Where am I?” Nikita was used to waking up in strange places: barracks, barns, blown-out buildings they were hiding in, African huts, and the backs of military transports on sea, air, and land. She couldn’t begin to make sense of luxurious sheets, fine wood furniture, and the crystal vase on her night table—she had a night table—filled with tropical flowers. That was the strangest thing of all.

She flopped over and was greeted with a sweeping view of an island and turquoise-colored waters. Sheer curtains fluttered in a sea-scented breeze. And when they fluttered aside, she could see Zoe stretched out on a lounger in the sun, wearing a bikini that was as scant as she was.

Nikita grabbed sunglasses, then stumbled out and flopped into a chair on the suite’s verandah. It offered her a bird’s-eye view of Key West. She’d flown out of the Naval Air Station here on any number of missions and recognized the unique look of the town from above. The cruise ship was far and away the tallest building in town. The palm-lined streets were a breezy and comfortably warm mid-seventies—because that’s the temperature the town always was.

“How long was I out?”

“What day is this?”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“Well, you’ve missed Key West. They’ll be reboarding in an hour or so. You’ve been out for fifteen.”

Nikita plucked at her long nightshirt, “Who?”

“Drake, but I made him promise not to peek.”

“But he did anyway.”

“I’m not so sure. He was so busy being pissed at himself for running you into the ground like that, I’m not sure he was noticing anything.”

“At least it wasn’t Altman. That would have been too mortifying.”

“Besides, you don’t get to have both men.”

Nikita raised her head enough to inspect Zoe, but she was still flat on her back, working on her tan. “You’re going to burn.” That was a safer topic than whether or not Zoe was actually interested in doing more than joking about LCDR Altman.

“Wearing SPF-gazillion. Don’t get much sun in a drone coffin.”

The cargo containers that housed the ground-station controls for flying drones had always been called coffins, which Nikita tried not to see as morbid.

“Besides, I always was super-fair skinned. That’s why I finally gave in and went blonde, at least mostly. I know healthy tans are out, but pasty white is a sad way to be, too.”

“Where are the men?”

Zoe flapped a hand toward shore, “Drake didn’t want to leave you, but I’ve seen Key West a couple of times. So, I kicked him out before he woke you to ask if you were sleeping. If they’re doing their jobs, they’re out there being manly and spreading more rumors. If they pick up any women who aren’t us, I’m going to be very upset.”

Nikita decided that she would be, too. Very upset. And that was an irrational enough thought to force her back to her feet.

“I need a run.”

“They have a track here, up on the top deck. A hundred and fifty meters.”

“Twenty seconds a lap? I’d get dizzy.”

“It’s a jogging track, probably cluttered with couples strolling hand in hand and calling it exercise. They do have weights and treadmills.”

“A gym. Excellent!”

“A fitness center.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nikita yanked on Zoe’s ankle hard enough to almost pull her off the lounger. “You’re going, too.”

“No! I want to become fat and lazy. That’s what cruise ships are about.”

“I thought they were about Arthur and the Honduran bad guys.”

“Crap!” Zoe clambered to her feet. “Reality sucks.”

Drake didn’t know when he’d ever been so happy.

Zoe’s three-letter text, “Gym,” when he was just back aboard through security, sent him scrambling upstairs to change. Once their suite’s butler had told him where to find the fitness center, he’d tracked them down.

After a day like today, doing a workout with Nikita was exactly what the doctor ordered—maybe, if the gods were smiling on him, they’d have a wrestling mat. Then again, she was SEAL-trained in hand-to-hand combat, so maybe not.

Because the project was so compartmentalized, McDermott hadn’t wanted to involve the other agencies directly. So he’d sent a very simple request for any information on outstanding GSI operations in Central America. That was enough to make someone in intel look at what had actually been going on—then Internal Affairs had taken over and slammed a lockdown on all information requests. Some oversight committee landed at the center of a witch hunt, which had shuttered all further information that might have flowed to the 5E.

The only message to escape the fray was a single and utterly useless note: No Global Security International operations authorized outside Southwest Asia region. All that told him was just how far off the reservation GSI had gone. Actually, it also told him they were entering the Minotaur’s Labyrinth of the wholly unknown monster. Now it was only a question of how soon the beast GSI had created would try to devour them.

Deciding that they’d be better off drawing out the beast, he and Altman had spent the entire day probing the ship’s elite passengers under the casual circumstances of Key West. Drake had never spouted so much drivel in his life, not even when playing the mad and ridiculous constable in a summer stock production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. They’d learned nothing. Not from Rankin the banker, the Russian mobster, or any of the others.

