Until now.
Brittany froze, watching in stunned horror as Barbie—or was it Candy?—leaned forward and kissed him. John’s hand spread over her back, pressed her more firmly against him. Until her sister playfully pushed her out of the way and said something along the lines of “my turn” before exchanging places, his hand still plastered on her sister.
Brittany could live to be a hundred and never forget that hand. The fingers spread wide. Pressing. Marking. Branding.
How desperately she’d longed to feel that hand on her. To have him kiss her like that.
The blood rushed out of her body in one draining wave. Her stomach rose to take its place. She was going to be sick.
She must have gasped, because her hand was already covering her mouth as bile rose in the back of her throat.
Had he heard her? She didn’t know, but at that moment he looked over and saw her. Their eyes met and held.
She knew her heart—her breaking heart—was in her gaze, but his was blank. Stark. Maybe a little too stark. It seemed wrong.
Just like the bottle of tequila in his hand, which he lifted to his mouth and took a long drink from. John drank beer. Coors Light, just like the rest of them.
But then he lifted his hand—his other hand—gave her a small wave, and smiled before turning back to the woman—women—on his lap.
That careless wave and smile shattered her heart completely. Brittany turned and ran, making it back to the house before the worst of the tears started.
She’d lain in misery for a few hours, asking herself what had happened and how she could have been wrong, when the answer came to her: Brandon.
That’s why she was here in John’s room, waiting for him. She had to know. Had her brother put him up to this, or had she been completely wrong about him?
Maybe the right word was “deluded.” She knew John had a reputation for having a good time with women—lots of women—but that was before he’d met her. Since almost the day she showed up at her brother’s beach house three weeks ago, he’d hung out with her. Only her.
But he’d never tried to kiss her.
Suddenly all the things her brother had said to her yesterday—had warned her about—came rushing back. “He’s a great guy—the best—but he never sticks with one woman for long. I don’t want to see you get your heart broken.”
Too late. Her broken heart started to pound as she heard the back door open and close downstairs.
She thought it might be Brandon, who had one of the rooms downstairs, until she heard the tread of footsteps coming up the stairs.
It was John, and he’d obviously walked back.
She glanced at the clock. Midnight. Early for him. Did that mean something?
He opened the door, stopping in his tracks when he saw her. For one fraction of an instant, she thought she saw sadness in his expression before it hardened to anger.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
She took a step toward him, but seeing the way he stiffened, she stopped. “I thought I’d give you a chance to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“What you were doing tonight with the O’Reilly twins.”
His eyes met hers without a flicker. He smiled again, that lazy, cocky smile that seemed to slice her confidence to shreds. “I would think that was obvious. Having a good time.”
Dynomite.
Her chest squeezed. If she was wrong about this, she was really wrong. Cringe-worthy wrong. She took another step toward him, and his gaze darkened with just a hint of wariness.
It gave her the hope she needed to continue. Maybe he wasn’t as indifferent as he appeared.
“I thought . . .” Her voice fell off as she lost her nerve. She had to force herself to take a big, deep breath and continue. “I thought you cared about me.”
There was a long harsh pause before he suddenly smiled. “I do. You’re a great kid. A great friend.”
Hammer. Nail. Heart. Straight through. She was twenty-two years old. He was twenty-four. Never had she felt those two years so painfully. She felt like a child—a little girl—in the face of someone much more experienced. Someone who knew what he was doing. Someone who had broken hearts before.
But she wouldn’t back down that easily. They weren’t just friends. It had been more than that. She knew it in her heart.
To hell with pride. She had to know. “Bullshit.” He flinched, her cursing obviously surprising him. “That’s BS and you know it. We aren’t just friends. What has been happening between us is more than that. My brother put you up to this, didn’t he? He told you to stay away from me.”
John’s mouth was clenched so tight his lips had turned white. “It’s late. You need to leave. I’ve had too many shots to deal with this right now. We’ll talk in the morning.”
This couldn’t wait until morning. She took another step toward him, and she swore he would have moved back if he hadn’t been against the door. “It’s true, isn’t it? That’s why you were with those women tonight on the beach. My brother is trying to protect me, so you decided to get rid of me by breaking my heart.”
He looked a little pained at that. But whether it was good pain (as in “you are right” pain) or bad pain (as in “I feel sorry for you” pain), she couldn’t tell.
“I’m sorry if you misunderstood—”
“I didn’t misunderstand anything.”
She knew she was right. So right that she threw caution to the wind—and herself against him.
Instinctively, his arms went around her waist, and just as instinctively, hers looped around his neck. Did she pull him toward her? She didn’t know, but the next minute his mouth was on hers, and he was kissing her.
Really kissing her. With lots of groans, lots of tongue, and lots of passion.
Just like she’d imagined it. Better than she’d imagined it.
