code names for naughty sex acts that could be requested from the staff or other guests. Laney Parker had certainly made a good case for the menu being fact rather than fiction. She’d hooked up with the resort’s super-sexy masseuse and, from her blushes, done some menu exploring with him. It was too bad the other woman had been unexpectedly called home when a new job had opened up for her at a local emergency room, because Maddie had questions. Like, could you really just point and pick? For some reason, the notion felt kind of slimy. “Do you really think Mason’s available for that?”

Ashley shrugged. “Ask him.”

“A guy who looks like that isn’t available.” Not in her universe and not with her dating bad luck.

Ashley ogled Mason. “Are you offering him to me?”

No. She really wasn’t. “He’s off-limits,” she blurted, surprising herself. She hadn’t decided yet if she was going for him, but she knew she didn’t want to watch Ashley making a move on her chef.

“He’s all yours,” Ashley said, looking at her over the top of her sunglasses. “But you have to tell me what you’re planning for him.”

“He may not be interested,” she warned.

“Oh, he’s interested.” Ashley grinned and, although they both knew she had no way of being certain about Mason’s interest, Maddie appreciated the support.

Maddie didn’t want to explain how many times she’d met a guy and gone after him, only to learn that he thought of her as the fun friend. At the last wedding she’d attended, the usher she’d been paired with had spent the evening reception hitting her up for the maid of honor’s phone number. His patent disinterest in her own charms had rankled, too, because she’d thought they had good chemistry. Clearly, her dating radar was broken.

“Remember,” she said lightly. “I’m always the bridesmaid and never the bride.”

“How many times?”

It took a minute to do the math. “Thirteen. And gig number fourteen is coming up in a month. I have enough bridesmaid dresses in my closet to open my own bridal shop.”

Ashley made a sympathetic face. “You think they’d notice if you recycled and wore one more than once?”

“They’d notice,” she said with feeling. She’d dealt with more than one bridezilla.

Ashley nodded. “So. What’s the plan?”

She didn’t have one.

“Pick a drink,” her friend advised. “Imagine the possibilities. I’ll get you started. Dirty Girl Scout. Sex on the Farm. Sexy Alligator.”

“You made that one up.”

“Right here on the menu.” Ashley stabbed the plastic with her finger.

“Alligators aren’t sexy,” she protested. And sex on a farm didn’t sound particularly exciting, either. She was more of a sex-on-a-yacht-with-a-billionaire type of gal.

Ashley shrugged unrepentantly. “Imagine Mason’s face if you asked for that. You could get him to do anything.”

They both turned to stare at him. Nope. Imagining that was even harder than finding the sexy in an alligator. Ashley wasn’t deterred.

“Pink Panties. Sex in the Driveway. Long Slow Screw Against the Wall.” Ashley waved a hand. “Stop me when I get warm.”

“That sounds so cheesy,” she objected. But it also sounded fun. Her stomach hurt from laughing.

“Think of all the ways to improve your love life.” Ashley smirked at her, as if finding an improved sex life was that simple.

Maddie stared at her margarita. No easy answer in the mango-flavored cocktail. Even though she was technically here on a working vacation, she’d been encouraged to sample everything the resort had to offer. So she could better describe it for her blog followers. She’d been more than happy to comply. A free week of R & R at an all-inclusive luxury villa? Sign her up. She could do whatever she wanted. Check out the beach. Go to lunch twice. Spend all her afternoons lazing in the sun or lying out at the spa.

Alone.

She hadn’t considered the implications of being a party of one until her seaplane had been wheels down—did seaplanes even have wheels?—surrounded by happy, honeymooning, we’re-having-fantastic-sex couples. Truthfully? She was lonely. Envious. Horny. As she watched other couples kissing and holding hands and generally getting started on happily-ever-after, she was feeling more than a little left out.

She clutched the mango margarita, fighting the urge to make a face. She had nothing to complain about. Hello, free vacation? It was just that she had kind of imagined that someday she would be the bride and that there would be a Mr. Maddie by her side to frolic on the island with her. Instead, she had another bridesmaid gig lined up for next month, and her lunchtime companion was another singleton she’d met on the seaplane.