As to the cruise line’s officers, his fabricated reputation had proceeded him and they all clammed up tighter than a submarine about to dive for cover. Hopefully Altman on his own would do better, though Drake doubted it.

He finally locate the Fitness Center in the stern of the ship a couple of decks down. He had to go through the spa—past beauty salon, massage tables, the “thermal center” with its hard tile couches, treatment rooms where women lay with gray or green facial masks—to find the workout room. Along the way he’d had to dodge several particularly fit men and women in ship’s uniforms asking if he wanted this treatment or that. Perhaps a sauna.

In the exercise room, after being briefly dazzled by the sweeping view of Key West, he spotted Zoe spinning a cycle exerciser faster than a hummingbird’s wingbeat.

“Where’s Luke?” was her idea of a greeting.

“Still ashore, drinking with a group of the ship’s officers. Telling stories and spreading lies.” Then he turned and got an eyeful. There were a few other people in the gym doing workouts—civilian workouts. Stair-stepping to the beat of some Broadway show tune, or rowing slowly enough that even Washington’s fully laden boats could have beat them across the Potomac.

And then there was Nikita with her back to him.

Five-ten in silken running shorts and a black t-shirt. Her ponytail swinging side to side as she ran in what he recognized as a military ground-eater. Sweat was just starting to make her shine as her long legs ate up the distance that the treadmill was handing out. She wasn’t watching the CNN broadcast on one screen or the advertisements for the next port’s exciting excursions on the other. Nikita was staring straight ahead at the blue ocean and just now shifting from a warm-up pace to a light run—good, he was only a few minutes behind her. She ran as if she was loping easily through the primeval forests, not working out on a luxury cruise ship.

“You going to watch her or do something about it?”

He gave Zoe the finger without bothering to look away from the magnificent athlete before him.

She merely laughed and kept spinning.

The treadmill beside Nikita opened up and he stepped onto it. Glancing at the program she was running, he hit the same.

She was so focused on her run that she didn’t even notice him. Well, when she was ready to, he’d be here. Meanwhile he would run out some tiny portion of his desperate need for the woman he’d cradled in his arms last night.

Women never cost him a night’s rest—it just didn’t happen. Well, it did, but only when they were sharing a bed and neither of them were interested in using it for sleep.

Last night, after he’d finally finished berating himself for forgetting that even a SEAL had limits, he’d been stuck with the feel of her in his arms. That, far more than how Nikita Hayward looked wearing nothing but underpants, had cost him the night. Women were to be enjoyed, not cherished. But when he’d held her tight to his chest carrying her down the hallway, he’d felt so strong.

When she’d begged him to not let her remember, in a voice so sad that it didn’t seem possible it had been uttered by Nikita Hayward, he had felt truly helpless.

And all through the night he wished he was still holding her, to somehow protect her against her own past.

Nikita powered ahead.

She hadn’t needed Zoe’s laugh to tell her that Drake had shown up. She hadn’t even needed the hint of his reflection off the TV screen—she’d felt him when he’d entered the room. There had been a ripple as other women had turned and paused long enough to admire. Men suddenly moved more briskly on their machines as if needing to show themselves to be up to a standard they’d never meet.

Her mind was turning to mush on the subject of Drake Roman and she didn’t like it. They ran for three kilometers before she wondered if she might be losing her mind.

“I’m not a woman designed for cruise ships,” she snarled at no one in particular and pushed the speed button up another two klicks an hour.

“Nope,” Drake agreed happily, and punched his own pace to match.

She told herself she wasn’t going to look at him, but she did. He’d already stripped off his t-shirt and flipped it over a handhold. His skin was just a shade darker than hers, to go with his black hair. And his chest—

Nikita looked away. She remembered that chest and what it felt like to curl up against it. Between the exhaustion and the atypical amount to drink, her barriers had crashed down. The anger, the fear, the grief had threatened to overwhelm her. Until a voice like a benediction called down upon her desire to not remember, “Then don’t.”

And she hadn’t. Instead she had buried her face in his chest and allowed herself to be taken care of with none of the hard time she’d given the docs and physical therapists the couple of times she’d been injured in the line of duty.

“I’m waiting,” she managed between two breaths.

“For what?”

“For the great…Drake Roman to tell…me exactly what…he thinks…I’m good for…if not cruise ships.” Her breath was starting to run short, but she’d just given him a bad straight line. She punched in another kilometer an hour.

