Teasing Her Seal

“I gave one of the guests a massage,” he said gruffly. “She said something to me at the end.”

Ashley whistled. “You must give a really good massage. Give me a name.”

“Laney Parker.” Why was he so reluctant to give up her name?

“She was your client? In that case, I may have told her about it.”

“And how come I wasn’t informed?”

Ashley winked at him. “I didn’t think you’d be interested. Not your kind of scene.”

He wondered when he’d started coming across as uninterested in sex.

“I don’t like surprises,” he said. Although he’d definitely liked Laney. If he’d known what she was asking him, he would have followed up. He definitely wouldn’t have let her run off on him.

Ashley’s eyes flashed. “You’re not exactly vanilla.”

Neither were most fantasies.

She poked him in the chest. “Do you even know how to flirt?”

Shit. Did he? “I know how to play games,” he grumbled.

Levi smacked him on the shoulder. “Ashley’s the best. You can take notes.”

“This from you.” Disapproval radiated from Ashley’s voice. “You’re the team man whore.”

“And you’re not on the prowl? I’ve watched you hanging out by the pool.”

“I’m undercover.” She jabbed a finger into Levi’s chest. “I’m playing a part. Someone has to get in there and keep an ear to the ground.”

“Duly noted,” Gray growled. “Don’t make me put the two of you in time-out. Break it up, move it along.”

Ashley blew Levi a kiss and headed back to the beach and her kayak.

“That girl is trouble.” Levi shook his head. “Maybe that’s why we don’t let women join the SEALs.”

Gray grinned. “They’d kick our asses, and we like being in charge.”

“True.” Levi made a face at Ashley’s departing figure. “She’s damned good at it.”

* * *

SLIPPING INTO THE water was like coming home. Diving had been one of Gray’s favorite parts of BUD/S training. The world seemed different beneath the surface, everything more buoyant and streamlined. The bay was mostly sandy-bottomed and dotted with coral heads. Butterfly fish swarmed him as he dove toward the bottom, bright yellow and black sides flashing. Any closer and the fish needed to buy him dinner first, one particularly bold specimen bumping against first his mask and then his dive gloves.

He’d grabbed the tank ostensibly because someone needed to map the bay’s bottom. He could do it, so why not? He was restless. That was all. He preferred to be on the move, to be doing something, and the riskier and faster that something was, the better. Not that checking out the bay scored high in the adrenaline category. The entry was shallow and the water almost currentless. That would change, of course, as he pushed around the promontory and into open ocean, but for now it was easy money.

Swimming out of the bay and around the island’s coastline produced no surprises. As he swam, he checked the ocean floor for obstructions, booby traps, anything that would hinder a Zodiac or a landing party. Fantasy Island, however, was as pretty below the surface as it was above, all white sand and the occasional coral head. He was all clear if the second team infiltrated by water.

The last time he’d done this hadn’t gone as well. He’d led an amphibious operation to select possible beach landing sites. The aerial pics had shown mangrove, swamp and jungle, none of which made their potential targets vacation destinations. Worse, the nautical charts were one hundred fifty years old and missing major terrain features. Swimming through the surf and the reef to make the inner lagoon had been like diving in a washing machine with blades. Fantasy Island definitely won in the looks department.

When he finally surfaced, treading water two hundred yards off shore with a quarter tank of air left, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Laney. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who sat still. He watched, transfixed, as she pounded up the quarter-mile stretch of sand, sprinting barefoot. God knows, he should have submerged and gone about his business, but looking away was surprisingly difficult. Ponytail whipping back and forth, the muscles in her thighs flexed as she worked for more speed, and her swimsuit top...yeah. He liked that part of the view best. She was spectacular. When she reached the end of the beach, she flopped down on the sand. He grinned. Good to know she wasn’t Superwoman. Then, when she fished in her beach bag and produced her phone, his grin got even wider. The woman had a serious cell phone addiction.

Giving in to temptation, he swam in slowly, enjoying the sensual way she dug her fingers into the sand, soaking up the heat as she chatted. Then he counted. Wait for it...by the count of thirty, she’d popped up and was pacing back and forth. He should swim away. Reconning the bay was one thing and an acceptable use of his time. Cozying up with Laney, however, wasn’t really part of his job description. He wasn’t supposed to be here. On the other hand, he was a SEAL. Being somewhere unexpected wasn’t unusual.