Not that Ashley wasn’t fantastic. She was.

A shadow fell over them. “Ladies,” a familiar deep voice said. Mason stood over them, big and stern. Oops.

* * *

MADDIE KNEW HOW to follow orders. Sort of. And definitely in her own unique, impulsive way. Mason probably shouldn’t read anything into Maddie’s attendance of his cooking class, but she was trouble and he had a feeling they both knew it.

After he broke up her gossipfest with Ashley, she bounced up to the temporary cooking station he’d pointed her to as though he hadn’t just interrupted a conversation about her dating life. Her bikini hugged her gorgeous curves and made his fingers itch to touch her, to smooth the fabric away and uncover bare skin. Her red hair was pulled up in a ponytail that brushed her shoulders with each jaunty step she took, and she had a pair of big white sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. Her cover-up was some kind of wrap thing with fringe on the sleeves that made him think of bedrooms. And getting naked. He thought a lot about getting naked when he was near Maddie.

She didn’t seem to be mad at him about his startling her yesterday, which was a plus. On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly paying all that much attention to him, either. Apparently, she wasn’t harboring teacher fantasies.

Still, he couldn’t help stealing glances at her and envisioning all the ways he could get to know her better. Make her feel better. She’d seemed...lonely. Even though she’d had her cute butt parked next to Ashley and had been laughing and talking up a storm like she always did, there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. Maybe it was just because she was literally here by herself and Fantasy Island didn’t have a swinging singles scene. He’d never seen so many couples glued to each other outside a porn flick. He’d walked past the Jacuzzi the other night and his eyeballs still burned.

He lined his students up at the table, passed out mangoes, and then knives. Since he only had the four students, giving Ashley a wide berth was difficult, but he managed. Guests three and four were a honeymooning couple more interested in each other than mangoes. That was fine with him. Teaching crepe making was new to him, so the smaller the audience, the better. As soon as he barked go, Maddie obediently went to town on her mango, wielding her knife with more enthusiasm than skill. She attacked the fruit the same way she appeared to attack life—head-on.

She was beautiful, but that wasn’t the reason for his attraction. Or, rather, it wasn’t the sole reason. As hokey as it sounded, when she got close, he wanted to smile. To hold her in his arms and dance her around in a big old circle until she collapsed against him, dizzy and laughing. He wanted to laugh with her—and he’d felt that way since he first landed on the island and had set eyes on her.

She was someone special. And if there was an edge of desperation beneath her laughter, he wanted to know that side of her, too. She wasn’t just the life of the party, even if that was what she wanted the world to believe. And he didn’t think for one second that she was content with standing on the sidelines, watching wedding after wedding. So what did she want?

A piece of mango hit the pool deck. She cursed, and nearly amputated her finger, and he decided it was time for an intervention. Her fruit was a mangled mess and he’d sharpened the Wüsthofs himself that morning.

“Did the mango do something to piss you off?”

She stopped chopping with a sigh, pink tingeing her cheekbones. “At least you can still tell it’s a mango, right?”

Only because he’d passed the fruit out himself. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to identify the goopy yellow mass. Handling a knife was second nature for him. His Swiss Army knife had gotten him out of nearly as many jams as his combat knife. Reaching around her, he adjusted her grip. “Keep the bottom of the blade on the cutting board. Make sure the tip is up.”

She brightened even as she impaled her knife on her cutting board. “I get points for effort, right?”

Her hair smelled good, like strawberries and coconut beneath the added bonus layer of mangoes. She also had mango juice on her fingers, her front and her cheek. He tried not to think about all the other places she could have self-decorated.

Focus. “Think squares.”

“Squares.” She sounded skeptical. He moved closer until his front was plastered up against her sweet butt. She inhaled, but didn’t protest.

“First one big square, then four smaller squares, then sixteen.”

“Math isn’t my thing.”

“Just dice.”

He mentally consulted what he’d dubbed the boyfriend cheat sheet. He needed to compliment her in a meaningful way. Establish a sense of emotional intimacy. Honestly, he had no clue what that meant, although telling her that her hair smelled nice probably didn’t count. A piece of flying mango hit him on the shoulder as he opened his mouth to praise her on her mad chopping skills.

