Page 67 of Honk if You Love Real Men (Tempting SEALs 1)

“Yummy.” She blinked at him with a pair of stunning blue eyes. “But not exactly my style.”

Women with her coloring—such pale, pale skin, light eyes and d

ark hair—had always been his weakness. He’d never been a fan of blondes—too washed out for his tastes. He liked contrast in his women, and Win Mackland packed quite a few contrasts on her small frame. Like the way her breasts jutted out in contrast to her narrow shoulders and small waist; the way her hips swelled in contrast to her slim, long legs. When God put a woman together like this one, He had only one thing planned for her—a lifetime of fending off men.

“So you’re in the entertainment business?” He’d apparently spent too many months on assignment, where the only women around were the kind who’d enjoy stabbing him in the back, because he was having a viscerally sexual reaction to this pretty city girl. Though their conversation had been nothing but polite, Mac needed to change the subject in his own head. His mother had raised him better than to behave like a pig.

“Sort of. I’m a screenwriter.” She opened the refrigerator door. It was such a no-frills movement, but the turn of her torso, the slight bend at the waist—it was like she now had a big red bull’s-eyes drawn on all her female parts. Mac began to sweat. He told himself it was the result of the discomfort in his shoulder, not the hard-on in his pants.

“So you’re one of Artie’s clients?” He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up with the chitchat, when his hands were itching to feel that remarkable hair. He’d known women before with outrageously sexy hair like Win’s, and for every one of them it had been a source of consternation. He never understood why women fought to tame something so beautiful, keep it under control. Win had pulled hers back in a big clip, twisted up along the back of her head, leaving curls cascading down the sides like little black springs. He wondered how far the curls would reach down her back once he yanked out its restraint.

“Yes, I am one of Artie’s clients. I’m the one who’s going to single handedly ruin his reputation if I don’t get my new script written.” Win unwrapped a large salmon fillet and turned on the kitchen grill. “He sent me here to live in exile for three weeks. My orders are to write, or not bother coming back.”

Mac’s head began to pound. This woman was going to be here three weeks? He was thinking he’d have to fight off his attraction to her for a weekend. This made things infinitely more difficult, and interesting.

Win got out the lettuce, an orange pepper, tomatoes and cucumbers, and Mac offered to make the salad. Win smiled at him, got him a knife and a cutting board, and put him to work.

“Can’t we just use the one in your belt?”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“Your belt. The knife you’ve got tucked in your belt.”

Win giggled in relief, clearly embarrassed, then reached for the small knife, unwrapped it and placed it in the sink. “It was for protection,” she said.

“Of course.”

“You never know when some mountain man will force you at gunpoint to julienne vegetables.”

Mac smiled at her as he worked on the salad. “You’re a funny lady, Win. Do you write comedies?”

“Not really. I’m best known for the Lethal Mercy movies.”

Mac nearly sliced off his thumb. He tossed the knife down and stared at her, and the look on his face must have been a little too intense for Win, because she took a step back.

“Sorry. It’s just—are you kidding?” He laughed. “You wrote the Max Mercy movies?”

She huffed and turned away. He hadn’t meant to offend her, but he couldn’t fucking believe that this hot little piece of ass had dreamed up the action hero that his team relentlessly teased him about. When the first movie came out four years ago, everyone on his team—from the computer geeks to the sharpshooters to the language specialists—began calling him “Mac Mercy” behind his back. Then to his face. Which took a lot of nerve, considering he was their commanding officer.

Mac couldn’t stop smiling.

“I take it you’re amused,” she said, flipping the fish and brushing it with a coat of teriyaki sauce.

“I’m fascinated. I’m astounded. I’m . . .” Mac didn’t know how to put this without scaring her away. He did not want to scare away this remarkable woman. “I know your work well. I’m a fan of yours, and I’m becoming a bigger fan by the second.”

Win slowly turned her head. In her eyes he could see amusement, doubt, and something more—something hot and blatantly sexual. She gave him a pensive smile.

“This is going to sound strange and I hope you don’t flip out when I say this, Vincent.” She leaned up against the counter and crossed her arms over what he estimated to be C-cups. “But you remind me . . . well . . . you are so much like—”

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s have lunch.”

They sat at the table on the back deck and ate and talked and talked some more. By three in the afternoon, they were sprawled out on lounge chairs with a bottle of Artie’s 1994 Opus One Cabernet Sauvignon and two glasses for company. Win supposed she should feel guilty about raiding her agent’s top-notch wine cellar, but she rationalized it by noting that her creative juices were flowing.

In fact, her juices were flowing so much, her panties were damp.

Vincent had just told her he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an afternoon so relaxing. He said life had been hectic with work and then his dad had a stroke six weeks before. Mac Senior had already moved from the cabin to an assisted-living facility, where he could be independent and have medical care right at home.

Vincent also talked about his childhood in Brooklyn, how his mother died when he was sixteen, and how his father had a hard time controlling his wild teenage son. “I was a one-boy wrecking crew,” he said. He glanced her way with a crooked, stubble-framed grin, “I still am, but now I get paid for it.”

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