He stared at her for a few more seconds, then slipped out of the car. Scarlett opened her door after popping the trunk. His mom, her face beaming with joy, made it to him.

“Arlo, my boy,” she said softly, the hint of the accent she’d always had as familiar as the bayou. Her arms went around him, and she held him against her. A swell of love washing over him, he hugged her harder, raising her small frame off the ground. She patted his back, simply mothering him.

“Hi, Mom,” he murmured, breathing in her familiar scent and squeezing her one more time before he set her down.

They parted, and she looked up into his face. “You look tired. Let’s get you settled, and I’ll get you some lunch, yes?”

He nodded and turned toward the back of the car. Scarlett was holding his laptop case. When he took it from her, their hands brushed and the skin to skin contact tingled through him. He reached in and snagged his suitcase, pulling it out.

She closed the trunk just as his mom said, “Thank you again for offering to pick him up. I just don’t know where my head is these days.”

Scarlett smiled and closed the trunk. “It was my pleasure, Rosemary. You two have a nice reunion.”

She made brief eye contact with him as he said, “I’ll visit soon, neighbor.”

Her mouth tightened, and she headed back to the driver’s seat, his eyes lingering on her tight little ass. Scarecrow picked up his suitcase as his mom wrapped her arm around his waist. Together they headed toward the house. “It’s so good to have you home.” They climbed the steps of the two-story white house that had been in his family since 1903. It made what he had to do even more difficult since there was so much family history.

“Your room is just the same as you left it. Come down after you’ve freshened up, and I’ll get lunch ready.

He headed upstairs and opened the door to his old room. He sighed. It was the same. The same as it had been the few times over the years when he’d come home on leave. The same as it had always been. The baseball and basketball trophies were still there, completely free of dust. His mom had lovingly kept everything just like when he’d been a teenager. She had showed him by her actions more than her words how much she loved him.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his heart dragging at him. He knew what had to be done yet going into combat would have been preferable to breaking the news to his mom. A flash of pink caught his eye, and he rose and went to the window. There she was, still in her classy outfit and her high heels.

He narrowed his eyes. What exactly had brought her here? What was it she was hoping to find? “Chilis, my ass.”

The sound of a pan on the stove broke his attention. He quickly unpacked his bag and changed into a pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt. In the bathroom, he threw cold water on his face and dried it. He looked at himself in the mirror. Damn, he felt old. Yeah, he was only pushing thirty, but what he had seen in the years he’d been in the SEALs marked him in more ways than one.

As he turned away from the mirror, it hit him. He looked like his dad. Grief hit him hard, and he covered his face with the towel, rubbing at his eyes. It had been building for some time as he dropped the towel and braced his palms against the sink, his chest so damn full, his neck tense, his teeth gritted. In California, he could ignore all the emotion that came with losing a parent, shunt it aside to keep from breaking down, but here, back where his dad had lived and died, the sense of loss overwhelmed him.

And thoughts of how much time he’d spent away from home, time he’d lost with his family while he served his country, slammed into him. It was something they all understood when they joined the teams. All of them made that sacrifice and accepted the cost to personal relationships—girlfriends, wives, and children. It was part and parcel of being who they were, doing the jobs that were required of them. They all knew it and embraced it. They also knew you couldn’t get any of it back.

That was all there was to it.

SEALs sacrificed to keep everyone safe.

The sound of the pans downstairs jarred him out of his grief. He wiped at his eyes, splashed water on his face again, and took deep breaths as he wiped his face on the hand towel. Back downstairs, the smell of bacon filled the air. As he passed his parents’ sitting room, he could still smell his dad’s tobacco. The cherry scent evoked memories from his childhood and made his throat get tight all over again.

Entering the kitchen, his mom at the stove was a welcome sight. She twisted and smiled as she transferred several pieces of bacon to toasted bread that already had lettuce and tomato. She placed the plate in front of him. Grabbing a mug, she poured him a cup of coffee, then poured one for herself, adding cream and sugar.

She pressed her back against the counter and smiled as he dug in. Her expression said: Her boy was home.

“How has it been going here?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Pretty much the same. I walk in the mornings just as I used to do when your dad was alive, weed my garden, and bike to the farmer’s market.” She shrugged. “Scarlett is a doll and has been a comfort for me. Your cousin…well…he visits.”

