Macayla didn’t realize they were moving until they had waded in close to shore. In fact, she couldn’t quite recall anything beyond the heat in her lower belly and the whisking sensation where the breeze touched her damp body in touch-tender spots. She felt tumbled by the surf, tossed by the swells, pounding by a rhythm as ancient as the tide. And it all felt pretty damn wonderful.
Her body quivered as she glanced at Oliver, who held her strongly by the waist as he half carried her to shore. She would have walked it by herself, but she felt a little smug about the possessive feel of his arm. She doubted much engaged this man’s emotions for long. But, for tonight, he belonged to her.
She stood ankle-deep in water when she realized he hadn’t been right about one thing. The tide. It had risen while they were out in the depths. For how long, she had no idea; they’d been in the water much longer than she realized. While they’d been swimming and kissing and touching in the aftermath of sex, little by little the sneaky tide had been encroaching on their things in the sand.
She saw two young women who’d been walking along the beach carrying an electric lantern stop and turn to stare as they came out of the surf.
Not the least bit intimidated by an audience, Oliver marched up the beach, revealing all that nature had given him. Nature had been ridiculously generous. He gave them a salute. “Next show eleven thirty. Room for all.” Then he grabbed his pants from the wet sand and put them on.
Mac heard their giggles as the women turned and hurried away.
She came more slowly out of the surf, less sure about her ability to be so at ease in her undies—panties back on but made nearly transparent by being wet. Even in the darkness, the breeze was stronger now.
Oliver came toward her and pulled his polo over her head. She didn’t argue though she did wonder. “What will you wear?”
“Not your dress.” He turned and picked it up. “It’s sopping wet from a sinkhole. Come on, let’s go get you dry.”
She looked down at herself. His polo was long enough to cover her to midthigh. She grabbed her purse and jacket, glad to see that neither was wet.
“Don’t know about you but I’m starving. Fancy crab cakes and a beer?”
“Sounds awesome. But no one will serve us dressed like this.”
He pointed up the beach to Grabby Bill’s Seafood. “They will. Out on the deck.”
“Okay.” She tried to squeeze some salt water from her hair. “But people are going to wonder what we’ve been doing.”
He grinned and leaned forward to kiss her. “They’ll know what we’ve been up to. Do you really care?”
She shook her head and pulled his face to hers again for another kiss.
He rubbed his beard along her jawline. “That’s good enough for me.”
She wondered what he meant but she didn’t have time to think about it. He had grabbed her hand and was pulling her along in his wake.
* * *
A cell phone played the sax intro for “Who Can It Be Now.” Tip-off, even as she was dragged to wakefulness, that the call wasn’t for her. One moment she was entangled with a big, hard, warm body. The next she was marooned on her side of the bed, feeling the chill of separation.
The other side of the bed dipped, then she heard a masculine voice say, “Yeah?”
Smiling, she turned toward him and wrapped an arm about his waist. She met nothing but wonderful almost hot skin. He was like a furnace, heating up everything he touched. Mostly her.
“How bad? Yeah. I can make the flight. No, I’ll make my way to you. Where will we set up base? Yeah. I’ll call when we land. Ta.”
Oliver reached over and turned on the light before reclining back on the bed. That gave Macayla an unobstructed view of all she’d felt and tasted but not really seen the night before. He was worth looking at in the light.
Stretched out before her was the definition of male in his prime. Six-pack, check. Ripped and ridged torso and arms, check. Heavy corded thighs and firm swells of calves, yep. As for the eager-to-please erection, oh my.
Her most vulnerable lady parts stirred with a reminder of how well his parts and hers had fit together not once but twice during the night.
He touched a finger to her brow and used his finger to sweep away a curl that fallen on her brow. “You okay?”
“Absolutely.” Macayla rolled closer and propped her chin on his chest. “You’re still looking good from my perspective. If you have the time.”
He frowned down the length of his nose at her, but the finger sliding down her spine toward her hips said he was in no hurry. “You heard the call, yeah?”
“Sounded like work.” She wiggled her backside as his finger slid into the shallow before her cleft.
“It was work. I have to pack and leave. Now.” He gently cupped one buttock.
She knew that. She’d known it the same instant he had. But when he said the words it hurt all the same. Because she wasn’t ready. And he was leaving. As she had known all along that he would. But later, much later would have been better.
“Okay.” She said the word very carefully, not glancing up to meet his gaze. “This has been—something.”
He was silent a moment. “Yeah. Something. I don’t know—” He shook himself. “I need to move. Sorry.” He reached down and gently lifted her from him and sat up. His expression said a lot of things but he said none of them. “I’m really sorry. But lives depend on me hauling ass out of here.” He stood up.
That’s when she saw it. It was a tattoo of a koala bear, clinging to a tree, positioned on his lower right side, beside his groin. Unlike the works of art on his arm and back, this was brightly colored and cartoony. The fuzzy little guy was holding a beer with a flower tucked behind one ear. And his eyes were slightly crossed.
