3
“Good evening, Marines.” Reagan’s voice deepened into a husky, sexy tone that had Greg fighting an erection in the parking lot. “Problems with some tires, I hear?”
She listened as the guys explained having made it home with no problem, parking, then finding the tires slashed when they’d come out to get dinner. She took notes on her phone, getting everyone’s license plates, makes and models, which tires were slashed and where they’d been parked in the lot.
“And nobody else’s tires were slashed? The people who’d parked next to you, for example?”
“Only tires we see slashed are from the team’s,” Tressler said, looking supremely pissed and ready to brawl with anyone who gave him a wrong look. The hothead was in for a rude awakening in the ring if he couldn’t keep himself together and shield those emotions better. “Except Chalfent, his got hit, too, but he didn’t make the team. He leaves in the morning.”
At Brad’s growl, Tressler’s eyes widened. “Which, I mean, he should have,” he finished, then shot Chalfent a look. “Sorry, man. That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” the tall, gangly man said quietly. “It’s okay.”
“So what you’re saying is the person who did this appears to have enough information about the team to know who to target, but not enough to know who was cut this afternoon,” Reagan said quickly, cutting off any potential problems at the knees. “Someone who must not have that much of an inside track to know better.”
“Yeah, that’s what we’ve been thinking. You’re good.” Tressler nodded and grinned, which made Greg take a protective step toward Reagan’s back. She glanced over her shoulder with a grouchy expression, but he didn’t back up.
Tressler caught his eye, narrowed his brow slightly, then shrugged. At least the kid wasn’t a total moron, even if he was a cocky little shit. He picked up on the subtle back-off vibes fast enough.
After she’d gathered all the official documentation, she asked who had called the authorities. The younger Marines all looked at each other, each one shaking his head in turn.
“Nobody?” Reagan glanced between them, then fisted her hands on her hips. “Not one of you thought to report this? Your insurances alone will require that much.”
“We thought we should wait to see what these guys wanted to do,” another Marine—one of Sweeney’s, Greg thought—said. “We figured it was their call, because things are so weird right now with the gym and the training room getting trashed.”
“Can’t fault them for thinking it through,” Greg muttered by Reagan’s ear. “Cut them some slack. They’re babies.”
She turned to cut him a frosty glance. “Half of them are just a year or two younger than me, and a few are my age.”
Whoops. He hadn’t considered that. She’d mentioned being a recent graduate, but he’d simply assumed she’d gone back to school after working for a few years. So she was what, twenty-four? Twenty-five?
Not that he cared. He was only twenty-eight himself. But she gave the illusion of being older than she apparently was. Probably the same way she gave the illusion of being taller, more in control, more sure of herself. She projected it perfectly with wardrobe and attitude.
In full control now, Reagan started to pace in front of the group. “Let’s go ahead and talk to the . . . the . . .” She waved her hand in the air. “The base law enforcement . . . military police.”
“MPs,” Greg added quietly by her ear.
“Thank you. MPs,” she said, not looking at him. “Let’s talk to the MPs and get that situated and on the record. While we’re waiting for them, we need to make some calls for rides to get you guys to practice tomorrow. Once that’s done, we’ll make appointments for you to get your tires replaced at whatever place your insurances will approve. We’ll stagger the repairs so we can get them fixed without jeopardizing your training schedules.”
She started tapping at her phone, and Greg nearly had to pick his jaw up off the floor. He had the distinct feeling she’d left Reagan in the car and brought Ms. Robilard with her to work. Night and day difference.
And the other men noticed it, too. They scrambled to follow her directions, making calls or looking information up on their phones, taking photos and texting people about rides.
The woman knew how to light a fire under a group of Marines.
With a satisfied, if a little grim, smile, Reagan nodded and clapped her hands once to get everyone’s attention. They stopped talking immediately, and Greg nearly laughed at the image of a kindergarten teacher getting the attention of a dozen five-year-olds. “Right, I’m going to take some photos before I go, and then I will see everyone tomorrow.” With a steely stare, she added, “This does not excuse anyone from practice in the morning. You’ve got plenty of time to arrange for a ride, so do it.”
