Pleasing Her SEAL(7)

       
           


       

"Did the mango do something to piss you off?"

She stopped chopping with a sigh, pink tingeing her cheekbones. "At least you can still tell it's a mango, right?"

Only because he'd passed the fruit out himself. Otherwise he wouldn't  have been able to identify the goopy yellow mass. Handling a knife was  second nature for him. His Swiss Army knife had gotten him out of nearly  as many jams as his combat knife. Reaching around her, he adjusted her  grip. "Keep the bottom of the blade on the cutting board. Make sure the  tip is up."

She brightened even as she impaled her knife on her cutting board. "I get points for effort, right?"

Her hair smelled good, like strawberries and coconut beneath the added  bonus layer of mangoes. She also had mango juice on her fingers, her  front and her cheek. He tried not to think about all the other places  she could have self-decorated.

Focus. "Think squares."

"Squares." She sounded skeptical. He moved closer until his front was  plastered up against her sweet butt. She inhaled, but didn't protest.

"First one big square, then four smaller squares, then sixteen."

"Math isn't my thing."

"Just dice."

He mentally consulted what he'd dubbed the boyfriend cheat sheet. He  needed to compliment her in a meaningful way. Establish a sense of  emotional intimacy. Honestly, he had no clue what that meant, although  telling her that her hair smelled nice probably didn't count. A piece of  flying mango hit him on the shoulder as he opened his mouth to praise  her on her mad chopping skills.

Emphasis on mad.

"Oops," she said and grinned up at him. He knew a deliberate hit when  he saw one. If she wanted to play dirty, he was happy to play with her.

"Can I take over?"

She dropped the knife-and leaned back against him.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, and she blushed.

"Chopping's hard work. You can be my mango boy anytime," she said,  surrendering the knife. If he was smart, he wouldn't read anything into  it. Apparently, though, he'd checked his brain when he'd accepted her as  his mission, because he could feel a small answering smile tugging at  his mouth.

After he'd chopped her mango-and, Jesus, he wished that was a euphemism  for something else-he moved down the table, checking on his other  students. Ashley had her mango chopped into precise cubes. "Show-off,"  he muttered, and she stuck her tongue out at him. All good there. The  honeymooning couple at the far end had progressed to feeding each other  slices of fruit, and he resisted the urge to tell them to get a room.  They had one. They just weren't using it.

Yet.

Fantasy Island made a guy think about sex about fifty times a minute.  It didn't help that Maddie was covered in mango juice, making her his  very own sweet sticky treat. Her crepe had achieved some strange mutant  shape that defied the round shape of the pan. He didn't know what it  was, but it certainly was no circle. It figured she'd make quirky  crepes.

He peeled her crepe off the bottom of her pan and gave it a quick QA  check. The top was raw and the bottom blackened. With a sigh, he  substituted his crepe for hers.

She flashed him a dazzling smile. "Thank you. For the rescue," she  added after a brief pause. He didn't know whether she meant yesterday on  the hillside-or the mangoes.

"I still owe you makeup chocolate," he said gruffly.

Her head whipped around, her ponytail slapping him in the mouth. "You meant that?"

"You bet." He wiped a smudge of honey off the corner of her mouth. "I live to serve."

That much was true. His family served. It was their tradition and he  was proud to continue it. He'd do what he could do, push to be the best  that he could be. Sure, he'd been the first to do it for Uncle Sam  rather than Fish & Game or the Forest Service, but he figured  service was like Christmas presents. It came in different sizes and  shapes and sometimes you had no idea what you were getting, but it was  all good. His dad had been a hotshot firefighter. His uncles were  firefighters, too. He'd simply picked a different kind of fire, the kind  that came with bad guys and bullets...and Maddie. Being her bodyguard  detail was a whole different challenge.                       
       
           


       

She stared at him, evaluating something he couldn't see. "Tomorrow?"

"It's a date."

"Like a date date?" Was that a hint of uncertainty in her eyes? He  couldn't tell, but that was nothing new. He wasn't the kind of guy who  dated much and being an active-duty SEAL made relationships near  impossible. He never knew when he would be called up or for how long,  which made any kind of connection or friendship outside his team  difficult.

"Makeup chocolate," he repeated, skirting the whole thorny issue of their relationship potential.

She gave him another assessing look and then grinned. "Okay. Sounds like fun, so why the hell not?"

He, on the other hand, could think of multiple reasons. He was staring  down thirty-from the wrong side of the decade. Although he still had all  his working parts, he was banged up something fierce. His knees were  good; his trigger finger steady. In short, he was a fixer-upper project  and she was no carpenter.

"Give me a time, big guy," she said, leaning in and patting his chest. "So I can prepare properly."

Yeah. He was definitely out of his league here. Maddie was a dating  guru, unlike his sorry self. At the very least, his instant erection was  ironclad proof that she'd mastered the fine art of flirting.

"Eight o'clock," he muttered and beat a strategic retreat.





4

I've got a breakfast date this morning with Mr. Fantasy Fodder (and I  should sign off because, yep, it's three in the morning and the purple  shadows under my eyes are not a sexy look). I'll report back on whether  or not FF lives up to the promise of his mighty fine butt! I'm taking  bets on which approach I should take:

A) Point him in the direction of the Cheerios in my kitchen. They're heart healthy-and probably not too stale.

B) Hop out of bed and throw together a quick Sunday brunch for two  because the way to his heart is either through his stomach or his  libido-and I'm the kind of gal who likes to have all the bases covered.

C) Offer to split the last package of Pop-Tarts with him. Naked. In bed.

-MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle

STEP ONE IN becoming the perfect boyfriend? Cook Maddie a romantic  breakfast and make her feel butterflies when she looked at him. No  pressure. Since Maddie had agreed to a chocolate-chip pancake date,  Mason had breakfast covered. He'd cook her a short stack, suss out her  electronics and wipe any data that needed wiping. Easy-peasy and a  guaranteed success, according to the magazine article Mason had checked  out. Keep the doubts to yourself.

She looked like the girl next door, the queen of diamond rings, tulle  and happily-ever-afters. So not his style. But until SEAL Team Sigma had  ruled out the possibility of finding Santiago Marcos on the island,  Mason would stick by her side. That was the only reason he was knocking  on her door this morning, he told himself. Security reasons...not  personal pursuits. SEALs shipped out. He'd known a few married men in  the teams, but he wasn't going to be a part-time husband, lover, father.  His Mrs. was the military.

Maddie's villa was the first in a row of picture-perfect bungalows  dotting a white sand beach. He knew from the team's orientation that  she'd have a small kitchen because apparently some of the island's  guests liked to throw intimate dinner parties or have a private chef  come in to whip up dinner. It was a different world from the loud, noisy  family culinary sessions he'd grown up with. Today though, the  secluded-elegance crap worked for him. Cooking in the resort's  immaculate industrial kitchen wouldn't have let him get close to Maddie.

Although he had a staff passkey, he knocked. And then waited.  Double-checked the bungalow number to make sure he was in the right  place. Waited some more while he considered the possibility that there  had already been a security breach and Santiago had gotten to Maddie.  His gut tightened. There were no visible signs of forcible entry, and it  was more likely she'd simply overslept. At this rate, she'd be eating  breakfast for lunch. The third time he knocked, he finally heard  footsteps.

When Maddie eventually cracked the door and peered out, he stared back  because he couldn't help himself. She was wearing a pink tank top and  cotton sleep shorts that barely skimmed the top of her curvy thighs. Her  hair was piled on top of her head in a death-defying, messy bun. Red  strands escaped around her face, already curling in the island's  humidity.