Wicked Secrets

Tag’s head turned slowly toward her. Mia had hoped for drama. Possibly even his butt planting in the ocean from the surprise of her reappearance. No such luck.

“Sergeant Dominatrix,” he drawled back.

* * *

“DO YOU EVEN remember my name?” Mia Brandt smiled at him, baring her teeth. If looks could kill, he’d be a dead man twice over.

Sergeant Dominatrix. Dredging up her old nickname hadn’t been nice, but she’d startled him, and the words had slipped out. Okay, metaphorically speaking, she’d knocked him on his ass, because if he’d been making a list of the people he least expected to meet on Discovery Island, she would have topped said list. The last time he’d seen her had been when she’d marched out the door of his hotel room with a mouthy At ease, soldier. He’d been naked. She, on the other hand, had been sporting full dress uniform.

“I remember.” His people-naming skills had never been good, but Mia was unforgettable.

“Prove it.” She moved silently through the shallow water toward his boat. Those three feet felt like eternity.

“You don’t prefer Sergeant Dominatrix to Mia?” he asked innocently.

She treated him to a repeat of the death glare, which he deserved, because it was his fault she was saddled with the nickname, even if she didn’t know it. He had no intention of confessing the truth, either. He wasn’t stupid.

“Would you?” she asked.

Absolutely not. He’d never been good at taking orders. Mia, on the other hand, excelled at giving them. Their relationship had been doomed from the start. Sweet Jesus, but she hadn’t needed him for anything but his guy parts. At the three-drink mark of his Star Bar visit, that had been need enough for him.

“Touché. So...are you visiting?” See? He could be polite.

She pointed to a group of women behind her, the same group that had been mainlining cocktails and whooping it up while he worked. Funny. He wouldn’t have pegged her for a drinker. Mia liked being in charge far too much to give it up.

Of course, weddings were crazy-making. He had first-hand proof of that. His business partner and best friend was tying the knot in a few months, and his fiancée had pointed out that people made allowances for weddings all the time. At the time, she’d been trying to persuade him to host some kind of stag party. This bridal party wore veils and bikinis, an unusual beach getup meriting a second glance. Or six.

Tag had never considered himself a marrying man, but multiple pink-and-white swimsuit bottoms with bridesmaid tattooed on the butt in rhinestones had him rethinking his position. Fast. The bride wore white, of course, and she was off-limits. The beach bar was the kind of place where the stools were chunks of wood and the glasses sported paper umbrellas and cherries. The waiters encouraged the customers to wiggle their toes in the sand and served the kind of drinks that made his stomach curdle. Mia’s ladies must have come in from the cruise ship currently moored in Discovery Island’s harbor, as half of them were toting Fiesta Cruise bags stuffed to the gills with beach towels and girly stuff.

Since the dive shop had landed a contract with the cruise ship earlier this summer, Tag knew the ship’s schedule by heart. The boat would have put into port overnight, and the cruisers would have spilled down the gangway and onto the island at eight in the morning. By four o’clock, the boat would be hightailing it out of the bay, Mexico-bound. And, apparently, taking Mia along for the ride.

“Are you a matched set?” He inspected her bottom half. She’d yanked on a practical black cotton T-shirt with the US Army insignia on the upper right shoulder, but the parts of her that weren’t covered up were toned and tanned. She wore her brown hair in a casual braid that fell over her shoulder as she leaned toward him. The braid was a little looser than military regulations demanded, so maybe she was taking the whole civilian thing seriously. The elegant arch of her eyebrows as she cast mental scorn in his general direction was unchanged, however, as was the alert way she balanced on the balls of her feet as if she was just waiting for a reason to kick his ass.

He had absolutely no business remembering what she looked like naked. Or just how good their one night together had been. To divert his thoughts, he peered over the side of the boat and down her body. It was his lucky day after all, because she was wearing...wait for it...a pink bikini bottom. He’d bet every dollar he had that she was bridesmaid number six.

Life was good.

“Turn around,” he said, drawing the pivot gesture in the empty air between them with his finger. He’d never figured Mia for a rhinestone kind of woman.

Her glare promised retribution, although he found her embarrassment cute. “It’s a bachelorette party. My cousin’s tying the knot, and there’s a dress code. Come over and have a drink with us.”

And there was the Mia he remembered: all tell and no ask. A waiter delivered another round of margaritas while she waited for his response. He could practically smell the salt from the green-and-yellow slush from where he stood working on the boat’s motor. The dive boat, on the other hand, smelled like sun-heated metal and motor oil, much pleasanter scents to his way of thinking. But unfortunately, the rhythmic wash of water hitting the boat’s sides couldn’t drown out the good-natured teasing and laughter.

“I don’t believe you’re active duty, Master Sergeant.” He didn’t know Mia’s military status, but pink bikinis were no part of the military dress code he knew.

“I’m not.” There was a flash of something in her eyes that he instinctively recognized. He gave her another quick once-over, this time inventorying for scars and coming up empty. Some soldiers wore their scars on the outside; others kept them on the inside. Mia was apparently an inward kind of person. Something he had in common with her.