Most mumbled a quiet, “Yes, ma’am,” before she walked off to start taking photos of each car’s slashed tires. Greg followed behind, hands tucked behind his back to keep from thrusting her against one of those vehicles and kissing her senseless. That was, without a doubt, one of the hottest things he’d seen in years. Her ability to take charge in the blink of an eye, command a group of hard-ass Marines, and do it in a sexy pair of heels and body-hugging skirt . . .
She did a dainty little squat, keeping her knees primly together as she angled her phone toward the rear tire of a pickup truck. Her skirt stretched tight over her curvy ass.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly how she commanded their attention so well. Hmm.
“Did you need something else?”
His concentration broken, Greg blinked and uttered the ever-intelligent, “What?”
“You were staring.” Reagan took another photo, the flash momentarily blinding him, then looked over her shoulder. “Did you still need something?”
“A ride back to the BOQ would be nice.”
“Your friends are still here. I assume that’s why. You could go with them.” Snap, snap.
“But then how would you get home?”
“GPS,” she answered easily. “It’s easy enough to key in ‘Home’ as my destination from an unknown place. Not so easy to key in the address of ‘Barracks, Camp Lejeune.’”
Okay, she had a point there. “It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly for me to ditch you now.”
“You’re not ditching, you’re going home to get some rest. I’d actually prefer that, to be honest. The more rested you are, the better you train.” She stood, teetering for just a second before he grabbed her arm to steady her. The short-sleeve blouse she wore gave him the chance to feel the soft skin of her forearm under his thumb. He brushed once over the pulse on the inside of her elbow, felt it hammering and knew she wasn’t nearly as cool as she played.
“You want me to go home and get some beauty rest?” He lowered his voice, stepping in, wondering if she was ever without those damn heels—which yes, did great things for her ass—so he could actually look down at her instead of up an inch. “I don’t think you do.”
“And that’s why I’m the brains of this operation,” she said lightly, stepping back. “Someone has to think about the greater good. Besides,” she added, picking her purse up from the side mirror she’d hung it on to take photos, “you’ll need your strength for battle tomorrow.”
“It’s training, not battle.”
“I wasn’t talking about practice. I was talking about dealing with me.” And with that sassy parting shot, she slid between two cars and disappeared to continue her photo documentary.
“Higgs, let’s go man. This day’s a big cluster and I’m ready to hit the rack.” Brad appeared by his elbow and tugged lightly on his neck. “Sweeney’s dropping us back by the BOQ on his way home.”
“Oh, joy.” He followed along, not at all willingly.
* * *
REAGAN watched through the lens of the digital video camera, taking in as much of the action in the mock training ring as she could without losing definition and focus. The equipment was primitive at best. Though at this point, she should probably be glad she was given a digital anything. God knew, she could probably have expected a VHS recorder to take video with.
“Getting any good shots?” Coach Ace walked up to stand beside her. “I know my guys are preening like pretty peacocks for the camera.”
Reading between the lines, she closed the lens and picked up the tripod she’d paid for herself. Oh, how many pairs of shoes she could have bought for the price of that tripod . . . “You think I’m distracting the men.”
“Not think, know. They’re all under thirty, most of them single, and they are pumped up on adrenaline and testosterone and ego from having made the team. Hell yes, you’re a distraction.” Coach Ace scanned her from head to toe in a gesture that was definitely meant to be derisive rather than sexual.
Reagan placed one hand over her chest and fluttered her lashes. “Ooh la la. If only I’d remembered to wear my frumpiest outfit to disguise my feminine wares so as not to distract the menfolk from their important endeavors. However shall I earn your forgiveness, good sir?”
The head coach snorted out something she hoped was humor, then crossed his arms to watch the men spar. Another group worked cardio upstairs along the catwalk with Coach Cartwright, while a third was in the adjoining weight room with Coach Willis. Though she would rather bite off her own arm than admit it, she knew Greg Higgs was with the group in the weight room. That shouldn’t matter. She was here for the team, not one Marine.
