Some folks get their chocolate fix with candy, others . . .
The first chance Camille had to talk with Harek, who was obviously avoiding her since putting her in an uncomfortable situation with the commander yesterday, was mile four of their six-mile warm-up exercise the next morning, just after dawn. He was trailing at the end of the twenty members of the Deadly Wind team jogging along the sandy beach of the Pacific Ocean. She had to slow herself down to keep pace with the idiot.
Active participation in the SEAL physical training during this two-week pre-op period was considered optional for the outside folks, though highly recommended. The Justice Department reps were certainly not about to exert themselves in this way. And she’d noticed the CIA guys showed up only midway through the run, having probably had a leisurely breakfast at the Hotel Del beforehand. A logical deduction since they were soon hurling the contents of their stomach along the way. Everyone knew you should eat after a long run, not before. Jeesh!
Harek was wearing only running shorts and boots with white socks rolled over the top, like many of the men. She and the other five women out this morning wore the same, except covered on top with WEALS T-shirts.
Despite being in seemingly good physical condition—in fact, really good physical condition, as evidenced by the striated six-pack in his abdomen and long, extended muscles in his legs—Harek was huffing away like a locomotive. Visitors to Coronado were always asking to run with the SEALs—congressmen, celebrities, even presidents—not realizing just how difficult a workout it would be. They rarely finished any particular rotation.
Rivulets of sweat soaked Harek’s hair, which had lost its mousse about mile two, and ran down his face and over his chest. His face was flushed as he concentrated on placing one foot after another.
“Why don’t you quit before you have a heart attack?” she suggested. “You have nothing to prove here.”
“Go. Away,” he gasped out, and didn’t even look at her.
“Only trying to help.”
He grunted.
“Like you helped me. Yesterday.”
Nothing.
“You know, with the commander. Intruding into my personal life by inviting yourself to my brother’s wedding.”
Nothing.
“What’s with that anyhow? Most men have to be dragged kicking and screaming to a wedding. Are you gay or something? Like Julia Roberts’s gay friend Rupert Everett in My Best Friend’s Wedding.”
That at least drew a killing glance that pretty much said, Not fucking gay!
“I don’t even know you. Why would you pull that kind of crap?”
He increased his stride. Since he had about eight inches in height on her, she had to zip up her own pace to catch up.
“What’s your game anyhow?”
He turned her way without breaking stride. Maybe he wasn’t as out of shape as she’d first thought. “Can’t a guy”—pant, pant—“just be nice”—pant, pant—“without ulterior”—pant, pant—“motives?”
“Mr. Nice Guy, huh? Nope. Not buyin’ it. And forget that life mate crap. Not buyin’ that, either. There’s something really weird about you, and I’m gonna find out—”
“Spare me.” Pant, pant. “If you don’t want me”—pant, pant—“to go with you”—pant, pant—“I won’t.” The hopeful expression on his face was almost funny. The jerk was regretting his impulsive offer.
“Like that’ll work after you planted the idea in the CO’s head.”
“Unplant it.”
Definitely having second thoughts. Big deal! “Oh no! You’re not getting out of this now.”
He rolled his eyes, which were probably burning from the salty perspiration dripping into them, along with the mousse. “A perfect example”—pant, pant—“of female illogic.” Pant, pant. “Do you want me”—pant, pant—“to accompany you”—pant, pant—“or not?”
Actually, though she hated the intrusion by a virtual stranger into her personal space, after she’d had a chance to think about it, having a date for the wedding was a good idea. Harek would be a buffer between her and her parents, who were constantly nagging her about doing something important with her life—translated: formal education, preferably with a doctorate degree in academia. They were purebred intellectual snobs. The most recent idea was a fast track to a doctorate in theoretic behavioral science recently developed by Tulane University. Not that she even had a clue what theoretic behavioral science was. But everyone in the Dumaine family had a doctorate, even her aunts and uncles and cousins. Her lack of even a bachelor’s was a huge embarrassment.
And there was another reason why having Harek for a “date” wouldn’t be so bad. Her third ex-fiancé, Dr. Julian Breaux, a heart surgeon and brother to the bride, Inez Breaux, would be there with his highly pregnant wife, Justine, Camille’s once-upon-a-time best friend. And isn’t that just the cutest thing in the world. Julian and Justine. Gag me with a stethoscope. Camille had broken up with Julian six months ago. Justine was eight months’ pregnant. You do the math!
Chalk up another disappointment to Camille’s parents, that she hadn’t been able to hold on to the most eligible bachelor in the Crescent City. A doctor, for heaven’s sake! Even if I never got a doctorate myself, maybe marriage to a doctor would satisfy them. At least that’s what I must have been thinking. Why else would I have put up with Julian’s egotistical crap? The douche bag!
“Yes, I want you to come with me to Nawleans,” she finally replied to his question, “now that it’s been forced on me.”
They had finished the run and someone handed both of them chilled bottles of water. Harek chugged his down, then bent over at the waist, trying to get his breathing back to normal.
“You should walk around, to slow your heart rate gradually,” she suggested.
He cut her another go-away scowl.