“Injured?”

“I’m good. Come with me.” She bit the words out impatiently, as if daring him to protest. That was fine with him. He wasn’t her father, her brother or her nurse. He also wasn’t a lower-ranking officer anymore due to his last promotion, which meant he absolutely didn’t take orders from her. He felt the slow smile stretching his face. Oh, yeah. Master Sergeant Mia didn’t get to yank his chain any longer. She was a civvie, a civilian. He, on the other hand, was still an officer and would be back with his unit in six weeks.

“Pass.” He set the wrench back in the toolbox. He was about done here.

“One beer.” She propped her hands on her hips and did her best to stare him down. It was a damned good effort, too, although the peekaboo bikini strap beneath her T-shirt was a first-class distraction. Her gaze never stopped moving, quartering the ocean, the boat, the beach. He’d bet she didn’t miss a thing because Cal Brennan, one of the two Navy rescue swimmers he co-owned Deep Dive with, was like that, too, constantly tracking his surroundings and watching for incoming. Somehow, the switch hadn’t got thrown in Tag’s head. He’d left the battles on the battlefield. He was okay.

He looked over Mia’s shoulder. Five pairs of eyes drilled into him from the beach bar. A lovely blonde raised her margarita to him in a silent toast, and he grinned. Pretty women on a pretty day. He should have been in heaven having things go his way like this. It was all so fun. So easy. On the other hand, there was nothing easy about Mia Brandt.

You had your shot and you screwed it up...

He shipped out in six weeks. She set sail in six hours. Even if he’d been a long-term kind of man, neither time line allowed for a relationship. And that assumed she even wanted him for more than a centerpiece at the bachelorette party that was in full swing up there at the beach bar.

When he didn’t answer her right away, she dug in. “What’s not to like about a free beer?”

He smiled. “Every drink has strings attached. I learned my lesson at the Star Bar.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t hear you complaining that night. In fact, you did plenty of hollering of the good kind.”

Her slow smile heated his blood. He’d always loved a challenge, making him real glad he had the side of the boat between them. Otherwise, there would have been no way she missed the erection he sported. Squatting down by the side of the boat, he folded his arms on the side. The move put him on eye level with her. He’d forgotten how tiny she was.

“You made plenty of noise yourself.”

“Maybe I did. A girl has to look after herself in bed.” She slapped her hands on to the edge of the boat—and on top of his. She wore no rings, but there was a pale circle on her ring finger.

Ouch. He went on the offensive. “You were bossy.”

She’d been bold. Confident. And more than a little take-charge in bed. So, okay, he hadn’t minded at the time. He’d been completely on board with her plan of a night of hot, casual sex. And, if she’d liked to give orders, he’d also been willing to indulge her. Unfortunately, he’d been busted sneaking back into his apartment. He’d been tired. He hadn’t been thinking. The litany of excuses didn’t matter, however, because he’d let slip the name of the woman he’d slept with, and his night with her had solidified her reputation for being a ball-breaker.

Sergeant Dominatrix. Yeah. Not a kind name. A guy might live that down—after about four hundred tours of duty—but Mia had been a female officer working with male officers who didn’t always treat women like equals, even if the field manual said they should. Good reasons, bad reasons—he figured she probably hadn’t cared.

Her eyes narrowed, proving she hadn’t changed since then. “You needed directions.”

She was close enough to kiss. She had brown eyes, paired with the longest, most feminine eyelashes he’d ever seen. Retreat. His lips almost brushed hers, as his fingers automatically tightened around hers. He might be pulling her into the boat—or she might be pulling him overboard. Damned if he knew.

“Directions you were happy to issue. If you didn’t like the results, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Her knowing smile pushed all his buttons. “I was the senior officer.”

Like. Hell. “It’s a good thing we were a one-night thing. Because you don’t outrank me anymore, sweetheart.”

2 (#ulink_85feeb95-30a8-5330-ab64-d3931ad24e6f)

TAG JOHNSON WAS still a pain in her ass. He was also drop-dead gorgeous. She wasn’t active duty anymore. He was. The possibility he might—just possibly—outrank her galled her. She was almost certain he was teasing her.

Almost.

Big and built, he filled out a T-shirt in ways that had her libido sitting up and taking notice. Maybe it was the hint of mischief crinkling the corners of his eyes, or maybe it had something to do with his hands...yeah, his hands definitely got her going. The words tough and capable came to mind watching him work a wrench. A dive watch flashed on his wrist as he gave some unidentifiable piece of boat motor one last, hard twist and then transferred his gaze to her, thumbing his sunglasses up.

She grinned. At least she had his attention now. Taking backseat to a boat engine wasn’t acceptable. She’d always had a competitive streak, and her drive to be the best had helped propel her to success in the Army. Part of it was a pilot thing—who could fly farthest, fastest, lowest. Get a bunch of aviators together, and the adjective didn’t matter. She’d out-flown, out-landed, and out-shot every one of them.