CHAPTER

6

There was that half second, that bright flash of awareness just before he bent down when Brad knew he could still pull away. It would have been awkward, and he would have been embarrassed, but he would have done it. Almost did.

Except for that moment when Marianne’s eyes brightened, her head tilted up and her lips parted in complete acceptance. And then the moment to pull away was a distant memory.

The instant his lips touched hers, Marianne’s arms wound around his neck and pulled him closer. He groped with one hand to find the doorway to keep both their balances, then used the other to palm her lower back and pull her body into his.

She tasted like summer. Like cool lemonade, with a hint of the key lime tartness from their shared dessert. He licked inside her mouth to see how long the taste would last. Her tongue met his, circled around, danced in an instinctive move that made him moan and press against her until her back slid into the doorjamb.

She gasped into his mouth, but didn’t break the contact. His hand bunched in her shirt until he could feel the smooth skin of her back with his thumb. He stroked there in the same circles his tongue made, and she melted even more into his body. That tender patch of skin, so simple and yet so sensual, nearly had him rocketing off without her, like a horny teen who had held off for too long.

A door opened and closed somewhere else on the floor of her building, and it was the signal he needed to break the spell. He gripped her shoulders with both hands—damn that sweet, bare skin again—and pulled away, waiting until her eyes popped open before letting go.

“Steady?” he asked cautiously.

She blinked, then looked down at one of his hands. The tanned skin of his fingers, hand and wrist made hers seem even more pearly white. Luminescent.

“Yeah, Romeo. I’m not going to swoon, if that was your hope.” She grinned, then shrugged one shoulder until he let go of that one. But he couldn’t quite break the contact altogether. She raised a brow, then shrugged the other.

He held on.

She blew out a breath, stirring the blonde hairs that clung to the corner of her mouth, but not moving them. She growled and swiped at them with an impatient push of her hand, but they stubbornly clung to her lips.

Not that he could blame them.

Before she hauled off and punched herself in the face, he brushed the hairs back behind her ear, tracing the outer shell before caressing the lobe and dropping his hand away.

“Lip gloss,” she muttered.

What that had to do with hair, he had no clue. But he wasn’t going to ask. Women were a rare, special breed. It was best to not get too many details, or it might scare you off permanently.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. Then she glanced around, like she was waiting for someone to pop out and scare them. “I’m fine.”

“You said that already.”

She nodded quickly, and it was like she couldn’t stop once she’d started. Her head just kept bobbing. He cupped the back of her neck and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

That stopped her.

Clearly, she wasn’t fine. But he wasn’t about to push. He had no clue what the hell had just happened, or why he’d been the one to initiate it. But he knew he needed one gigantic step back to assess the situation.

More than that, he just needed to get the hell out of there before he did something embarrassing . . . like kiss her again and not stop.

Shoving his hands in his pockets—good-bye, temptation—he took one more step toward the stairs. “Thanks for dinner.”

“I didn’t pay,” she reminded him, one corner of her mouth quirking with a smile. That her humor was returning was a good sign. It meant maybe they could just . . . ignore whatever the hell had happened. And she wouldn’t be turning his ass in for harassment or whatever.

“Right. So I’ll see you tomorrow then.” When she opened her door all the way and took a step in, he waved and beat a hasty retreat.

Cowardly, maybe. Or just smart.

Sure. We could go with smart.

*   *   *

SHE’D kissed him. Oh, God almighty, she’d just kissed one of her athletes.

For the second time that night, Marianne let her head beat against her front door. No need to worry about him coming back this time. Brad had hustled it out of the building like his boxers were on fire.

Did he wear boxers? Or was he a briefs man? Maybe a boxer briefs kind of guy . . .

No, Marianne. Bad Marianne.

She was about to embark on a serious campaign to move up in the ranks of the training world. How the hell would she explain to future bosses that she had a habit of lusting after her clientele? No NBA star wanted a trainer staring at him with puppy dog eyes, and no coach or team owner wanted their investments being cared for by a woman with a record of dating the players. They wanted a serious businesswoman with talent, end of story.

Walking into her kitchen, she forced herself to pull in a few deep breaths, then let them go again. Just like Kara had taught her.

Yoga was so not her thing, but the deep breathing had been a godsend on more than one sleepless night.

With a calmer head, she took one more breath. This was not a problem. Opening a cabinet, she got down a glass for some water. Not a problem at all. They were both adults, and they could both laugh about it tomorrow morning. Chalk it up to a couple of good Yuenglings, a great meal and decent company.

No, not decent. Excellent company. Sexy company.

Bad Marianne.

She would act like it was nothing, and so then it would become nothing. Wasn’t that what Kara was always preaching? Visualize the goal, sense the goal, blah blah blah, reach the goal?

Come to think of it, maybe that blah blah blah part was more important than she had thought.

Draining the water, she put the glass in the dishwasher and went to get her cell phone out of her bag. Three missed calls from her mother. Fantastic.

Ignore.

She’d call Mary back later, when she wasn’t still buzzing from the adrenaline rush of that kiss. Her mother could sniff out pheromones through the phone lines. When it came to men, dating or anything remotely embarrassing, Mary Cook was on the hunt.