Not a chance! She had things to say. “We can hop a military flight from the base to Fort Polk on Friday at five. I’ve arranged for a rental car to be there for the drive to Nawleans. We might be able to hit the tail end of the rehearsal dinner at Alcide’s. I should be there since I’m a bridesmaid. You can stay with me at my parents’ house in the city. Don’t give me that look. In a guest room. I’ll fill you in on other details later.”
“Is that all?” he asked, his voice reeking with sarcasm, or maybe it was amusement.
“One more thing. No hitting on me. If you lay one hand on me, I’ll cut off your balls with a sharp blade, and, believe me, we have tons of those around my parents’ house. My father collects Civil War swords.” She paused. “Am I clear?”
He laughed. “For a woman who’s being dealt a huge favor, you sure know how to lay down the rules. Here’s a news flash, sweetling—”
She noticed that he was no longer panting. That was some quick recovery, or maybe he’d been pretending to be overwinded for some crazy reason. Hmm. “And no phony baloney endearments, either. No sweetheart, darling, sugar, cupcake, honey, lover, and especially not babe. I hate that word.”
He arched a brow. “As I was saying . . . here’s a news flash, babe. I don’t do rules well, as evidenced by my long, long walk on this earth. No, I am not going to explain that comment. As for hitting on you, don’t you think you should wait until I show even a spark of interest? I can stay in a hotel. In fact, I prefer the privacy. And if you dare to put your hands on my balls, it better be for carnal purposes.” He paused. “Am I clear?”
She could feel herself blush. “I was just trying to—”
He waved a hand dismissively. “I know what you were trying to say. Believe me, I have no designs on your virtue.”
Her face heated even more. “You don’t have to be insulting.”
The expression on his face immediately changed to one of regret. “Did I give offense? I did not mean to. Oh, I really am a pitiful lackwit these days. I did not even apologize for my other bad behavior with you yet.”
“Huh?” This was a reversal. But she had no idea what he was talking about. “What other bad behavior?”
“The day we met. Outside the command center. What I said about your being unsuitable life mate material.”
Oh, that.
“Forgive me, m’lady. I have not had good woman luck in the past, as evidenced by three bad marriages, and the last thing I need is another.”
Whoa! Who said anything about marriage?
As if reading her mind, he continued, “Not that you were referring to marriage, but everyone knows that bedplay leads to wedlock, if a man is not careful. Not that you offered bedplay, but you did mention touching body parts. I mean . . .”
She laughed. “Did you ever hear the expression: ‘When you’re in a hole, stop digging’?”
“We had a similar saying back in my . . . uh, country. ‘When you find yourself buried in a pile of shit, keep your mouth shut.’ ”
“Exactly. So, you’ve been married three times, huh? How old are you?”
“Twenty and nine years . . . or so.”
“Same as me. And I’ve had three bad near-marriages. What a coincidence!”
“Near-marriages?”
“Engagements.”
“Ah, that makes as much sense of Trond’s famous near-sex.”
She wasn’t about to ask what he meant by that. “You talk really funny. I mean, you use archaic words like sweetling, lackwit, m’lady, woman luck.”
He shrugged. “I am a Viking. Even after all these centuries, a Viking is a Viking.”
They were almost back at the command center, their run having involved three miles in one direction down the beach, then a hairpin loop back. A BUD/S class sat, arms linked, along the water’s edge engaged in an exercise called “surf appreciation.” Every time a wave came in, they got soaked. Every time a wave went out, their shorts, and underwear, in fact, every bodily crevice, was filled with rough, wet sand. Despite the already warm sun, the water was icy cold. The sand abraded the skin. Torture, Navy SEAL style.
“Are we good now?” she asked Harek. “I mean, no hard feelings or anything? We’re just teammates for this mission. You’re doing me a favor. I’m grateful. Yada, yada.”
“If you say so.”
She reached out to shake his hand.
His warning of “No, no, no!” came too late.
Later, she wondered if it was she who grasped his hand or Harek who locked on hers, palm to palm, or some weird magical force, but locked they were. For a brief second that felt like hours, incredible sensations rippled out from their joined hands. A combination of electric shock and tickles that flowed in soft waves out to all her extremities and lodged in every erotic spot in between, and, whoo boy, there were lots of those. Despite her heightened arousal, she tried to yank her hand free, to no avail. If she didn’t stop this madness now, she was going to have an orgasm, right here on the Coronado beach, with a bunch of horny Navy SEALs watching.
“Harek,” she pleaded.
His head was thrown back, and he was breathing through his open mouth, where she could see slightly extended incisors. The fool was about to get his rocks off, just holding her hand. So was she.
“Harek!” she said, louder now.
His blue eyes opened slowly, and they were more silver than blue now. He licked his lips and looked at her, jerking to attention as he recognized immediately what the problem was. “Bloody damn hell!” he muttered, and managed to disengage himself from her.
“What the hell was that all about?” she asked, once they had both gotten themselves back under control.
“You do not want to know,” he grumbled.
“By the way, you smell like chocolate. Did you have some sickeningly sweet cereal for breakfast? No wonder you—”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. I do not smell like anything other than sweat. And, no, I did not eat breakfast. Do you take me for a total fool? No, do not answer that.”
He stomped away then, as if she was to blame for everything. His grueling morning run, the weekend wedding, the erotic handshake, his Godiva chocolate body odor.
“Just so you know, bozo,” she said to his back, in a voice too low for him to hear, “I’m a chocoholic.”