Emphasis on mad.

“Oops,” she said and grinned up at him. He knew a deliberate hit when he saw one. If she wanted to play dirty, he was happy to play with her.

“Can I take over?”

She dropped the knife—and leaned back against him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and she blushed.

“Chopping’s hard work. You can be my mango boy anytime,” she said, surrendering the knife. If he was smart, he wouldn’t read anything into it. Apparently, though, he’d checked his brain when he’d accepted her as his mission, because he could feel a small answering smile tugging at his mouth.

After he’d chopped her mango—and, Jesus, he wished that was a euphemism for something else—he moved down the table, checking on his other students. Ashley had her mango chopped into precise cubes. “Show-off,” he muttered, and she stuck her tongue out at him. All good there. The honeymooning couple at the far end had progressed to feeding each other slices of fruit, and he resisted the urge to tell them to get a room. They had one. They just weren’t using it.

Yet.

Fantasy Island made a guy think about sex about fifty times a minute. It didn’t help that Maddie was covered in mango juice, making her his very own sweet sticky treat. Her crepe had achieved some strange mutant shape that defied the round shape of the pan. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly was no circle. It figured she’d make quirky crepes.

He peeled her crepe off the bottom of her pan and gave it a quick QA check. The top was raw and the bottom blackened. With a sigh, he substituted his crepe for hers.

She flashed him a dazzling smile. “Thank you. For the rescue,” she added after a brief pause. He didn’t know whether she meant yesterday on the hillside—or the mangoes.

“I still owe you makeup chocolate,” he said gruffly.

Her head whipped around, her ponytail slapping him in the mouth. “You meant that?”

“You bet.” He wiped a smudge of honey off the corner of her mouth. “I live to serve.”

That much was true. His family served. It was their tradition and he was proud to continue it. He’d do what he could do, push to be the best that he could be. Sure, he’d been the first to do it for Uncle Sam rather than Fish & Game or the Forest Service, but he figured service was like Christmas presents. It came in different sizes and shapes and sometimes you had no idea what you were getting, but it was all good. His dad had been a hotshot firefighter. His uncles were firefighters, too. He’d simply picked a different kind of fire, the kind that came with bad guys and bullets...and Maddie. Being her bodyguard detail was a whole different challenge.

She stared at him, evaluating something he couldn’t see. “Tomorrow?”

“It’s a date.”

“Like a date date?” Was that a hint of uncertainty in her eyes? He couldn’t tell, but that was nothing new. He wasn’t the kind of guy who dated much and being an active-duty SEAL made relationships near impossible. He never knew when he would be called up or for how long, which made any kind of connection or friendship outside his team difficult.

“Makeup chocolate,” he repeated, skirting the whole thorny issue of their relationship potential.

She gave him another assessing look and then grinned. “Okay. Sounds like fun, so why the hell not?”

He, on the other hand, could think of multiple reasons. He was staring down thirty—from the wrong side of the decade. Although he still had all his working parts, he was banged up something fierce. His knees were good; his trigger finger steady. In short, he was a fixer-upper project and she was no carpenter.

“Give me a time, big guy,” she said, leaning in and patting his chest. “So I can prepare properly.”

Yeah. He was definitely out of his league here. Maddie was a dating guru, unlike his sorry self. At the very least, his instant erection was ironclad proof that she’d mastered the fine art of flirting.

“Eight o’clock,” he muttered and beat a strategic retreat.

4

I’ve got a breakfast date this morning with Mr. Fantasy Fodder (and I should sign off because, yep, it’s three in the morning and the purple shadows under my eyes are not a sexy look). I’ll report back on whether or not FF lives up to the promise of his mighty fine butt! I’m taking bets on which approach I should take:

A) Point him in the direction of the Cheerios in my kitchen. They’re heart healthy—and probably not too stale.

B) Hop out of bed and throw together a quick Sunday brunch for two because the way to his heart is either through his stomach or his libido—and I’m the kind of gal who likes to have all the bases covered.

C) Offer to split the last package of Pop-Tarts with him. Naked. In bed.