She tried to hide it, but it was clear that Hank wasn’t one of her favorite people. That wasn’t a surprise. He was a self-serving bastard, just like his father. Hank’s dad was his mom’s brother, but they couldn’t have been more different. Uncle Steve didn’t think much of his sister and he made it known. It had been a constant argument between Scarecrow’s dad and his uncle.

His cousin Hank was cut from the same cloth. His shoulders tightened. The memories of how they both treated him when he was younger was strong.

She talked about Sally Jensen, the neighbor who looked in on her, Susan Castile, her friend in a neighboring town whom she played bridge with and the general welfare of the city as he polished off the rest of the food.

She picked up his plate and set it in the sink. “Can I get you anything else? More coffee?”

He rose and took her mug. “I’ll get it. Why don’t you sit down? We need to talk.”

“That sounds ominous,” she said as he pulled out the chair for her and settled her at the table. He poured them each another cup of coffee, then set her mug down together with the cream and sugar. Picking up his mug, the ceramic warm in his hands, he braced himself against the counter.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“You and the farm.”

She poured her cream and hesitated as she reached for the sugar. “Oh, I see.”

“Mom, I know it’s been hard for you since Dad died, and I didn’t help matters by not coming home. I’m sorry about that, but—”

“Duty calls,” she said softly. “I know that.”

“I know you do, but I don’t think I’ve really told you that I’m not coming back to Bellise to live. My home is in California. It’s where the SEALs are and where my priority is.”

“Your priority? Above your family.”

His heart contracted, and he went to the table and sat down next to her. Setting down his mug, he took her hands in his. “No, Mom. They’re also a part of me, a brotherhood. They always have my back. It’s just that I live there now, and if you’re thinking of preserving the land and the house for me, don’t. I won’t be coming back here to live.”

Her face went pensive, and his heart squeezed even harder. God, he didn’t want to do this, but he had no choice. This was like reliving his conversation with his dad, letting him know he was going into the Navy and that he was rejecting his legacy. He’d never seen his father so disappointed. Scarecrow was sure he knew then what he was telling his mom now. He wasn’t coming home. He was home in San Diego. “Also, having a neighbor look in on you every other day isn’t going to cut it either. I don’t want you alone here, and I can’t travel back and forth to take care of you. I want you to consider selling all this stuff and moving to San Diego into assisted living.”

She burst into tears, and Scarecrow gritted his teeth. “Ah, Mom…I’m sorry,” he whispered as he tightened his grip. “It’s the best solution. And I would get to see you more than once every year or so.”

“But the history… This house has been in your father’s family for decades and…he’s…buried…here.”

She closed her eyes and sobbed softly. He couldn’t stand it. He reached out and gathered her close as they both stood up. “I know. I know this isn’t easy,” he choked out, “but I worry about you, and it’s hard to do my job when I’m distracted. I need to know you’re cared for and safe. Besides, Dad wouldn’t want you to be here alone.”

She sobbed harder, and helplessly he held her. This was killing him. Finally, her sobs dwindled down to sniffs and an occasional wiping of her eyes. She lifted her head and met his gaze. The grief of his dad’s death was fresh along with a stubborn glint. “I understand. But this is my home, and I’m not leaving your dad.”

She turned and left the room.

His heart sank. He didn’t want to be on the outs with his mom, especially since he hadn’t seen her in so long. But he only had thirty days to get this done. Whether she liked it or not, she was moving to San Diego.

Restless with pent-up energy from traveling, the emotional upheaval of coming home and having to drop that bombshell on his mom, Scarecrow couldn’t just sit there. The silence from his mom’s room was tearing him apart. He took the steps two at a time and hurriedly changed into running shorts, sneakers, and a tank top.

The physical activity should have helped, but his mind was full of so many things. His dad’s death, the secret he had wanted to reveal, the enormous amount he had to get through to get the house ready for sale and last, but not least, what his delectable neighbor across the road was up to.

On his way back, when he came around the bend, she was at her mailbox She had her head down, and it wasn’t until he was almost to her that she heard his footsteps and her head jerked up.

For a moment he felt suspended as she took him in. The sweat from the humid air rolled off him as his flexed muscles bulged from the exercise. Her eyes roamed over him like she wanted to devour him. Then they shuttered as if she’d been caught off-guard, and once again he felt as if this woman didn’t reveal a damn thing she didn’t want anyone to see. The realization and the chastisement were in the deep depths of her eyes.

“Aren’t you the good little SEAL,” she said, “keeping that body honed and in the kind of shape that can move mountains. And here I thought with your call name you stood around all day assessing things, ready to scare away the enemy.”