“I’ll ignore the obvious,” Drake managed in a single breath as he again matched her speed.

Nikita leaned into the run and waited him out.

“Instead I’ll tell you why I’ve been…so attracted to you since the first moment I saw you.”

At least the bastard had the decency to take a breath in there. She considered pushing up another klick per hour, but wouldn’t be able to speak if she did. Besides, now she was curious.

“My mom and my sister are both…seriously strong women. In spirit and mind…if not athletic.”

It was nice that he was finally running short of breath as well.

“You are the only woman…I’ve ever met…who makes them look average.”

Nikita stumbled and almost lost her pace as she looked over at him. Nothing about her body or her face or some other thin compliment.

Drake glanced at her for a moment, his dark eyes not looking aside as he held the pace. Sweat was dripping down his forehead and off his chest. He seemed to grow even taller as he ran beside her. Then he looked away and punched for another notch of speed as if he could somehow run away from what he’d just said.

Nikita matched him. “Why…never say…any…thing?” She managed against the blistering pace.

Drake shrugged and cricked his neck to one side as if he didn’t know either.

He hit the speed button once more, which precluded all conversation.

She matched him and they simply ran. There was no glancing aside. Not at this speed. There was only the pounding of feet on rubber tread. The hot burning of legs driving ahead, fighting to hold their pace. Sweat stung her eyes and they burned, but she didn’t care.

She could do a fifty-kilometer hike with a full field pack. She could jog along for hours with a light kit and her rifle. At this pace, all she could do was lean into it and go.

Five minutes…ten? She couldn’t tell. The television screen changed from Key West to Belize to Coxen Hole, Roatán Island, Honduras. Overly perky hosts “reported” on screens filled with reef diving, parasailing, dune buggies, and ziplines.

Somewhere in the distance the ship’s horn bellowed a warning—get aboard or be left behind. And still they ran.

There was no question of talking now. Their breath rasped in and out. Disharmonious, desperate.

Impossibly, Drake slapped the pace up once more.

With no idea how she could maintain it, she did the same. The setting was now for a four-minute mile—a record no woman had yet achieved.

It was unsustainable, but she’d be damned if some gorgeous flyboy was going to outrun a DEVGRU SEAL. There was honor to maintain.

Her arms were pumping so hard to keep her balance that they, too, ached with lactic acid buildup.

He groaned aloud against the agony of their run.

And still it built.

Thirty seconds.

A minute.

One and a half.

The scream of frustration ripped from her throat as her body fought to deliver what she demanded of it.

One forty-five.

One fifty.

Drake’s snarl beside her was furious as he slammed ahead, struggling to sustain the pace.

One fifty-five.

Two minutes!

In final agony they cried out together as they both slammed down fists on the emergency stop buttons.

The treadmills slowed rapidly.

Two steps.

One more.

She let it carry her to the end of the belt. Stepping down onto the floor was almost impossible because her legs were shaking so hard.

Drake grabbed her hand and dragged her along, stumbling behind him, through the crowd that had gathered to watch their contest.

Flashing impressions: a dozen passengers, spa attendants, a trainer, Zoe’s smile.

“No one comes in!” Drake snarled at somebody, then pulled her through a door marked “Men’s Showers”.

He yanked her forward, then tugged her about so that her back slammed against the cedar paneling.

He crashed into her. Kissing her as she groaned with need for breath and for Drake. She hooked an aching leg behind him to pull him in tighter and she dug her hands into his hair.

His hands were on her. There was nothing gentle. None of the surprising tenderness of last night. She didn’t want it.

She wanted him. The way she’d never wanted anyone.

His hand dug under her t-shirt, under her bra, and he was the one who groaned with pleasure.

Her own hands dove into his shorts and clenched on his butt just as they had in her room at Mother Rucker.

Nikita hauled him so tightly against her that he thought he might break through the fabric between them.

He hadn’t asked permission.

His need had him manhandling her. He couldn’t stop himself.

“Now! Goddamn it, Roman! Now!”

So much for asking.

He yanked down her shorts and underwear. He retrieved the protection that an angel of grace had made him stuff in his pocket when he left the suite to come find her.

There wasn’t time to be gentle. He wanted to caress, to appreciate, to please.

Not a chance.

He wanted to take and Nikita was offering it with as much desperation as she’d run. Gods, how she’d run. He’d never pushed himself so far past his limits, and still he hadn’t been able to match her. She was beyond magnificent.