It was as if the dam had broken, and everything he’d been holding back came pouring out all at once.
It was incredible. A rush of sensation. Heat. God, the heat. It was drenching. And his mouth was . . . intoxicating.
And not just from the faint taste of lime, salt, and tequila. It was everything. The way he tasted, the way he smelled, the way he felt against her. All those hard muscles that she’d admired too many times finally wrapped around and pressing against her.
She moaned as pleasure seemed to infuse every nerve ending. She wanted more. She wanted to feel his hands all over her body, his mouth on her neck, her breast, between her legs.
She wanted to take the hard column wedged between her legs in her hand, wrap her fingers tight around him, and see if he was as big and hard as he felt.
And then maybe she’d take him in her mouth.
She’d never done that before, but she had a feeling he’d be happy to show her what to do. It wasn’t like there was a ton to it.
But kissing was good for now. Really good. His tongue was circling deeper and deeper into her mouth, as if he wanted to devour—
She was pushed away so suddenly that it felt as if she’d been slapped by a snap of cold air.
She stumbled back. Wobbled, trying to find the bones in her legs. And looked up at him in shock.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he shouted.
She’d never heard him yell before. She hadn’t thought Mr. Laid-back, “No Worries” capable. But he was drawn up tight and seething.
It was disconcerting. How well did she really know him? This was the deadly Navy SEAL, not the endless-summer surfer boy.
“I’m sorry. I . . .” She forced her spine to straighten, but her knees were still wobbly. “I thought you wanted me.”
“I’m a man, Brittany. A man who’s had way too much to drink. Throw yourself at anyone in my condition and you’ll likely find a taker. It doesn’t mean anything more than what you saw on the
beach tonight.” He paused and added, “Or didn’t see.”
She blinked, unable to believe he’d just said that to her. Had he really just said that to her?
Then the rest of what he’d said hit her with a cold knife of pain that seemed to go right through her chest. “Did you have sex with them?”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The “What do you fucking think” expression said it all.
She felt destroyed. Everything she’d thought . . .
She’d been wrong. Horribly wrong.
“Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” he said a little more gently. “You’re a nice girl. But you can’t go around throwing yourself at men like that. Not everyone will pull away.”
Ouch. Direct hit. He didn’t need to say it. The “get lost” was clear.
Roger that.
Her confidence was sunk, her heart shattered, leaving only what remained of her pride. “Right,” she said flatly. “The next time I decide to do that, I’ll make sure it’s with someone who has all your experience. It must be tiresome having women always throwing themselves at you.”
He gave her an uncertain look, as if he couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic or not.
She was. “Sorry to bother you, Dynomite.” Asshole. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. It was my mistake.”
One she wouldn’t make again. Ever.
Brittany needed to remember that now. Somehow he’d managed to time-warp her back five years for a few minutes, but she wasn’t an impressionable twenty-two-year-old girl anymore. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice—or for the third time, if you counted the temporary lapse of sanity in the bar.
He was gorgeous and a fun guy to be around, but the one guy/one girl thing was totally beyond him. And as she didn’t do meaningless sex—or threesomes—she wasn’t in danger of falling for his act again.
The fact that she’d very nearly just fallen apart at a kiss didn’t mean anything. Of course, he could kiss like a dream. God knew, he’d had enough practice.
By the time he’d pushed her through the door of his house—not an apartment—and plopped her none too gently on a couch that looked as if it had been made out of material from a cheap, rip-off Chanel suit in burnt-orange polyester, she’d recovered all of her senses. Even the ones that would normally be a little dazzled by such a gorgeous specimen looming over her and directing all that angry masculine energy at her with eyes narrowed, jaw muscle ticking, and fists clenching.
Did he actually think he could intimidate her?
She would laugh if she weren’t so angry. She narrowed her eyes back at him. “I’ve had a long day, Johnny, and I don’t appreciate being manhandled and pushed around. What the hell is going on here, and where is my brother?”
Five
John was so angry, he didn’t think. Which seemed to be a frequent occurrence around Brittany. It wasn’t just the kiss or that she was here—in Finland, for fuck’s sake!—but if anyone found out the truth . . .
“Gone,” he snapped.
Dead. Just like they all could be if someone had followed her and learned that not all of them had perished in Russia.
He regretted the harsh response as soon as he said it. Though “gone” could be interpreted a couple ways, she knew instantly what he meant and flinched as if he’d struck her. But her shock seemed to be from the abrupt manner of delivery, not from the content of the message. “He’s dead,” she said with toneless finality.
John debated lying to her again. He probably shouldn’t be confirming or denying anything to her, but he just couldn’t do it. She’d somehow known that Brand was dead, and he’d given her false hope. He couldn’t prolong it.
He nodded.
But it didn’t make the pain in her eyes any easier to take as she stared at him with that stark, hollow look on her face.
