Greg’s nerves were on high alert, and had been since the second he’d ever-so-smoothly thumped Reagan’s back. That delightful move had earned him the Dumbass of the Night award. And the hits just kept on coming. But Fate had thrown him a bone and given him a very good reason to get the luscious Reagan Robilard alone in her car.

“Just keep driving straight now,” he said as they pulled through the main gate and past the sentry.

“There’s nowhere to go but straight,” she pointed out.

“You could turn right here for the hospital.”

“I don’t want that,” she said, her voice tight.

“So keep driving straight.”

She growled a little, the sound so cute and feminine he wanted to lean over and kiss the tip of her nose. But he resisted. One stupid move per night was his limit . . . hopefully.

“You ladies have a good night out?”

She smiled, which he couldn’t see so much as hear in her voice. “We were, until a few weirdos came and crashed the party.”

“Weirdos?” Ready to defend her honor, despite being too late, he sat up straighter. “Who? What’d they look like? Did they bother you?”

“That would have been you three boys,” she answered with a smug grin.

Oh. Right. He let his head thump back against the headrest. Damn. She had a wicked sense of humor on her. “How’s the job working out?”

“It’s far more action-oriented than I imagined, that’s for sure. I never thought I’d be driving out in the dark to inspect slashed tires, or figuring out who keeps vandalizing the gym. I feel like I stepped into a Nancy Drew book instead of my first real job.”

“First real job, huh?” She flushed slightly, the tint barely perceptible thanks to the street lamps. “Just graduated, I take it?”

“I did, yes.” Her voice deepened when she wanted to sound important, he noted. “Took me a little longer because I had to work full time while I went, but I’m a proud graduate and ready to use my degree.”

“Good to know.” He settled back in his seat. “You’ll turn here, then make another and the barracks will be dead ahead.”

“Gotcha.” She finished the drive and pulled into a space at the back of the lot next to Sweeney’s SUV. “I should have brought a digital camera or something,” she said, looking around her car. Her voice was tight, a little high-pitched now, telling him she was nervous. “I don’t know if I’ll need photos , but . . .” She bit her lip, and he put a hand over hers on the gear shift between them.

“Don’t sweat it. We’ve all got cell phones with cameras. Between all of us we’ll have plenty of photos.”

“Oh. Right.” She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. A breath that pushed her more-than-a-handful breasts against the tight confines of her shirt. “Sorry, I’m nervous. This isn’t the sort of thing they cover in marketing class.”

“You’re fine. You’ve got it.” He stepped out, then debated going to open her door. She was, for all intents and purposes, on the job now. Would she see that as stepping over a boundary? Be angry he’d done something she could do for herself?

While he internally debated, she opened her own door and stepped into the warm night air, smoothing her dark pencil skirt down over her hips as she did so. And thank God for skirts that hugged those curve. Her body was a damn work of art; a true hourglass. He let her get a step in front of him as she walked toward the group congregated on the sidewalk in front of the building, just to give himself another minute of appreciation at the way her hips swung while she walked.

“Good evening, Marines.” Her voice deepened into a husky, sexy tone that had him fighting an erection in the parking lot. “Problems with some tires, I hear?”

She listened as the guys explained having made it home from practice with no problem, parking, then finding the tires slashed when they’d come out to get dinner. She took notes on her phone, getting everyone’s license plate, make and model, which tires were slashed and where they’d been parked in the lot.

“And nobody else’s tires were slashed? The people who’d parked next to you, for example?”

“Only tires we see slashed are from the team’s,” Tressler said, looking supremely pissed and ready to brawl with anyone who gave him a wrong look. The hothead was in for a rude awakening on the mat if he couldn’t keep himself together and shield those emotions better. “Except Chalfant. His got hit too, but he didn’t make the team.”

At Brad’s growl, Tressler’s eyes widened. “Which, I mean, he should have,” he finished, then shot Chalfant a look. “Sorry, man. That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” the tall man said quietly. “It’s okay.”

“So what you’re saying is the person who did this appears to have enough information about the team to know who to target, but not enough to know who was most recently cut,” Reagan said quickly to diffuse any potential problems. “Someone who is paying attention, but doesn’t have firsthand info.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’ve been thinking. You’re good.” Tressler nodded and grinned, which made Greg take a protective step toward Reagan’s back. She glanced over her shoulder with a grouchy expression, but he didn’t back up.

Tressler caught his eye, narrowed his brow slightly, then shrugged. At least the kid wasn’t a total moron. He picked up on the subtle back off vibes fast enough.

After she’d gathered all the official documentation, she asked who had called the MPs. The younger Marines all looked at each other, each one shaking his head in turn.