—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle

STEP ONE IN becoming the perfect boyfriend? Cook Maddie a romantic breakfast and make her feel butterflies when she looked at him. No pressure. Since Maddie had agreed to a chocolate-chip pancake date, Mason had breakfast covered. He’d cook her a short stack, suss out her electronics and wipe any data that needed wiping. Easy-peasy and a guaranteed success, according to the magazine article Mason had checked out. Keep the doubts to yourself.

She looked like the girl next door, the queen of diamond rings, tulle and happily-ever-afters. So not his style. But until SEAL Team Sigma had ruled out the possibility of finding Santiago Marcos on the island, Mason would stick by her side. That was the only reason he was knocking on her door this morning, he told himself. Security reasons...not personal pursuits. SEALs shipped out. He’d known a few married men in the teams, but he wasn’t going to be a part-time husband, lover, father. His Mrs. was the military.

Maddie’s villa was the first in a row of picture-perfect bungalows dotting a white sand beach. He knew from the team’s orientation that she’d have a small kitchen because apparently some of the island’s guests liked to throw intimate dinner parties or have a private chef come in to whip up dinner. It was a different world from the loud, noisy family culinary sessions he’d grown up with. Today though, the secluded-elegance crap worked for him. Cooking in the resort’s immaculate industrial kitchen wouldn’t have let him get close to Maddie.

Although he had a staff passkey, he knocked. And then waited. Double-checked the bungalow number to make sure he was in the right place. Waited some more while he considered the possibility that there had already been a security breach and Santiago had gotten to Maddie. His gut tightened. There were no visible signs of forcible entry, and it was more likely she’d simply overslept. At this rate, she’d be eating breakfast for lunch. The third time he knocked, he finally heard footsteps.

When Maddie eventually cracked the door and peered out, he stared back because he couldn’t help himself. She was wearing a pink tank top and cotton sleep shorts that barely skimmed the top of her curvy thighs. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a death-defying, messy bun. Red strands escaped around her face, already curling in the island’s humidity.

“The sun’s not up yet,” she mumbled, patting the mountain of curls into some semblance of order.

It was eight o’clock. And the only thing not up yet was Maddie. He was also fairly certain her eyes were shut, even if her mouth was open. She was a rumpled, adorable mess and she looked as if she’d rolled right out of bed—so, naturally, he wanted to roll her right back in.

“Pancakes.” He held up his box of ingredients.

“Right.” She leaned against the door as if she planned on going back to sleep right there. Time for a new strategy. He set the box down on the ground, reached in and gently lifted her out of the way so he could open the door. Then he nudged the box inside with his foot, stepped in and closed the door behind him.

“Wow.” She blinked at him as if he’d managed to surprise her. He only hoped it was in a good way. “Way to make a girl feel good about her weight.”

He ran his eyes over her. She looked fantastic. Given his overabundance of sisters, however, he knew better than to touch that particular statement. There was absolutely, positively no crowd-pleasing answer. Instead, he gave her a slow smile. The corners of her mouth turned up in response.

“You’re not a morning person.” He picked up his box.

“I’m at my best at night.” She turned and padded away, waving a hand toward the kitchen. “Make yourself at home.”

Her sleep shorts were riding up her gorgeous ass. He wanted to squeeze and cup, nip that sweet, soft curve. And she wanted breakfast. He kicked off his shoes at the door and did a quick check of the room. Bingo. She’d left her laptop in its case on the coffee table. Snagging it, he stepped back to the door, opened it and signaled. Levi appeared on the path, pushing a housekeeping cart.

Thirty seconds elapsed. Levi passed him a stack of towels and a laptop; Mason handed over Maddie’s laptop and performed a little case switcheroo. “Time?”

“I’m making breakfast. You should have at least an hour.”

“Aww...how domestic.” Levi tucked Maddie’s laptop into the housekeeping cart, just hotel staff delivering towels. “I’ll have this back in twenty, unless our girl actually practices password security. In which case, give me thirty.”

“Laptop goes on the coffee table facing the front door. Walk it in, go straight. You can’t miss it.”

“Got it.” Levi nodded and stepped off the porch. Mason put the decoy laptop back on the coffee table and made for the kitchen. Coffee was his next priority. Black for him. Since she seemed to like sweet stuff, he laced hers with dulce de leche and then added chocolate sprinkles and whipped cream.