Deflating his BC, he planted his feet on the sandy bottom. Who was he kidding? He was headed straight for shore. Toeing off his fins, he submerged and let the small waves push him toward the beach.

4 (#ulink_aac73ffe-45d9-5699-9aa9-0c7df40f9c01)

“CARSON HOSPITAL DOESN’T have your acceptance letter on file. Tell me you signed the letter.”

What were the ethics of lying to one’s mother? Three thousand miles apart, and Laney still fought the urge to look over her shoulder, because a stellar international calling plan made it sound as if Ellen Parker were standing right behind her. Tossing her cell phone into her beach bag had been her first mistake. Answering at the Jaws ringtone had been her second.

Unfortunately, her mom was a pro and correctly interpreted the ensuing silence. A top-notch hospital administrator and former oncologist, she excelled at detecting bullshit. “That letter is your second chance, Laney Parker. Do you know how many favors I had to call in to get it?”

Laney had a lot of experience fielding unhappy phone calls from her mother. And, in this case, her mom actually had a valid point. Thank you seemed too...bland. Unappreciative. Because, in truth, she did appreciate her mother’s attempts to fix the disaster she’d made of her medical career.

“I’ve signed it.” She just hadn’t mailed the letter yet, because that would mean admitting she wasn’t going back to S.F. General.

She’d been sacked. Let go. Fired out of hand. No, not fired, exactly, because she’d been politely asked to submit her letter of resignation so everybody could pretend she’d simply decided to exchange her dream job covering San Francisco’s busiest trauma bay for the much tamer, less exciting challenges of a small city ER. Her mother exhaled, the sound magnified by a stellar cell phone connection. “Give me the tracking number and I’ll follow up on it.”

Her mother made no mention of Laney’s vacation-cum-honeymoon. Of course, her mother was also a fixer. As was her father. Realizing Laney was faced with a broken engagement, an AWOL fiancé and the general end of life as Laney knew it, her mother had homed in on Laney’s unemployed status as the problem du jour and, any other time, Laney would have genuinely appreciated the effort. After all, she didn’t want to be unemployed and broke for long, especially given what this trip had cost her.

She just didn’t want to give up on all of her dreams in the span of the same month. And she definitely didn’t want to be banished to Stockton and its less-than-riveting medical practice.

You’re an adrenaline junkie.

Who had voluntarily stranded herself on a hot, tropical, ultra-boring Caribbean island. She flopped back down onto the sand. Was there a twelve-step program for people like her? Working as a trauma surgeon might be exhausting, and it almost entirely negated the possibility of a personal life—as her ex-fiancé could attest—but she missed her ER rotations. She itched to be doing something other than working on her suntan, and laying the groundwork for a future case of skin cancer didn’t cut it.

Today was another postcard-perfect Caribbean day with blue sky and full sun. She crossed her legs lotus-style at the surf’s edge, searching for ever-more-elusive inner peace while her mother ran through the next steps in the get-Laney-gainfully-employed-again plan. It was a good plan, but the sand was wet and getting places it had no business being in her bikini bottom. The heat prickling her skin also indicated a pressing need on her part for more sunscreen. Maybe the resort gift shop stocked SPF 700. She’d check it out as soon as she hung up on her mother.

“I’ll get you a tracking number,” she said.

Her mother’s short huff of disbelief echoed down the line as she correctly interpreted that promise. “You didn’t send it.”

“I will.” There. She was committed. Stockton awaited and her future was settled. That was carefully orchestrated plan number one.

“You know I just want what’s best for you.” Her mother took a deep breath. Laney had already heard the speech that followed—multiple times. She didn’t need or want to hear it again. No matter how well-intentioned her mother was, she and Laney didn’t always see eye to eye.

“Absolutely.” Laney counted to thirty, but relaxing was more challenging than she’d anticipated. After all, she was playing singleton on an island designed for couples. Gray’s face popped into her head. Maybe he could be convinced to play.

Danger.

Her mother wrapped up her phone check-in to take her next call. Laney wasn’t sure her final thanks even registered. Her own phone chirped a reminder that she had a spa appointment in fifteen minutes. She turned off the reminder and tossed the phone back into her bag.

No more massages.

Avoiding Gray? That should be carefully orchestrated plan number two. She had twelve nights left on Fantasy Island, and she’d scheduled approximately two hundred hours of yoga, kayaking and beach sprints. Hot sex wasn’t on that schedule.