“Nobody?” Reagan glanced between them, then fisted her hands on her hips. “Not one of you thought to report this? Your insurances alone will require that much.”

“We thought we should wait to see what these guys said,” another Marine—one of Sweeney’s, Greg thought—said. “We figured it was their call, because things are so weird right now with the gym and the training room getting trashed.”

“Can’t fault them for thinking it through,” Greg muttered by Reagan’s ear. “Cut them some slack. They’re babies.”

She turned to cut him a frosty glance. “Half of them are just a year or two younger than me.”

Whoops. He hadn’t considered that. She’d mentioned being a recent graduate, but he’d simply assumed she’d gone back to school after working for a few years. So she was what, twenty-four? Twenty-five?

Not that he cared. He was only twenty-eight himself. But she gave the illusion of being older than she apparently was. Probably the same way she gave the illusion of being taller, more in control, more assured of herself. She projected it perfectly with wardrobe and attitude.

In full control now, Reagan started to pace in front of the group. Her heels made the sexiest clicking sound on the pavement of the parking lot. “Let’s talk to the MPs and get that on the record. While we’re waiting for them, we need to make some calls for rides to get you guys to practice tomorrow. Once that’s done, we’ll make appointments for you to get your tires replaced at whatever place your insurances will approve. We’ll stagger the repairs so we can get them fixed without jeopardizing your training schedules.”

She started tapping at her phone, and Greg nearly had to pick his jaw up off the floor at the change. He had the distinct feeling she’d left Reagan in the car and brought Ms. Robilard with her to work. Night and day difference between the unsure co-ed and the professional businesswoman.

And the other men noticed it, too. They scrambled to follow her directions, making calls or looking information up on their phones, taking photos and texting people about rides.

The woman knew how to light a fire under a group of Marines.

With a satisfied, if not a little grim, smile, Reagan nodded and clapped her hands once to get everyone’s attention. They stopped talking immediately, and Greg nearly laughed at the image of a Kindergarten teacher getting the attention of a bunch of five-year-olds. “Right, I’m going to take some photos before I go, and then I will see everyone tomorrow.” With a steely stare, she added, “This does not excuse anyone from practice in the morning. You’ve got plenty of time to arrange for a ride, so do it.”

Most mumbled a quiet, “Yes, ma’am,” before she walked off to start taking photos of each car’s slashed tires. Greg followed behind, hands tucked behind his back to keep from thrusting her against one of those vehicles and kissing her senseless. That was, without a doubt, one of the hottest things he’d seen in years. Her ability to take charge in the blink of an eye, command a group of hardass Marines, and do it in a sexy pair of heels and a body-hugging skirt . . .

She did a dainty little squat, keeping her knees primly together as she angled her phone towards the rear tire of a pickup truck. Her skirt stretched tight over her curvy ass.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly how she commanded their attention so well. Hmm.

“Did you need something else?”

His concentration broken, Greg blinked and uttered the ever-intelligent, “What?”

“You were staring.” Reagan took another photo, the flash momentarily blinding him, then looked over her shoulder. “Did you still need something?”

“A ride back to the BOQ would be nice.”

“Your friends are still here. I assume that’s why. You could go with them.” Snap snap.

“But then how would you get home?”

“GPS,” she answered easily. “It’s easy enough to key in ‘Home’ as my destination from an unknown place. Not so easy to key in the address of ‘Barracks, Camp Lejeune.’”

Okay, she had a point there. “It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly for me to ditch you now.”

“You’re not ditching, you’re going home to get some rest. I’d actually prefer that, to be honest. The more rested you are, the better you train.” She stood, teetering for just a second before he grabbed her arm to steady her. The short sleeve blouse she wore gave him the chance to feel the soft skin of her forearm under his thumb. He brushed once over the pulse on the inside of her elbow, felt it hammering, and knew she wasn’t nearly as cool as she played.

“You want me to go home and get some beauty rest?” He lowered his voice, stepping in, wondering if she was ever without those damn heels—which yes, did great things for her ass—so he could actually look down at her instead of up half an inch. “I don’t think you do.”

“And that’s why I’m the brains of this operation,” she said lightly, stepping back. “Someone has to think about the greater good. Besides,” she added, picking her purse up from the side mirror she’d hung it on to take photos, “you’ll need your strength for battle tomorrow.”

“It’s training, not battle.”

“I wasn’t talking about practice. I was talking about dealing with me.” And with that sassy parting shot, she slid between two cars and disappeared to continue her photo documentary.

“Higgs, let’s go man. This day’s a big cluster and I’m ready to hit the rack.” Brad appeared by his elbow and tugged lightly on his neck. “Sweeney’s dropping us back by home on his way.”

“Oh, joy.” He followed along, not at all willingly.