He stopped running. Pulling off his tank top, he mopped his face. She stared, her eyes going unfocused for a few seconds until she snapped back into reality.

He smirked, knowing exactly where her mind had gone. He didn’t even have to call her on it. “Sometimes being still works better than you think,” he drawled.

“Oh, how many mountains have you moved, Scarecrow?”

“That’s classified, sugar.”

She nodded in a knowing way. “Uh-huh. I’ll withdraw my question.” She smiled. “Wouldn’t want you to get into a lather.”

Something about the low, husky tone of her voice and the too sensual way her gaze held his gave her comment a whole different meaning and inspired tantalizing fantasies of hot, sweaty sex…with her. The sudden awareness flaring between them made him feel restless all over again, and reckless.

“I’m already hot and sweaty,” he pointed out.

She leaned closer to him, licked her bottom lip, and whispered, “That’s what showers are for.”

Scarecrow experienced a swift kick of lust straight to his gut as Scarlett’s less than innocent comeback flooded his mind with provocative, erotic images—of shower sex, a steady stream of water sluicing down her naked body, and an inviting look in her eyes as he lathered all her sleek, sensual curves.

He swallowed back a groan, shoved those dangerously arousing thoughts of Scarlett right out of his head, and hoped his thin running shorts weren’t giving away how much she turned him on. But despite the disappearance of those tantalizing images, he still had to deal with the flesh and blood woman standing in front of him, who seemed so bound and determined to tempt him with what he couldn’t have. Her.

Or was this nothing but a smoke screen to keep him off balance? She was a seductress, a woman comfortable using her femininity to distract a man; his gut wasn’t ever wrong in that instance. What the hell was her game?

Her eyes mocked him. The irresistible dare in her violet eyes projected a myriad of possibilities and lured him into thinking about accepting every single one of them. Then there was that beguiling curve to her lush mouth that captured his full attention, along with the fact that she was standing close enough for him to look down and watch the intriguing rise and fall of her small, firm breasts.

“Arlo,” his mother called. “You have a phone call.”

He turned to see his mom standing on the steps waving to him.

“Oh, your mummy’s calling you. You’d better toddle off.”

She turned and started up her drive, her hips swaying provocatively. “Oh, ask her when you can come out and play, love. Maybe after your nap.”

She used the back of her hand to knock her ponytail end away from her skin and over her shoulder.

Grinning, he turned toward his mom and chuckled. “Damn,” he swore under his breath.

Orion “Wicked” Cross hummed with excitement, his hands full of beautiful, firm, round, ripe…tomatoes that were destined for his sauce.

“Christ, Wicked, you handle them like a woman’s tits.”

He glanced at Hollywood, who was slouching against one of the supports, his hair mussed, wearing tight jeans, a day’s growth of stubble, and a tight black T-shirt accentuating all his heavy muscles. There were women bumping into the produce racks, gawking, whispering to their friends and daughters, and he’d gotten two numbers. They’d only been in the store for ten minutes.

“Shut up, you knucklehead, and enjoy your attention.”

“What?” he asked, blinking, and then yawned. “What are you talking about?”

Wicked shook his head. The guy was so damn clueless. He had no idea about his own sex appeal, which was shocking. It would have matched up nicely with his big fat ego. Wicked shifted, wondering how Scarecrow was faring. He had wanted to call and see, but figured his buddy was getting settled in and dealing with his mom. Wicked’s mouth tightened and he sighed softly. His own mom was someone who needed white kid gloves. Too bad Wicked was often a bull in a china shop when it came to delicate emotions.

“The women, the telephone numbers?”

“Oh that. I’m used to it. The numbers were for you.”

Wicked looked up and laughed. “Right.”

“No, you are an intimidating dude. I, on the other hand, am lovable and approachable. The babes thought you were hot, fondling your…tomatoes.”

“You’re an ass,” Wicked said chuckling in spite of himself.

Hollywood laughed, and several women just stood there. Was that swooning?

Wicked set a cluster of tomatoes into his cart.

Hollywood pushed off the support and sauntered over to him, tucking the two pieces of paper in his shirt pocket, patting it. “There you go. Two lays in the bag.”

“Thanks, you dog.”

“Now you have to make up your mind. Am I a knucklehead, ass, or dog?”

“You’re all three. The trifecta of jerkdom.”

“I like that. Jerkdom. I’m the king of jerkdom.”

“Long may he reign,” Wicked said moving onto the garlic.