So he sheathed himself and he took.

No finesse. No grace.

He simply took her.

Everything that had built in him, he poured into her body.

She wrapped both legs around his hips and let him plunder. When she cried out, he swallowed the cry and added his own.

Never had a release so pounded through him as the one he found in Nikita. She clung and shuddered against him until he was shakier than even the run had made him feel.

When the releases stopped slamming through both of their bodies, he still couldn’t let her go. His arms wouldn’t unwrap from their tight clench about her ribs. Her legs, still ankle-locked behind him, kept pulling his hips even harder against hers—to be answered each time with a soft moan of delight.

He buried his face against her neck and breathed her in.

Heat, sweat, and a smell as rich and elusive as the Alabama forest at sunset.

Maybe he’d never let go.

Drake had simply “taken” women before. A fast consensual screw and goodbye. Once there hadn’t been so much as a kiss. He’d received a very surprising send-off as the Elvis Presley character going to war in the musical Bye Bye Birdie. During the final scene break on closing night, the innocent “Kim” had delivered exactly what the lusty “Birdie” had been wanting, and she’d managed to fit it in between the finale and the curtain call. Fast and furious on her bedroom set, which had been rolled deep into the backstage shadows—she’d never even had to lift her skirt when she knelt down over him as she wore nothing beneath. He always thought of her whenever he gave the line about liking actresses.

Now he couldn’t let Nikita go. His heartrate finally settled. Her legs slipped from around his waist until she was supporting her own weight, and still he held on.

“That was…something,” Nikita whispered it softly.

“Something,” he agreed. “Though I’ll be damned if I know what.”

She wiggled a little. “You’re still holding on to me.”

He was. “I am.” Not breast or butt, not dug into her hair, just wrapped around her and holding on.

Nikita wiggled again, “Aren’t you going to—”

He kissed her to keep her quiet. Didn’t she know that there were moments when a guy needed time to figure out what the hell had just happened? The blood reaching his brain was still minimal for survival.

“Drake,” she pressed her hands to his cheeks. “You can let go of me now.”

He could.

Except…he wasn’t ready to.

“Nope. I’m not that stupid.” He eased back a half step, ready to pull her deeper into the locker room—and collapsed into a wall. His shorts and underwear were still around his ankles.

Nikita was also totally disheveled. He’d gotten her pants down and off one leg by nearly ripping off one of her running shoes. One leg had a sock, the other still had shoe, sock, and her own shorts and underwear. Her t-shirt was shoved up enough to see that he’d freed one breast from her sports bra but not the other. She didn’t appear to have noticed that yet.

He righted himself and pulled off the rest of her clothes over her ineffective and not terribly strenuous protests.

A naked Nikita was a breathtaking sight. Curves hinted at by her sportswear, suggested by her first outfit from the cruise ship’s boutique, and so promised by last night’s dress, were astonishing when unadorned.

“Shower,” he explained, which stilled the last of her protests. He definitely had to get this woman into a shower with him.

Then he stepped out to drag her toward the nearest stall—and collapsed into the wall again. His own ankles were still snarled up in his shorts.

Nikita allowed herself to be coaxed beneath the steaming spray, partly because she didn’t want to walk through the ship reeking of sweat and sex. But where she’d thought to get herself cleaned up, Drake had other ideas.

Sex with him had been just as rough and satisfying as she’d expected. Sex was meant to be enjoyable and it had been. Though with Drake it had also been much more. To have someone like him totally lose self-control over her as a woman was a revelation.

But a different man awaited her in the shower. He worked shampoo into her hair with a deep scalp massage. With soap and a washcloth, he made sure that not a square inch of her skin was untended, even the bottoms of her feet, which had turned out to be ticklish in a way she’d never been with anyone else. She didn’t need any spa treatment when she had Drake Roman to take care of her. She braced her hands against the wall to keep herself upright as he worked over her body. It was so soothing that she was slow to pick up on what else he was doing until it was too late.

She was already halfway to gone before she noticed. He was so gentle that she couldn’t find the energy to protest until he delivered another wave of release that stole her breath as it rippled through her body.

He washed himself off before she could recover enough to even think about returning the favor.

“Let’s go. We don’t want to be late for dinner. Or the art auction.”

She leaned against the wall a minute longer before she could dredge up any interest in getting dressed. Men in her experience might give pleasure as long as they were receiving it as well, but for one to make an experience completely about her was unheard of. She was having trouble reconciling the man who had slammed her back against the wall and taken her with such delicious power with the one who had gently coaxed her body to a second release in many ways as overwhelming as the first.