Instead, she thumbed through her contacts and found what she needed. She breathed a sigh of relief when a voice answered.

“Kara, hi. Is it too late to call? I have a few questions about that whole visualize the goal thing you tried to teach me that one time.”

*   *   *

BRAD’S back had barely done more than bounce on the mattress when his door opened.

He draped his forearm over his eyes and groaned. “It was closed, numb nuts.”

“But not locked. Smells like someone wants company.”

Brad threw his pillow without looking. He heard it hit a wall. Pointless.

“Where’d you go?” When Brad didn’t answer, Higgs wandered around the room. Brad tracked his roommate’s path by the sound of his voice. “I know you were out for a while. And given you dressed up—”

“Jeans. I’m wearing jeans. In what world does that constitute dressing up?”

“—you probably weren’t going out for a drink at a titty bar.”

Gross. The last time he went into a titty bar, he was nineteen, eager to prove he was a mature adult to the other Marines in his platoon, and vomited up the beer they’d given him—illegally—behind the Dumpster in the alley out back.

Ah, youth.

He decided the best way to make his chatty roommate go away was to stop answering. Sometimes, mosquitos got high on the attention of being swatted at.

“And the group didn’t go out tonight anywhere. I know, since I would have been invited before you,” Higgs continued. It was true, but that didn’t account for the tightening in Brad’s belly at the honesty. “So I’m left to conclude you had a date.”

That one word had all his hackles rising. No, not a date. Not dating the trainer. “Wasn’t a date.”

“Ah, he speaks.” As if that were an invitation, Higgs sat at the edge of his bed, within kicking distance. Brave SOB. “And as you didn’t feel the need to denounce the other options—”

“You did for me,” he pointed out.

“—I am left to conclude—”

“Again.”

“—that it was a date, and that you are embarrassed by her. Which makes this all the more interesting.” Flopping back, he laced his hands behind his head. His elbow bumped Brad’s. “So tell me more.”

“Hold on, I forgot to put on my nightgown and grab my curlers. Do you want to do my hair, or should I do yours first?” Brad asked with as much of a sneer as he could work up.

“You got curlers? Go for it. No judgment.” Higgs shrugged. “She a stripper? Married? Ugly as sin?”

“What? No!” Brad sat up and shoved at his roommate. The man didn’t budge.

“So there is a woman. Damn, you’re bad at this.” Rolling to his feet, Higgs chuckled as Brad threw his second pillow—this time with perfect aim—at his back. “Just saying, if you’ve got a girl, and you want to keep her quiet for whatever reason, it might be a good idea to be more discreet. Take her down to Topsail Beach or something. But don’t leave the BOQ dressed like you’re gonna meet her father. Guys talk.” With a wink, he closed the door behind him.

He didn’t have a girl. First off, the whole have part was insulting. And secondly, Marianne Cook was most certainly not a girl. Those had been the curves of a petite bombshell of a woman under his hands. That kiss had been with an active participant. The thoughts that had rolled around in his mind all the way back to the BOQ had been of two consenting adults.

And now his dick was semi-hard, with no hope of sharing the fun of remedying that problem. Fantastic.

The worst part was, he’d enjoyed the evening. He was struggling to remember the last time he’d had such a good time with a woman, even his sister. Marianne was funny, smart and could clearly hold her own around a bunch of hard-ass Marines. That was appealing in more ways than one. Even if there’d been no spark, he’d have been happy to call her a friend and hang out. He had no doubt she’d be the kind of girl to flirt platonically with you one minute, then drink your ass under the table the next.

But that spark. That damn spark . . .

His lips were still tingling from the contact. He might have initiated the kiss, but she’d hopped on that ride without a second glance behind her. The things they’d do to each other if they got naked on a bed. Or a couch. Or against a wall . . .

He groaned and rolled over on his stomach. His erection pressed painfully into the mattress, an apt punishment for letting his mind wander down the can’t-go-there path.

She was intelligent, and she was cool. She’d probably laugh it off with him, if he managed to play it right. Marianne wasn’t the kind of woman to go running to a superior for a single kiss that they’d both participated in. She’d probably go right back to annoying the hell out of him about his knee, come to think of it.

Captain Rock, meet Major Hard Place.

*   *   *

MARIANNE jingled her keys—all forty of them—in the palm of her hand as she walked into the gym. She tossed them up and nearly bobbled them on the catch. And her mind turned, unbidden, to the last time she’d dropped them, and what had followed.

Bad Marianne.

She took a deep breath and opened the auxiliary doors to the main gym, where the mats and conditioning equipment were—and immediately felt like the air had been sucked from her lungs.

Despite the fact that it was only seven in the morning, the heat was edging up on unbearable in the gym. With only a few windows, and high ceilings, the dark room seemed like it should be a cool haven from the summer sun. But instead, the arena turned into an oversized sweatbox in ten seconds flat. Hydration and stretching would be key, along with regular breaks. She’d have to speak to Coach Ace about that.