When she padded back into the kitchen five minutes later, he smelled toothpaste, but she hadn’t bothered to get dressed. Instead, she’d tossed a kimono over her pajamas. Cheerful, loud red flowers on something that was sheer and turquoise and... Jesus. He could see her sun-kissed skin through the fabric.

Remember the magazine strategy.

Ogling her in her own kitchen wasn’t endearing. It was creepy. Unfortunately, the peekaboo glimpses of her delectable curves drove the magazine quiz straight out of his head. Ten steps to success. It was a nice plan. Simple. Easy to implement. Instead of working on “forging an intimate connection,” however, he nearly swallowed his tongue at the little whimper of pleasure she made when she took her first sip of coffee.

“God. That’s so good.” Her fingers stroked the side of the coffee mug. Which was white ceramic and not his dick, so the bolt of heat that shot straight to his groin was completely unexplainable. She didn’t stop the tiny orgasmic sounds as she drained his coffee and, who knew—his dick could, in fact, get harder.

He stepped closer to the stove. Pancakes, not sex. He needed to remember the mission. Which was not “get Mason laid,” no matter what certain iron-like parts of his body suggested.

He’d mixed the batter before coming, so it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to make her breakfast. He turned on the stove, which heated up far more slowly than he had. He brushed a pan with butter, turned to grab the batter and slammed into her. So not the romantic plan. Involuntarily, his hands shot straight to her hips to steady her and his fingers brushed the top of her ass in an all-around, worst-ever Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

“Whoops,” she said, flushing. She didn’t take a step backward, though. He couldn’t help but notice that. No, she stayed plastered thigh to thigh and front to front with him. And she had a spectacular front.

“You okay?” No one got the drop on him, but this one woman was apparently the exception.

“Can I help?” Avoiding his eyes, she reached around him and started rummaging through his box. Any semblance of order vanished at approximately the same speed her shorts rode up her curvy ass. The kimono did nothing to shield it from his gaze, and, boy, was he enjoying looking. That had to be why he didn’t mind the mess. That, and the fact that Maddie could break him down faster than he could an M4.

Without waiting for his answer—which was, he realized, typical—she pulled herself up on the counter, parked her sweet butt next to his gear and crossed her legs. She waved a spatula she’d found in the box.

“What a girl could do with this,” she said, slapping the plastic against her palm. His brain stuttered to a halt while his body went into autopilot pouring batter onto the griddle. Had she really gone there?

She grinned and held out the spatula. When he took it, her fingers slid over his. Lingered. She was definitely trouble.

“Is that a dare?” Breakfast. Compliments. Long walks on the beach. A few slow, wet kisses. And then, according to the magazine master plan, he got to have sex with her. Except that he had to substitute screwing with her electronics for sleeping with Maddie, he reminded himself. Clearly, he had his priorities skewed and should have focused on bringing the kink.

Equally clearly, she planned on skipping straight to the climax, so to speak. Or she was just messing with him. Either seemed like a possibility. The wicked gleam in her eyes had him voting for option B.

“Do you want it to be?” She returned her attention to the contents of the box. Unfortunately for her curiosity, he’d left the BDSM arsenal in the hotel gift shop.

“You don’t want to play games with me, sweetheart.”

She shrugged. “Don’t be so sure of that.”

“I always win.” Even before BUD/S training, he’d learned the value of winning. Older sisters were merciless when triumphant.

“Don’t be so sure of that, either.” She grinned cheekily at him. “Your pancakes are bubbling. Even I know that means it’s time to flip.”

Shit. He rescued the pancakes, turning them over and adding the chocolate chips, before setting out a plate.

She watched him work, swinging a bare foot. She pouted. “You’re not eating with me? Because it’s just wrong to ignore chocolate chips.”

Silently he added a second plate to the counter. Guess he could be tempted after all.