Macayla sat up in bed. “What’s that?” She bit her lip and pointed.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “The last time I did something really stupid.”
“Is it drunk?”
“Or high on eucalyptus leaves, or both. He’s an ugly blighter.”
Macayla tried not to smile as she watched his naked butt walk away. The tattoo really was an awful blotch on such a sexy male body. “If that’s how you feel you should have it removed.”
“No.” He reached for his duffel bag and began shoving things in it. “I keep it to remind me that I have to live with the consequences of my actions.”
“What actions?”
“I bet a guy I could … never mind. I was nineteen. I lost.”
“This was the booby prize?”
“Yeah. I had to get a tattoo of his choosing.”
“I suppose it could have been worse.” The seriousness of the moment settled over her as he pulled out fresh clothing. “Where are you going?”
“Chile. Southern end. Earthquake. Seven point eight. There’s going to be a lot of rubble to go through. If we get there in time, we’ll be able to save some lives.”
She saw the tension in his expression as he collected things to take into the bath, and remembered the stories he’d told earlier at the banquet about what his working life was like. They scared her and elated her, though she had no experience to put to her imagining. But he did this all the time. And he wasn’t alone. He and many others like him went where the world was cracking open, or breaking apart, or drowning, to save lives. What would it be like to do that?
The ridiculous thought struck her that she’d like to go, too. To be useful as he was. But that was fantasy. Hadn’t she learned that she couldn’t trust herself? She’d fail as a SAR operative, just as she had at child advocacy. Because she didn’t want to be responsible for anything as precious as a human life. And if she did fail, then she’d have even less of herself to put back together than before.
Oliver was a genuine hero because he went again and again. She’d been thrust into the melee of one of life’s worst moments, and run away rather than risk facing a similar situation.
Something rose to the surface of her disturbed musings. A new possibility, and it wasn’t at all to her credit. She’d convinced herself that it was the title of hero she’d been running from. Now she realized it might have been the title of coward. Once a hero, people would always expect her to put herself out there, do what needed to be done. Over and over again. She’d need to keep proving her worth. Only she hadn’t done that. She’d acted without thinking. Because thinking made her shy away from the very idea of being courageous. She suspected she’d only been heroic because she didn’t have time to think.
Oliver was showered and dressed by the time her thoughts returned to the moment. He sat back down beside her to lace up his boots. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold on, urge him to take care and let her know when he got there, and how he was, and when he thought he’d be—back?
He wouldn’t be back.
He’d come to St. Pete Beach for a convention. They’d hooked up. It had been beyond great. But it was over.
She swallowed back the sudden concern that welled up in her. They didn’t know each other like that. This was a one-off, a fantastic one, but nothing more permanent than that. She knew it going in. They didn’t have ties that made one worry about the other or want to console the steeling against horror she’d glimpsed for a second in his gaze. She didn’t have that right.
So she said nothing about her concern for him, though it hurt her heart not to speak. She was going to be the perfect hookup. Cheerful and pleased, without recriminations. It was all she could offer this man going off to face death and destruction.
Macayla slipped off the bed, drawing his attention. “You’re cute in the morning,” he said. “All tousled and sleepy. But you don’t need to get up. The room is yours until noon. Order in breakfast and put it on the tab.”
She nodded, but she wouldn’t do that. It felt wrong. “So, thanks for the evening.”
He finished the final knot and came toward her, enfolding her nakedness into him. “This isn’t how I wanted this morning to go. But I have the kind of job that doesn’t allow me to make plans. I should have warned you ahead of time.”
“I understand.”
“You’re good company. You know that? Nice to wake up to.”
She smiled. “You just want more sex.”
“Definitely. But today I wanted to just, I don’t know. Hang out.”
“That’s a novelty for you, hanging out?”
“I shouldn’t admit it. But yeah. I’m not much for watching the telly and munching on crisps after the main event.”
“It’s thank you, ma’am, and she’s history?”
He frowned. “Not like that.”
“Then how?” She kept her tone playful.
He frowned harder. “You’re not making this easy.”
“I’m not faulting you for who you are. It’s just that I don’t date men like you. So I don’t know the routine.”
“What’s a man like me?”
“You could have any woman you want.”
“I want you.” His face caught fire with a grin so lewd she tightened her thighs in purely female response. His body arrogantly responded in a way that could not be misinterpreted.
“So I noticed.”
Again he was silent. “Is there a man in your life?”
“Wow. Now you ask?” She hoped she sounded the right playful note.
“Is there?”
“No. Not at the moment.”
“Good.”
He kissed her softly and then more urgently until he groaned and backed away. “I hate my life sometimes. I have to go. There’s a flight I have to arrange for, and Jackeroo needs to be walked first.”
“I can do that while you finish making plans.”
He looked at her in surprise. “You’d do that?”
She shrugged. “Since I’m awake.”
“You’re an unusual girl.”
“You have no idea.”