“Are we going to spend fifteen minutes on garlic now?” Hollywood asked, his brows raised.

Wicked gave him a salty look. “There’s no whining in cooking.”

Hollywood sighed. “What is this function again and why are you cooking?”

“You wouldn’t know the difference in choosing the right ingredients if they all collected around you with red ribbons on.”

“Vittles are vittles. All I need is some beer.”

Wicked rolled his eyes, thinking that he should’ve known by the closed eyes and only occasional grunts that Hollywood hadn’t been paying attention when he’d given him the menu rundown in the car earlier. “And pizza?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” He rubbed his stomach. “Damn, now I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, driven by your stomach and dick. What a surprise.”

“Now who’s being an ass?” Hollywood grinned.

“Cooking is an art. That’s why I agreed to bail out my sister who’s helping an art gallery friend with her opening. She got left in the lurch, and I’m providing the fare.”

“Sister? Have I met her?”

“No, and she and her friend are off limits to you. They’re both picket fence types and you’re a horn dog. So, keep your distance.” Wicked wouldn’t let Hollywood near his sweet sister.

“You do have to be careful who you let close to the people you care about,” a no-nonsense female voice said from behind him.

He turned to find Kat looking tired but beautiful. Her comment had a much deeper meaning, and his chest tightened.

“Hey, Kat.” Hollywood gave her one of his smiles. Turning back to Wicked, Hollywood said, “Yeah, man, that hurt me right in the feels.”

“Whoa, this is some fancy eating,” she said eyeing his cart. “Feta cheese, goat cheese, prosciutto…” Her brows rose. “Caviar and truffles. You do have a refined palette.”

Hollywood said, “He’s a gourmet cook. He might be a man of few words, but in the kitchen his food speaks for itself. He’s cooking for an art gallery friend of his sister’s, whom I’m not allowed to meet, good ol’ lovable Hollywood.”

“Art gallery opening?” Kat asked in a skeptical way, as if a gunslinger couldn’t have facets.

“Sure. SEALs are like chameleons. We can be in fatigues one minute and rock a tux the next. We’re versatile guys. Anyway, he’s making all this stuff that sounds great. Goat cheese stuffed mushrooms, warm spinach mascarpone dip on sliced baguette, antipasto, caprese empanadas—finger foods and skewers. He’s even making strawberry shortcake on a skewer and caviar on white chocolate. Man, I bet that’s good.”

Huh? Guess he was paying attention after all.

Maybe there were more facets to his teammate than he was aware of. Then Hollywood turned his head as the glimpse of a blonde woman disappeared between one of the aisles. He never even said a word, just walked off.

“And, he’s gone,” Kat said, shifting when she realized they were alone. Their last conversation had been heated and she had been tired then, too.

He wanted to ask her what was up, but she wouldn’t tell him if he was the last sympathetic ear on the planet.

“I had no idea the guy knew the difference between gourmet food and gut junk,” Wicked said.

“Gut junk…” Kat said, a smile almost turning up the corner of her mouth. She looked like she never ate any crap at all with her gorgeous body, smooth skin, and shining hair. Her green eyes assessed him as if she were seeing him in some new light. It didn’t give him hope. He’d given up walking that road to forgiveness a long time ago.

She stiffened as if she’d read his thoughts or maybe she was remembering that last argument.

“No gut junk for you.”

Her eyes flashed and narrowed. “Are you saying I can’t have a good time?”

“No. Why do you have to always go to the negative?”

Hollywood came back, a smile on his face. “What did I miss?” he asked.

“Nothing,” they both said at the same time.

“Ookkaayy,” he drawled. “Hey, Kat. Why don’t you come to this art gallery shindig and you can sample some of Wicked’s…fare?” He grinned, proud of himself for using the sophisticated word.

Hollywood rummaged around in his back pocket and came up with a folded flyer. “Here you go. All the information you need.”

She snatched the flyer and said, “Maybe I will.” Her chin lifted a fraction, her eyes hard.

Wicked’s shoulders were tight and his chest was still reacting to the volatile memories. Without another word, Kat turned on her heel and walked away.

They stood there for a moment, Hollywood with a perplexed look on his face. Wicked cuffed him on the back of the head and he turned toward him. “What the fuck was that for?”

“Thanks a lot, motormouth.”

“What did I say?”

But Wicked was heading toward the meat section. He still had a lot of shopping and cooking to do.

It was going to be a long night.