“Damn it,” he said, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I’m sor—”
He didn’t get the apology out. Suddenly, she jumped up from the couch to face him. It wasn’t without effect, but probably not the effect she intended. His nerve endings flared with instant awareness. And all those wrong feelings he’d had from that kiss? They were back. Full force.
This wasn’t good. He needed to get rid of her—quick.
“It was you.” She jammed her finger into his chest with the accusation. “You sent the e-mail. You pretended to be Brandon.” He winced, knowing what was coming next. “How could you be so cruel? How could you let me think he was alive?”
The betrayal in her voice made him want to crawl under the proverbial rock. He felt low enough to do it, too. Clearly he’d killed what little faith she’d had left in him. He was surprised that she’d had any.
He’d known this was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. He’d expected to feel like the world’s biggest asshole when she found out what he’d done, and that pretty much summed up the gnawing ball of guilt twisting in his chest right now.
It hurt to even look at her, seeing all that “how could you?” betrayal and rage in her eyes. She hated him, all right. And he couldn’t blame her. It had been a shit thing to do.
Shit, but necessary.
“You didn’t leave me a choice,” he said.
He thought she’d been angry before. He was wrong. Her eyes lit with blue fire that went full scorched earth on him—him being the earth.
“Don’t you dare turn this on me, John Donovan. I wasn’t the one pretending to be my dead best friend. Did they teach you how to do that in your SEAL school?”
They were alone, but he looked around anyway. “Shh,” he said. “You can’t talk about that here.” She knew that. Just as she knew it wasn’t a SEAL school but BUD/S. “And my name here is Joe.”
She shrugged out of his hold of her arm—he hadn’t even realized he’d grabbed her. “More lies and secrets? Is that your cover? Are we being watched?”
Something in her tone pricked through his guilt. Sarcasm maybe? Disregard? He knew the story surrounding her parents’ death—the full story—and understood the source of her distrust of secrets and government, but it didn’t change anything. It only put them at odds. More odds.
“No. We aren’t being watched, but it never hurts to be careful. And yes. Joe Phillips from Canada.”
She stared at him with those sharp, piercing eyes, which seemed to cut right through him for a long moment, and shook her head. “Still saving the world for Uncle Sam, Joe? But that doesn’t explain what you are doing here and why you are in hiding—which I assume you are since you are alone, Brandon’s dead, and your secret team seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.”
He didn’t need to ask how she’d learned about Team Nine. Brand had told him she’d seen the paperwork. But John wasn’t happy about it. That kind of knowledge made his job harder and put her in danger. Only a handful of people beyond their direct command knew about it.
She also must know he couldn’t—wouldn’t—answer her. “How did you find me?” he asked.
She crossed her arms, glaring at him. “Your oh-so-thoughtful e-mail.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “That’s impossible.”
She gave him a tight smile tinged with smugness. “Obviously it isn’t. I’m here, aren’t I? But you can tell whoever did your dirty work for you at the CIA that it wasn’t their software.”
He didn’t show any reaction that she’d guessed his source. But how the hell had she guessed his source?
His eyes narrowed. “Developed a new pastime, Brit? Hacking for fun?”
“Afraid not. But I know people, too. And in this case, it looks like my people are better than yours. That picture I attached? It had a location program built into it.”
He swore.
Her smile only got more smug.
He had to force his hands to his sides so he didn’t
try to wipe it off. What the hell was it about her that made him want to grab her by the shoulders, bring her in nice and tight against his chest, and force her to listen to him? He wasn’t ever aggressive with women. They came to him, for fuck’s sake.
But she was standing too close already. He took a step back. “You can’t stay here.”
Her smile fell. “Don’t worry. I won’t cramp your style for long. I know how you don’t like to sleep alone. I’ll be on my way just as soon as you tell me what happened to Brandon and why no one has told me that he was killed.”
He resisted the urge to reply to the digs. She couldn’t be more wrong—on both counts.
He gave her a long look. “You know I can’t do that. It was an op gone wrong—that’s all I can say. More than I can say. I meant what I wrote in that e-mail, Brit. This is dangerous. Your being here puts both our lives at risk.” And other lives as well. “No one can know I’m alive. No one.”
“Why? Is someone after you? Is that why you are hiding?”
He’d forgotten how quick she was, and how good she was at pinning someone down. She would have made a killer lawyer. What were those questions when you assumed part of the answer? She was awesome at those.
But he was just as adept at sidestepping and avoiding being cornered—especially by women. “Go home, Brit. Forget you saw me. Put aside your story, and I swear I will tell you everything as soon as I can.”
She still had her arms crossed in front of her chest as she stared at him. A body language expert might suggest it was meant to be a barrier, but if that was the intention, she’d neglected to factor in how perfectly they framed in and lifted her breasts, making the already spectacular fucking incredible.