Tender was not something she expected from Drake, nor any man in her experience. Poor Barry always had come to her bed like a soldier—hot and ready for action. He’d been kind and fun, but there was no question about who was having the sex and who was receiving it.

Drake was—

“The clothes fairy has left us a present,” Drake announced. He held up a pair of clothes bags.

He was still splendidly naked and already recovering.

“If only we had time, lovely Nikita, but duty calls.” His protests did nothing to stop his body’s continuing reaction. Taking a deep breath and releasing it as a very complimentary groan of frustration, he pulled a towel off the rack and heaved it at her face. “At least cover up something before you kill me.”

Nikita had never been shy. She’d been one of the only women around Curtis Contracting. Nobody messed with her because her dad was Curtis’ Number Two, but shy didn’t stand a chance. Living with a SEAL team of ultra-fit, ultra-raunchy males? Modesty didn’t stand a chance either.

“Aww. Is poor Drake having trouble controlling himself around sexy women?” Not that she’d ever been called that—at least not by anyone who didn’t land hard on his ass half a second later. She tossed the towel over her shoulder and let it drape down between her breasts, but not cover them.

Drake’s eyes went darker and his expression was very intent.

She eased across the wooden slats of the shower area with the light tread of a sniper stalking its prey until barely a breath separated them.

She could see that Drake was nearly blind with need for her and his body confirmed the assessment.

Was she channeling Sugar somehow? Maybe she understood the woman, so competent in her craft but still sidelined for being female in a male world. So Sugar made a point of packing a physical punch that no man in his right mind could ignore.

And yet Drake had. Oh, he’d watched Sugar surely enough, but he’d watched Nikita far more—even without the tight leather.

Before she’d left, Sugar had said something to her that Nikita hadn’t understood at the time. “That boy is just so gone.”

When she’d asked gone on what, Sugar had just offered one of her merry laughs and followed J-dawg back to his monster SUV. Well, now Nikita knew. Drake wasn’t merely gone on her, he was “so gone.” She could feel the incredible rush that she could have Drake forget about everything in this instant if she wanted to. She’d never had such a sense of power over a male, especially not one like the “great” Drake Roman. It was a gloriously heady feeling right up there with sex.

But he’d said that they didn’t have time. Pity.

He still held the two clothing bags in one hand. She unzipped the first one, spotted a dress, and plucked it from his fingers.

“Later, Roman.”

When she turned to walk away, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. For half a second she thought he’d take her right there and then. Instead, he dumped his own clothes bag at his feet and held on to her upper arms with both hands. He wasn’t looking at her chest or hips. He was studying her eyes from just inches away.

“Say it like you mean it,” his voice was so rough that she barely recognized it.

She tried shifting her arms, but his grip didn’t ease. She was suddenly a little afraid. There wasn’t a chance that he’d try to hurt her, besides, she could take him down a hundred different ways if he tried. But his intensity was so all-consuming. She could feel its shadow all around her. “Drake…”

“I’m serious!” He shook her lightly. “Say that there is a later, because I don’t want whatever this is to just be about pounding one another up against some handy door or wall.”

Nikita tried to see her own reflection in his dark eyes. He wouldn’t allow any flippant answer. But she didn’t know what else to give. Only once in her life had she promised there would be more and she’d lied. Instead she’d sent Barry out on a mission with too little information and he’d been captured, then tortured to death in the Congo—and not even for information, just for sport.

Yet for Drake—how was she supposed to make an acceptable answer for Drake Roman?

A part of her wanted to, needed to. A part of her didn’t dare.

Fear. That was one thing that had been trained into a Special Operations fighter more than anything else: fear was to be recognized and addressed.

Whatever it was that she feared in this moment couldn’t be allowed to stop her. Caution her? Yes. Stop her? Not without a damned good reason.

The gaping wound of her past said she had a good reason. That she should just turn and walk away.

But Drake’s look wasn’t only demanding, it was also pleading with her.

That she couldn’t ignore.

She leaned in just enough to rest her lips on his, but not enough for their bodies to brush together. “There will be a later,” she whispered against his soft kiss.

“Okay,” he nodded slowly to himself and she could see the tension ease slowly back out of him. “Okay,” he repeated it like he hadn’t heard himself say it the first time.

He finally let her go and reached down for his clothes bag.

She began drying herself off.