Scarecrow leaned against the porch pillar as he stared across the road at his neighbor’s house. The lights were on and it was getting late.

A sultry breeze whispered through the branches of the trees. He could taste the excitement on the wind, the kind of anticipation that curled around his cells and jolted them every few minutes. The kind of feeling that tightened his muscles and heightened his awareness in battle. The kind of feeling when silk slid across skin, sweat beaded, and muscles contracted and released.

He took a deep breath. His mom was sleeping. They’d had a strained dinner where she’d barely spoken. He didn’t like this any more than she did. Reality was a fucking bitch.

His mom. God, how much he loved her. She had always been there for him. Her beauty had always made him stare in awe at her. Her toughness had been inside, a stoic strength that had borne her through the stages of her decline with dignity. She forgave him all his sins.

The sound of wind chimes tinkled as the chorus of bullfrogs and nightingales sang their songs of life into the night. A scrap of cloud scudded across the sliver of a moon. A sense of urgency raced over Scarecrow’s body, and he looked harder, sensing something. Straining his eyes, he stared into the darkness surrounding her house, seeing nothing, but sensing…a presence. The sensation lingered like a dark, intent gaze, and the hair rose on the back of his neck.

He stepped down the first few steps, automatically crouching as he skirted her property. Then he heard the music. It played on every nerve of his body, a sensual piece that was made for seduction.

Was she working him with that music? Had she known he couldn’t seem to stay away?

The bayou was a strip of dark green beyond the yard, and past the banks lay the tangled wilderness of the Atchafalaya. Wild and untamed, like Scarlett, unpredictable and deceivingly delicate, fragility in the guise of unforgiving toughness. In many ways, Scarlett was like his mom; even the touch of darkness that lingered in her eyes reminded him of his mom. Both of them had seen something that had put that look there, something in their pasts.

He wondered if his mom’s secrets had anything to do with his dad’s. He wondered what was going on behind Scarlett’s violet eyes. He ached and burned with the thought of discovering everything he could about her. Not because something was going on here that was just on the fringes of his consciousness, but because she intrigued the hell out of him.

He started across the lawn, staying to the shadows, his training as easy on him as his stride, his breathing even and soft.

As he got closer, he could hear the music. It was a soft and romantic croon as he reached the lit-up house. It seemed she’d turned on every single light inside.

What kind of darkness was she trying to protect herself against? What demons lurked just at the edge of the glow?

He skirted the house, keeping his steps silent. As he rounded the side of the house, his breath caught. She was silhouetted under the light of the moon in some gauzy white garment that didn’t leave much to the imagination. The pockets of the shirt camouflaged her nipples, and a black thong covered that sweet woman’s triangle. Christ, she was gorgeous. Her white blonde hair stood out in the darkness like a tangled beacon, messy and untamed.

She was dancing in the water of the small pond behind the house. Her body swaying, the white wet cotton clung to every beautiful curve of her.

Her slender body moved to the music, and he was caught in a sensory vortex as if he watched some sprite dance among the delicate lily pads.

She had a glass in one hand, and she reached down and tossed water high, then laughed softly as it cascaded in an arc of liquid, shining bright for brief seconds in the light of the moon. He heard something off to his left, and he moved in that direction at a quick pace. He slipped into the trees. He was without a weapon. All he needed were his hands.

There was more movement, and he stopped to listen as the music and her soft laughter filled the night. He took a few more steps, his instincts kicking in. He crouched, his sense tingling. Someone had been here. There were footprints in the dirt.

She had an admirer who didn’t want to make his presence known.

Scarecrow sensed the person was gone. Hightailed it off into the fields that ran along the river where dense undergrowth would have masked his passing.

He retraced his steps back to where she was playing in the water.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Scarecrow?”

“I’m not spying on you, if that’s what you think.”

“You’re much too direct to spy. I don’t mind being looked at,” she said. “Especially by you. I very much like the way you look at me.”

“There was someone else looking at you from the shadows.” He gestured toward the clump of trees.

Her brows rose, and her lush mouth curved. “So what? I’m not afraid of anything out here in the bayou,” she said.

It made him wonder what she was afraid of and damned if he cared.

She downed whatever was in the glass and fluttered her fingers toward a jug at the edge of the pond. “Would you be a love and help a girl out?” she asked.

He walked to where the jug was, picked it up, and unscrewed the top, sniffing. “Rum. Hurricane?”

