Claiming Her SEAL(9)

"Dexter my brother, how did you miss that?" Jace asked with a mock toast  in Mick's direction as he joined the duo of former SEALs turned beach  bums. "Would have figured you'd be all over a redhead that fine, and you  gave her to Frasier?"

Dex loosened the fist that had formed automatically the moment his full  nickname had spilled from Jace's mouth. Unless Dex was planning to start  that conversation about Malika and her opinion of men who shot other  men and called it a necessity of war, he needed to chill out.

While he had zero doubt every last ex-SEAL in earshot would fully  empathize with him if he spelled out what an antagonistic, unpatriotic  bitch Malika was, he was the only one in the group with sixty-eight  notches on his rifle handle. It was different for the other guys, who  had specialties beside killing terrorists. The revulsion on Malika's  face when he made the mistake of mentioning his contribution to the SEAL  team …  he would never repeat that experience save threat of death. And  maybe not even then.

Because part of him agreed with her. He was a monster who had chosen to  hone a skill that meant people would die as soon as he entered the  scene. He couldn't undo that, nor did he feel like he should apologize  for it. So he kept his mouth shut.

"My tastes have changed," Dex said easily. "Redheads were just a passing fad."         

     



 

"Ah, so it's blondes now, huh?" Jace said with an obnoxious brow waggle. "Like the one from the beach yesterday?"

And that was officially the end of Dex's evening out with his friends.




The whole point of the jaunt to Grand Bahama Island was to fix his mood. That had worked.

Dex slumped in the speedboat, content to let Jace ferry him back home.

But when he slammed the door of the bungalow, Evan just glanced up from  his permanent spot on the sofa, where he contented himself with watching  inane TV shows from ten years ago night after night.

"Bad day," Dex mumbled by way of explanation, not that Evan had asked-or would.

Was it too much to hope for to have someone who cared whether he'd had a  bad day or not? Hardly mattered. The same simple things that were  available to normal people didn't apply to Dex Riley. He'd long ago made  his peace with it. Some days just didn't feel as peaceful as others.

He stripped out the shirt reeking of cigarette smoke, tearing off two  buttons in the process, and threw it in the corner, followed by the rest  of his dress-up clothes. Naked, he rolled into bed.

Midnight. The witching hour, when all of the crappiness of life crashed  down the hardest onto those who weren't smart enough to take an easy lay  when it was offered.

Bed was not going to work. Too big and too empty.

Dex threw on a pair of board shorts. The dress-up clothes-that wasn't  his style anyway. He'd rather be wearing a straightjacket than a  button-down. He ducked out the back door to avoid Evan and his  closed-mouth approach to everything and stormed to the beach. Moonlight  overlaid the water with a silvery sheen, and it calmed him instantly. If  nothing else, the water always welcomed him with open arms.

Even as a teenager growing up in Houston, the gulf had called to him  with a near mystical draw. His earliest memories involved the lull of  the surf and the tug of the tide against his ankles, always pulling him  toward the water.

As much as he chaffed against working for ReefCo, which was a painful,  necessary evil, he had to admit that having a flexible schedule and the  ability to get paid for scuba diving …  well, he had a lot of nerve  complaining.

Everything drained from his mind in a snap as the moonlight flashed  across a supple body in a white bikini walking toward him on the beach  from the opposite direction.

Emma.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded as she stopped short less than a foot from him.

His mood, her scent, and the witching hour crashed together in a swirl  that had danger written all over it. His body strained to yank her into  his arms, to lose himself in her, taste something that sweet after the  sour that had coated his throat all day.

"Looking for you, of course," she said simply. "I'm ready."

"For what?" he growled, drinking in the way her hair draped across her  shoulders, as white as her swimsuit in the pale spotlight of the moon.

What would it hurt if he slid a chunk across his fingertips? Just to see  what it felt like. His skin had little nicks from handling parasailing  ropes, and those silky strands would probably catch on the unhealed  spots, but it would be like a balm to his saltwater-roughened hands.