Nikita just hoped that this time her promise didn’t kill him.

Dinner passed in a blur.

He’d barely a moment to appreciate Nikita in the dark blue sheath dress that draped around her and swept to the floor. It must be one of the formal nights aboard. His good charcoal two-piece and freshly polished shoes had appeared from his own bag.

He held the door open to the men’s shower as formally as he could for her to step out. Thankfully, only three people were waiting. He handed off the two bags, which now only bore their gym clothes, with a “Make sure these get to my suite” to the first ship steward he passed.

Zoe wore a huge grin as she eyed Nikita—until the moment she spotted Nikita’s hair. They’d done what they could with it and Drake didn’t feel guilty for a second about what he’d done to it. With a characteristic “Oh my gawd!”, Zoe grabbed Nikita’s hand, then rushed her along the corridor to the beauty salon.

Altman stood in a simple black suit with a black turtleneck. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was glaring at Drake.

Drake figured his luck was holding when, before Altman could kill him, a steward arrived to guide him off to drinks before dinner.

He thought he had a good handle on the situation. Everything with Nikita was moving too fast and not fast enough, which he hoped meant they were in the middle ground and were progressing at exactly the right speed. He had no idea to where, but that described most missions in his life, so he was okay with that. Knowing he simply wanted more was enough for now.

His professional reputation was sufficiently menacing now that a small bubble of space had formed around him at the bar, even when Altman wasn’t adding his looming presence. The Russian mobster crossed the space to size him up and pass the time of day. An Italian prince—were their still princes in Italy? He didn’t think so—well-gone on a bright blue drink, barged through the invisible barrier to offer him a price well into six figures for Nikita. He’d have to remember to tell her that one. He also double-checked his wallet and wristwatch to make sure he still had them when the man departed.

He watched the odd dance, as badly arranged as an unchoreographed stage play, reflected by a mirrored wall placed to make the bar seem larger than it was. Everyone was backlit by the failing day. Without thinking, his theater training had him standing in the center of one of the few spotlights so that he stood out from the crowd all the more. Everyone here was merely a mirage except—

Then he’d forgotten everything.

He spotted Zoe first, very attractive in a green jewel-tone gown that revealed almost nothing on the top, but offered an eye-catching slit that showed a very nice leg and spiked matching sandals. He tried to see if Altman noticed, but it was hard to tell if he focused on her specifically or just as a new addition to the crowd. Maybe he had someone at home, but Nikita had said she didn’t think so.

Then Drake spotted her. He’d only had a glimpse of the long, deep ocean blue gown earlier. As she stepped into the room, chatter dropped by half and he couldn’t hear the other half because his ears were ringing.

The gown was a long sheath that gathered asymmetrically above her waist in a bow. The beaded top emphasized her figure and the semi-transparent mesh across her cleavage declared her exceptional form. It was sleeveless, allowing her powerful shoulders to humble all pretenders. And the salon had done a feather cut to her hair, tapering from front to back, exposing her face.

He didn’t remember crossing to her until he was holding her hands and staring into her face.

“You know that it will never pull back in a ponytail again?”

“Shit! I didn’t think of that when Zoe was pushing.” Then she glanced around and almost blushed. “That wasn’t exactly in character, was it?”

“No, but it was infinitely reassuring. I like knowing that you’re still Nikita Hayward despite how amazing you look.”

She studied his eyes for a long moment, then leaned in and kissed him lightly.

That’s when the evening blurred on him. Such a simple gesture. His looks had afforded him a kiss whenever he wanted one. But one from Nikita in such a public setting, and he could suddenly see them as a couple.

Beyond this setting. After escaping his grandparents’ social agenda, he’d never thought to be in such a place again. No. He and Nikita would be out hiking, sailing, shooting, something active. And he could picture it like it was already true.

“Someone offered me a lot of money for you.”

“Show me who and I’ll kill the bastard.” Again, the powerful woman emerging from the beautiful one.

“No. I don’t want you so much as tearing a fingernail. You’re worth over six figures to me already. And in that gown, I’ll bet the price has gone up to seven.”

“You mean out of this gown.” With the harshness of her tone, he was almost tempted to point out the “Italian prince” to see what happened.

“That,” he whispered in her ear, “is for nobody but me.”

Again, that long, unreadable SEAL gaze.

He’d meant it as a joke.

Then she nodded her assent.

It was his last coherent thought.

She no longer clung to his arm, but instead held his hand, releasing it only at dinner so that they could eat.