Several Marines were already there, stretching or chatting on the main mat. Coach Willis—who sort of reminded her of Danny DeVito with some wicked facial hair—was there, but the other two coaches weren’t around. And, because she couldn’t help but search him out, she noticed Brad was MIA. With a sigh, and with the realization she wouldn’t be able to grab him quickly before practice for a chat to clear up the night before, she unlocked her training room.

The instant she opened the door, before the lights even went on, she knew something was wrong. Flicking on the light, she sucked in a breath and immediately gagged at the smell.

Gauze wraps and athletic tape covered the room, as if the place had been TP’d by a high schooler. They hung from the ceiling, from light fixtures, wound around fan blades and chair legs. The place was a spiderweb of sticky substances. She couldn’t even walk into her training room. She’d have to hack at the stuff with scissors like a machete through jungle brush.

Heating pads and pillows lay in a heap on the floor, soaked in what she could only assume from the smell was the alcohol she diluted and used as a cleaning agent. Someone had written more than one foul word over the walls in what looked like the same permanent marker she used to mark files. And two of her exam tables had been tipped onto their sides.

And . . . Oh my God. Was that a puddle of pee on the floor?

What. The. Hell.

Marianne’s eyes started to water from the alcohol. She closed her eyes, pulled her work polo over her face to blot at her leaking eyes and to cover her nose and stepped back out of the room, only to bump into a body.

“Sorry,” she managed to mutter quickly. “Sorry.” But there was no way she was pulling her face out from the shirt until she’d wiped all the tears away and had taken several more giant steps away from the stench.

“Hey,” a deep voice said. Not one she recognized by sound. “Who’s in there?”

“Cook,” she said, then pulled away from the steadying hands and took one more step back before pulling the shirt down around her nose. With still-watery eyes, she saw one of the older Marines—his name began with an H, but she couldn’t place it just yet—watching her with concern.

“Everything okay?” He started to say something else, then his nose wrinkled. “What’s that smell?”

She said nothing, just pointed toward her room. Who could talk with that stench burning the hairs in her nostrils? She had to find a janitor, and Coach Ace, and call her supervisor. They’d have to triage what supplies could be salvaged, see if the ice machine was still functional, set up somewhere else for the time being in case—

“What the fuck?” She heard Brad’s voice before she saw him around the other Marine’s arm. His voice was a low growl, followed by a tight, “Where’s Marianne?”

“I’m right here,” she answered, waving a hand over the other man’s shoulder. Cautiously, she lowered her shirt all the way and took a delicate sniff. No lingering burning smell. She was probably safe. “Thank you very much . . .”

“Higgs,” he offered with a charming smile. “It’s Higgs, ma’am.”

“Cook,” she returned, then smiled back.

Brad was by her in an instant. After a cursory glance at Higgs, his eyes leveled at her. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?” He took a step toward her, as if he was going to hug her, then pulled up at the last second.

Higgs, looking between them, deserted the field. “I’m going to look for Coach Ace.”

“Oh, I’ll do that,” she started, but he was already out of hearing range. The man moved like the wind. “Damn it, I’m responsible for the mess, not him. He needs to start stretching.”

“Pull off the trainer hat for a second and look at me.” His voice was so calm, so intense, Marianne followed the instruction without thinking twice. His eyes bore into hers. “Are you okay?”

“It didn’t happen while I was here. I just found it five minutes ago.” She rubbed the heels of her hands over her cheeks to wipe off the last of the tears. “Wow, that stuff’s lethal in that large a dose.”

She saw his eyes dart around, then he reached out and brushed a hand down her arm, shoulder to elbow. Just one light brush, nothing dangerous. But the support, the contact, the obvious I’m here sent an extra ounce of steel to her spine. And she felt ready to attack the situation head-on.

Nodding once, she gave him a slight smile. “Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me today.” She pulled her cell from her pocket, ready to make the first of numerous calls, when she heard a shriek. She slid the phone back in her pocket with a sigh. “And looks like Nikki’s early.”

“You’d think she saw a snake,” Brad muttered, and she gave a watery chuckle. Okay, so she wasn’t quite as composed as she wanted to be. But she’d get there.

“Yeah, well, you should hear her when she does the laundry. Watching her pick up sweaty towels with two fingers while gagging is pretty entertaining.” She pointed to the mat and gave him her best stern face. “Now go stretch, Marine. I don’t want to see you in my . . . um, see you wherever I’m camped out later because you’ve got muscle cramps.”

He raised a brow, but didn’t fight her on it. He tossed his bag to the side, into the same pile as the rest of the duffels, and jogged over to the mat, where his potential teammates were stretching and jumping rope.

With another heavy sigh, she walked back to the open door of the training room. Nikki was still there, still as a statue, one hand draped in a practiced pose over her chest.

“What happened? Who would do this?”

At that moment, Levi ambled up, earbuds in, head nodding along with the music. He pulled up to a halt when he saw them at the doorway, then glanced in. With a low whistle, he pushed a hunk of hair out of one eye and leaned over Nikki’s shoulder to survey the damage further.

“Damn, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Marianne said quietly. She grabbed both their arms and pulled them away from the stench. “But let’s get to work.”