“Well, when in Rome,” she said holding out her glass. He smiled. She hadn’t moved, and he’d have to go into the water to fill her glass. He’d play her game for now. “I bet your mates call you Crow.”

He shrugged. Kicking off his shoes, he waded in. The water was warm against his bare legs, and it went up to just below his knees. His body was still, but inside he was vibrating with the close proximity of this woman who made his senses dance and crash together.

“You are the poster boy for hero. You may be still like a Scarecrow, but always watching, predatory.”

He raised his brows.

“In a good, bad boy, bad ass kind of way.”

“I’m just a man doing my job every day. Nothing special.”

“I disagree. You put special in special ops, love. You like to move under the radar.”

“And you’re all over it.”

She pursed her lips in an adorable pout, making her mouth even more enticing. Her eyes went wide in a mock innocent way. “Aren’t you perceptive. I find that…”

“Interesting?”

“Annoying.”

“You want to know what I find annoying?”

“Not particularly.”

He laughed softly. This woman pushed a lot of buttons he never knew he even had. He’d never felt this way with any woman, not even Sarah whom he’d had an ongoing relationship with. He wanted…more. Had questions he wanted answered, wanted to do recon on her like a commando.

This felt like a sweet-hot-perfect time, when two people were just incredibly in sync. They were cut from the same cloth. Had the same desires and the same…demons.

Life, he decided, was going to continue just as it was, despite deployments, ambushes, knife fights, and any throats he’d slit. But to be with someone that got him… Well, that was pretty priceless.

She set her hand on his chest. “Wow, boyish. I didn’t expect that.”

He only maintained his composure by a hairsbreadth. She moved her palm down his chest, her violet eyes, dusky and direct in the night, never left his. Damn if he didn’t love this type of woman, one who was fearless, one who stepped all over his boundaries and dared him to react. He hadn’t reacted in a long, long time. He’d been watching, doing what needed to be done in quiet.

He knew that was going to bite him on the ass, compartmentalizing his dad’s death, his mom’s infirmity.

“You should smile every second of every day, Crow,” she said softly. Her hand molded over his muscles, and when she got to his abs, those eyes shone with approval. “Wow, again,” she breathed. “Very nice.”

When her fingers reached his belt, he clamped a hand around her wrist. This was nothing but smoke and mirrors, a distraction. Her MO. She used her sexuality as easily as she drew breath. But Scarecrow wasn’t going to be played in any sense of the word.

He wouldn’t admit to himself that he wanted genuine feeling, honest physical contact, not this game she was playing. He had to admit to himself, though, that she was good, and any lesser man would have already been on her with ravenous intent.

He wasn’t any man.

Did he want to kiss her?

Hell-the-fuck-yeah!

But he sensed Scarlett expected him to cave, and she was going to be surprised.

She curled her fingers into his waistband, and heat pumped through him as if he were absorbing the hot air and humidity of the sultry night.

“If you go any further, you’re going to feel exactly what you expect to feel. My dick is hard,” he murmured, his voice as cool as he wanted it to be despite the heat scalding him, his body throbbing in tandem with his heart as though it beat in his groin. She gasped, but in a delicious way that did make him want to take that damn sassy mouth. There was no shocking this sugar pie. “But I didn’t come over here for raw sex or to act as a pool boy for your benefit, or even as a bodyguard.”

“Oh, for the tour, then? It’s a bit late—”

Her sarcastic words cut off as he jerked her forward. This time their eyes clashed as she dropped her seductive act and gave him the full force of her eyes. With her against him so that their hips bumped, she didn’t have to imagine a damn thing about what she was doing to him with this act.

This was for real, and there was a distinct satisfaction in him that he got her to reveal even that much before it was shuttered behind those knowing eyes.

The heat hung over them, thick and oppressive, pressing down on everything. The profound intensity of the swamp and the appetites that stirred made him remember how much the primal landscape affected him.

He was near to physical overload with her closeness, all those sensuous curves pressed up against him, all that sassy sugar practically in his arms.

He tried to remember what it had been like in Siberia, but he wasn’t even sure that would have been enough cold to cool him off where she was concerned.

Everything in him tightened. Everything tightened—the night, her body. It seemed as if the water stood still as they stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, their lips so close all it would take was an infinitesimal move to touch hers, take hers like he ached to. She focused on his mouth, her eyelids going to half-mast, the kind of response a man dies for because then he knows it’s in the bag—that kiss was going to happen.

“I want to know what the hell you’re doing here,” he said. “The real reason.”