Page 66 of Honk if You Love Real Men (Tempting SEALs 1)

He reached in his pocket and Win took a step backward, propelled by the memory of the gun.

“It’s always tucked into the back of my pants. Never my pocket.” He slowly reached toward her, his eyes clearly gauging her level of discomfort. “This is my wallet. Look at my ID so we can zoom on over and check out the water line, all right?”

She accepted the worn brown leather with trembling fingers. Holding this stranger’s wallet seemed like such an intimate act, almost a brazen suggestion on his part. Wallets were a man’s most personal possession, and handing it to her like that implied a great deal of trust. It felt like they were skipping several “get to know you” steps and heading right to the good stuff.

Win looked up and he was smiling at her. Holy shit, he was beautiful. Those eyes were authoritative and wise, his mouth a delicious collection of thick lips and white teeth surrounded by unshaven stubble. She wondered about all the textures she might encounter if she put her lips on his. He would be smooth but rough, wet and warm, gentle yet self-possessed and—

“Aren’t you going to look at my ID?”

“Right.”

Win opened the wallet. She encountered two forms of photo identification under clear plastic. A Virginia driver’s license and a U.S. Navy active duty badge with a rank of lieutenant, both with the name Vincent J. MacBeth. In one of the wallet slots was a concealed weapon permit. This would explain so many things.

“Yes, my injury is work-related.”

She handed the wallet back to him and his fingers grazed her own. That simple contact, combined with his seeming ability to hear her unspoken thoughts, wreaked havoc with Win’s nervous system. She felt exposed. She felt vulnerable in his presence. She felt the heat of total body awareness spread through her, culminating deep in her belly, her core, the command center for her personal juice flow.

“Let’s go turn on some pipes,” Vincent J. MacBeth said.

“Amen to that,” Win said, and got into the truck.

It took Mac about ten seconds to find the water valve and turn it to the “on” position. He smiled to himself quickly before he stood up.

“Next crisis?”

“I am so embarrassed. Can I get you anything? Maybe some lunch?”

He rested his left hip against the happily purring washing machine and pondered her generosity. It was the best offer he’d had in a long time, from the prettiest woman he’d seen in ages, and he’d be a fool to turn it down. But he didn’t want to appear overeager.

“You don’t need to go out of your way.”

The lovely lady tossed her curls and laughed. “It’s no trouble at all, Vincent. Have you had lunch?”

Vincent? No one had called him that since his mom died. She was the only person he’d ever allowed to use his full name and walk away with two functioning legs. His displeasure must have shown on his face.

A little scowl appeared on the woman’s flawless brow. “You don’t like to be called Vincent?”

“Just not used to it.”

“Would you prefer that I call you Mac?”

Mac smiled, thinking to himself that he’d prefer she called him a badass muthafucka or any number of other out-of-her-head obscenities, at the top of her lungs, while she lay underneath him.

“Vincent works for me.”

He could have sworn he saw a little seductive twitch on her lips, but it could have been the light. “And you prefer Win over Winifred, I assume?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Mac laughed. Contrary to what he’d first assumed, this woman was no brainless tart. She’d clearly been out of her comfort zone in the woods yesterday—okay, and with the scar and the washer today—but apparently she was not used to rabid coyotes, gunshot wounds or malfunctioning appliances. She seemed more at ease in the comfort of Artie’s home, and Mac figured she was some hotshot New York producer Artie was trying to soften up for the kill. A few days up here could get anyone to relax their guard, even high-strung city women like Win Mackland.

“So what’s on the menu?” he asked.

Win sent him a flirty grin and gestured for him to follow her from the laundry room into the big, open kitchen. Following her was no great sacrifice—he’d follow a round, firm booty like that to hell and back.

“I was thinking a little salad and maybe some grilled teriyaki salmon. What do you usually have for lunch?”

Mac laughed. “A can of pork and beans. If I’m feeling frisky, I heat it up.”

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