Wicked Intentions

7

“Yeah, but you still think I’m cute. Which means there’s somethin’ seriously wrong with you. Which makes us a perfect match.”

She starts to laugh and can’t stop. I go right on talking.

“Then you’ll decide if your one-night stand rule applies to the beginning of a long-distance relationship with the man of your dreams. And I’m just pointin’ out here that it wouldn’t be a one-night stand if it’s at the start of a relationship. Anyway. Whatever you decide, we’ll spend some time, get to know each other better, share a few stories, make out. Probably mostly make out.”

She continues to laugh. I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face too.

“So whaddya say, Angel?”

When she finally catches her breath, her eyes are alight, her cheeks are pink, and her smile is as brilliant as the sun. She says, “Okay, cowboy. You’re on. But don’t even think about stepping out of line with me, because I’m a knife-fencing expert. Put a hand where it isn’t wanted, and you’ll lose it.”

Now I’m the one laughing, but not because I don’t believe her. I do. And this is major progress.

It’s the first thing she’s told me about herself that’s the truth.

3

Mariana

T

here’s

a part of me that’s thrilled about the way things are going. Ryan’s making this all extremely easy on me, that’s for sure. But there’s another part of me—a bigger part—that’s worried.

I like him.

For someone in my line of work, that can be deadly.

It’s not just the way Ryan looks or kisses, or his straightforward, no-bullshit style. It’s not only his wacky sense of humor or his obvious intelligence. It’s all that, plus he’s this big, macho Marine with a cocky swagger who’s strong enough to survive gunshots but touches me with true gentleness, both with his hands and his eyes.

The man has a sensitive side.

There’s nothing more irresistible to my cynical heart than rugged masculinity paired with tenderness. Every other man I know is ruthless to his core.

It’s times like these I wish I weren’t so observant.

“Dinner’s at eight,” says Ryan, smiling his signature cocksure smile. “What room you in, Angel? I’ll pick you up.”

No matter how much I like him, the odds of me letting this man into my room are about as good as the odds that lightning will strike me dead where I sit. “Let’s meet in the lobby.”

Before he can ask why, I lean forward and kiss him.

It proves an effective distraction.

He takes my face in his hands—another thing I like more than I should—and softly groans into my mouth as our tongues sweep together. Dangerous adrenaline floods my veins. I try to maintain intellectual distance, like an outside observer, but the man is a champion kisser. His lips are filled with mind-altering chemicals. They must be, because within seconds, I’m lost, clinging to him like I’m drowning and he’s the only thing that can save me from going under the next big wave.

“I dig the little noises you make,” he whispers, gently biting my lower lip as he cradles my head.

“Noises?” I repeat, too blissed out to be horrified I might be making some kind of unattractive animal sounds into his mouth.

When was the last time I was kissed like this?

Never.

“Little growly kitten noises.” He kisses one corner of my mouth, then the other. He says hotly into my ear, “I wonder what kind of noises you’ll make when I have my face between your legs.”

I summon a vivid picture of myself naked on my back in a bed, Ryan’s golden head between my thighs, writhing and screaming my way through a thermonuclear orgasm. I try not to pant.

He allows me to pull away, but the expression on his face is dark and intense. I think he might grab me at any moment and haul me off into the bushes, caveman style.

Over the roar of my pulse, I say coolly, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, cowboy. You’re still in the friend zone. Any more assumptions about where this is headed and the friend zone is where you’ll stay.”

I amuse him, evidenced by his gruff chuckle and jaunty salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

I toss my hair and rise from the barstool. Instantly, he’s on his feet, too.

“See you at eight,” I say.

He looks crestfallen, like a little boy left alone at the playground. “You’re leavin’ already? It’s not even four!”

Mierde. Why does he have to be so adorable? The contrast between his sweet, boyish side and his macho, mouthy side is maddeningly disarming. “I have some work to finish up this afternoon. My article’s due to my editor today, and I haven’t wrapped it up yet.”

He looks at me for a beat. His expression changes into something unreadable. Gone is the little boy. In his place is a man who is watchful and speculative, his eyes the chilly blue of an iceberg. It’s the wolf I saw earlier, the one lurking behind the swagger and smiles.

“Of course,” he says, without a shred of emotion in his voice. “I understand. Duty calls.”

This time when he smiles, it sends a shiver down my spine.

I dig some cash from the clutch I brought with me to the pool and leave it on the bar for the conch croquettes. Ryan looks skyward and sighs. He picks up the money and waves it in my face. Confused, I take it.

Ryan says, “Don’t insult me, Angel. And before you get any other dumb ideas, I’m buyin’ dinner, too, compris?”

My heart skips a beat. “You speak French?”