"For you to take me in the water."

Yes. Emma. Water. It would sluice off her fit little body, running in  rivulets down the valley between her breasts, and her hair would hang in  thick, dripping strands down her wet back. Maybe he'd reach for the  string at her neck and pull. Slowly. The bow would gradually slip free  from its knot and those white, drenched triangles would peel away …  and  then he would take her all right.

No. No Emma, no water.

"Now? It's …  dark," he announced inanely.

Actually, he was way too hopped-up on loneliness and way too pissed  about discovering his taste in women had turned on him to do anything  with Emma. She needed a lesson in the art of timing, really bad.

"Please, Dex." Her voice caught on it, turning gravelly and far sexier  than it should have been. "Rachel is locked up in our hotel room, and  judging from the sounds coming from inside, she's either being given the  orgasm of her life or learning to speak Klingon. Either way, I didn't  want to barge in."

Dex shut his eyes with a groan. "So you walked a mile on a dark beach  without a flashlight? Have you learned nothing about the dangers around  here?"

She smiled and it washed over him, drawing him into her orbit where very  bad things were going to happen. But he couldn't tear himself free.

"I knew if I kept walking, I find you. You won't let anything happen to me."

"I'm one of the dangers, Emma!" God, would nothing he said ever get through to this woman?         

     



 

"Yeah, so you say. Let's put that to the test, shall we?" Without  warning, she whirled and headed toward the silvery water, glancing over  her shoulder with an enigmatic little pucker of her lips. "Coming?"

His feet started following her without his permission, and he forced  himself to stop, digging his toes into the sand. "What are you doing?"

Duh. She was wading into the water. But then the first lick of foam  rushed over her neon-green painted toenails and she froze, going so  still, his palm came up automatically to reassure her even though he was  too far away to actually touch her.

Why was she too far away to touch?

A strangled whimper floated to him on the soft breeze and it sounded a hell of a lot like Dex.

She needed him.

He took a step, cursed, and then spit out a few more choice phrases.  Looked like he'd be doing the Hokey Pokey tonight himself. That's what  it was all about, and he'd conveniently dressed for the occasion.  Totally by accident, but when a guy practically lived in the water, all  of this seemed strangely inevitable.

The tide rushed over his bare feet as he waded after Emma, and then he  was close enough to touch her. So he did. "Yeah, sweetheart. I'm here."

When his palm spread across her back, she leaned into it. His eyelids  snapped closed as a sharp thrill rocketed through his body. They had no  other contact save the expanse of his hand covering mere inches of her  bare skin, and he was already so hard and aching with unrestrained  hunger, his knees started to quake.

"Take another step," he commanded softly. "I'll go with you."

She did and he did.

"Dex." That strangled whimper was going to be the death of him. "Why can't I do this by myself?"

He shook his head. "That's the wrong question. You're not by yourself.  The right question is, how far can you go while I'm with you?"

Her soft little sigh bled through him, burrowing under his skin like a  thousand needles. That was the pleasure and pain a woman could bring,  and he craved Emma like he craved his next breath. His entire existence  was a paradox: he was good at killing, but hated that he could pull the  trigger without reservation. He thrived on community, but sought out  relationships with people who had worse emotional problems than he did  so he could pretend he was all right.

He wanted to be the kind of guy who could be with Emma, and mourned that he couldn't erase who was.

"Closer," she whispered. "I'm scared."

This time, that strangled whimper rumbled in his own chest.

"Dex. I want to see how far I can go."

Yeah, he wasn't so dense that he didn't get the metaphor here. The  deeper into the ocean they went, the more immovable hooks she sank into  his flesh. The harder it would be to shake loose of the spell the  moonlight and Emma wove, snaring him firmly.

It would hurt to break away this time.

Understanding it didn't change it. Which meant there was really no other  choice but to nestle her into the crook of his arm, settling his palm  against her waist. Dear Lord, how did she fit in that spot so snugly?  She was too short. It shouldn't have worked. But oh, it did.