Page 73 of Honk if You Love Real Men (Tempting SEALs 1)

The dialogue began to bubble up in her mind. . . .

Max and Eva would barely escape with their lives. They’d find an empty hunting cabin in the wilderness, where Max would light a roaring fire. They’d fall into each other’s arms on the rug in front of the fireplace. Eva would eventually stand to search for a blanket. Come back to me, Eva, Max would whisper. Then the beautiful Lebanese-British spy would tip her head to the side and give Max a Mona Lisa smile and say, Is there anything I can get you while I’m up? And Max would answer, Just every inch of Eva.

Or not.

“Win? I think the dog really needs to go.”

“Huh?” If Lulu could cross her legs and hop around, she’d be doing it at that moment, Win realized. “Oh. Sure. Be right back.”

As Lulu did her business, Win stared out into the woods, letting her mind race ahead, knowing she’d catch up as soon as her fingers could hit the keyboard. Eva would be nothing like what Max assumed her to be at first. Yes, she looked delicate but inside she was tough and crafty. Yes, she could use her beauty to seduce, but it was her intellect that ruled her world. She intrigued Max. She challenged him. She left him unsure for the first time in his life—that was it! Eva would leave Max off balance. Love would be his Achilles heel! The irrepressible Max Mercy would drop his guard just long enough to let Eva into his inner sanctum, and what would it get him?

Trouble—nothing but trouble!

“Hey Win?”

Somehow, Win found herself at the big farm table, her fingers racing along the plastic keys of her laptop, the click click click, suddenly disturbed by the sound of a man’s voice.

She looked up to the second story railing and gasped. It was Max. No. It was Vincent—and he was leaning on his elbows and he was still naked, grinning at her.

“Are you hungry? Want me to open a can of beans or something?”

Win laughed, leaned back in the chair and for the life of her couldn’t remember coming inside and sitting down in front of her computer. She noted that the sun had set. The big open room was cast in shadows and she looked down at her hideous clothing ensemble, the little pink kitten slippers flooded in the blue light of her laptop screen.

“How long have I been working, Vincent?”

“A couple hours.”

“My God.”

“Get anything done?”

“Yes!” Win laughed with surprise. “Yes, I did!”

Vincent tapped the stair railing and nodded in satisfaction. She watched him float down the stairs to the first landing, turn, and float down the next set of steps. Win thought he moved with such grace that he could have been a dancer. But he was some kind of specialized soldier it seemed, and in the dusk he was big and dangerous and stealthy.

She’d always been of the opinion that men, as a rule, looked kind of goofy walking around the house naked, their parts flopping around. But Vincent MacBeth looked powerful and tightly wound and there wasn’t a single thing on his body that seemed to be flopping.

“Oh, my Gawd,” she exhaled, watching as he walked right toward her. His face was cast in shadow but that smile cut through the darkness. He moved with a slight swagger. Then he braced his hands on the tabletop, leaned forward, and brought his face close to hers.

“Your muse needs more, baby.”

Win gulped.

Vincent lifted his hands from the tabletop and that’s when she saw he’d been hiding a little stack of condoms in his grip. He walked around the edge of the table and took her hand, gently assisting her to her feet. He reached down and in seconds had inserted the jazz CD into her laptop and hit “play.” He did it so quickly, it stunned her.

“Dance with me, Win?”

“I—”

“I demand that you dance with me.”

“Okay, then.”

His hands roamed up the back of her cashmere sweater and a treasure trove of sensations rolled over her flesh—his hot and rough palms, the brush of his fingers, the caress of cashmere. As Vincent’s lips came down and fastened onto hers, it occurred to Win that she’d never danced with a naked man before. It also occurred to her that before Vincent, she’d never been in the arms of a man so large and powerful. She’d always gone for the metrosexual urban intellectual types—art directors, photographers, editors, and even a few brokers and lawyers. But never a big, smart soldier like the one now kissing her with tenderness, pulling her close to his spectacular body, using his hands on her back and in her hair to take control.

Win shuddered, seeing with clarity that all these years her subconscious had lusted after Max Mercy but her reality had been more David Bowie! Something was so very wrong with that picture. . . .

Vincent ended the kiss and gazed down into her eyes. His smile was faint and gentle and he seemed to be assessing her, measuring her. When his fingers brushed the curls away from her face, she closed her eyes and sighed.

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