* * *

MAYBE SHE COULD blame Fantasy Island. Maybe the place simply had sex in the air, like perfume at the mall. Or maybe Maddie was just lonely. That last option wasn’t her favorite, but she had to admit the possibility. Her recent dating history consisted of long stretches of drought peppered with spectacular failures. Since working from home on her blog ruled out a workplace romance, she’d had to rely on the guys she met at weekend weddings. While she found a guy in a tux as hot as the next woman did, she’d also discovered that a tux was a version of dating wallpaper. The sexy suit covered up a wealth of issues. She didn’t need another DIY fixer-upper man.

Been there, done that.

A year ago, she’d naively thought her then boyfriend had been on the proposal train. Unfortunately, the special dinner she’d anticipated all week had turned out to be the breakup dinner. He’d picked up the check, though, after explaining that he’d accepted a work transfer to the other side of the country—and that he thought they should take a break while he “got settled.” She’d ordered both the lobster and the Kir Royal cocktail. Three times. The rest of the night had been a mindless blur, although she’d apparently drunk texted her sisters the sorry details of her sex life. Twelve months later, she still hadn’t lived those texts down.

Hot vacation sex with Mason might seem like the best of ideas, but it could all too easily end like her last relationship. Being the punch line in a bad joke wasn’t funny. At all. She had an adjective for every finger on her hand for wrestling Mason into bed: risky, impulsive and...tingly. While she’d enjoyed the casual postwedding hookup, Mason was dangerous to her peace of mind. Once might not be enough with him.

Maybe it was all the weddings. Thirteen of them in eighteen months. Once upon a time, weddings had been her favorite way to spend a Saturday, but she was tired of standing on the sidelines. Tired of watching other people hook up and live out their fantasies. She didn’t need a groom of her own, but a man? Temporarily? That worked for her. Where was the harm in borrowing Mason for the rest of her vacation? The hunk definitely brought out her inner tease.

Bad Maddie.

He was big and built, powerful shoulders flexing beneath his white T-shirt. She had no idea how he stayed so pristine in the kitchen. There wasn’t a smear of flour or chocolate on him anywhere she could see. It was like her own personal challenge to see if she could crack his stoic surface and mess him up. Only in the best possible ways, she thought virtuously. Nothing mean or petty. Just...sexy.

God, was he ever sexy.

And that was before he said the magic words. “Strawberries or whipped cream?” The smile quirking the corner of his mouth was downright naughty. “Or both?”

“You have to ask?” Because, seriously, was there more than one possible answer?

“A vote for both.” With a flourish, he spread strawberries over the topmost pancakes and followed with whipped cream, and not the kind from the aerosol bottle. Nope. He had a fancy stainless-steel number that promised all sorts of dairy goodness. There was definitely something to be said for a man who cooked. He picked up the two plates and nodded his head toward the small table. “Sit down.”

Fresh whipped cream was a motivator. She hopped off the counter and sat at the table.

He wasn’t much of a talker. He didn’t open up and tell her all about himself, or even share the usual dating details like favorite movies, favorite songs or favorite sexual positions. Instead, he sat there and listened. She told herself that wasn’t a turn-on, but really...yeah. It was.

“What made you decide to blog about weddings?”

“I was laid off. I knew how to type.” She wiggled her French-manicured fingers at him. “And I had a stack of wedding invitations as high as Bill Mountain.”

“A fresh start.” He nodded grimly, as if he understood, although she had to wonder what he’d ever failed at. He seemed pretty darn perfect to her.

She and failure, on the other hand, were BFFs. She’d been an executive assistant before the software start-up folded. No Silicon Valley billionaire had crossed her path, although she’d had a few conference room fantasies to go with a social life that consisted of online dating, dating apps and friends of friends. She gave good first dates, but guys didn’t call back. Or email back, text back or IM her back, and it was partly her fault. She knew what she wanted in a man and she knew she had things to offer. He’d be honest and reliable and, when she was around him, she’d feel safe enough to be herself. He’d like her first, and then he’d love her. In exchange for all of himself, she’d offer up all she had. She definitely wouldn’t have sex just because or to cross the next step off in some dating checklist. But even if she was looking for Mr. Right, she’d also settle for an attractive Mr. Right Now as long as he came with an orgasm for two.

“Bills are an excellent motivator,” she admitted softly.

He laughed. “Yeah. Electricity and running water are kind of addictive.”

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.