One very fine, very delicious, very funny . . . Marine.
“Coach Ace,” she said slowly, packing up the camera in the case at her feet, “I have a job to do. I know you do, too. But we have to work together, not constantly butt heads.”
“It’s not hard to avoid that.” He picked up the case when she reached for it, taking it over to the side where she’d stashed her tote bag full of folders. “You stay out of the way and do your PR voodoo magic outside the gym.”
Tread carefully, Robilard. “That might have been how it worked in the past—”
“It was,” he agreed firmly.
“But that’s not how I plan on running things.”
She watched the coach, trying her best to gauge his reaction based on his expression. She would have been better off trying to guess what a brick wall was thinking. His face curiously blank, Coach Ace shrugged and walked to his office, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Was that acceptance, or denial?” she muttered as she packed up the camera.
Getting along with the coaching staff wasn’t specifically required, but it would be a hell of a lot easier on everyone if they could come to terms over the parameters of her job. She refused to run back to her own supervisor and tattle on the uncooperative coaching staff. So it was up to her to figure out how to get everyone on the same page.
And add that to the ever-growing list of things she needed to do better. She really had to pick up her game.
“Hey.”
“Eeeee!” Reagan bobbled the camera bag, nearly dropping it to the floor. She grabbed the handle just as a large pair of hands swooped under to shield the bag from the floor.
Heart pounding, she turned to find Gregory Higgs standing there, grinning. She started to speak, then realized her mouth was dry. To cover, she took the bag back from him and set it gently on the floor. When he only continued to smile, she stiffened her shoulders and met him square on. “What?”
“Do you ever wear anything smaller than three inches?”
That had her taking a step back in surprise. “Three inches of what?”
“Height.” When she blinked, confused, he added, “The heels. I’ve never seen you in anything shorter than three inches, give or take. Just curious if you ever wear flats.”
“Not if I can help it.” She bent over to pick up the camera bag again—now that her hands had stopped shaking and her heart rate was nearing normal—but he beat her to it. She accepted the bag with a slight nod and started toward the gym’s main doors. If she headed back to her cubicle in the main athletics office, she might be able to catch the travel coordinator.
Greg missed the hint and jogged beside her to keep up. “Luckily I like a girl with some height to her.”
She faltered just a little, glancing over at him. “I have a lot to do, so if you don’t need anything, I need to keep moving.”
“I can move. We’re on lunch break.”
Oh, yay. She snorted and kept going at the same pace. He kept up. “So are you free?”
“Free for what?” she asked, huffing a little. She realized then she’d been all but sprinting to the parking lot, hoping he’d ditch her and move along. She restrained herself so she could breathe properly. Time to use the gym facilities herself.
Or, maybe, she should just try not outrunning the fastest guy on the team. There’s a brilliant idea.
“Lunch. We’ve got two hours.”
“Oh.” She reached her car and nearly winced when he did a double take at it in the daylight hours. “Don’t mock her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Name?” Reagan tried to play it cool as she slid the camera bag into the passenger seat, then set her purse on the floor. The passenger door creaked as she closed it again. “Whose name?”
“The car’s.” Greg did a circle around it, taking note, she was sure, that the color of the vehicle was more primer than silver. And of the industrious way she’d duct-taped the taillight cover on. “A car like this always has a name.”
She mumbled something, but he cocked his head. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
“Dolly Madison,” she bit out. “Her name is Dolly Madison. Happy?”
He snorted, then chuckled, then laughed so hard she thought if he’d been a cartoon, he would have fallen to the ground and rolled around on his back. “It wasn’t meant to be funny.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he gasped out. “Your car is named Dolly Madison, and it’s not a joke?”
“She’s a mature, distinguished gentlewoman,” Reagan shot back. “You don’t mock the first lady.”
“The first lady’s been around the block a few times,” he added, which only set his oh-so-humorous chuckles off again.
“Go eat your lunch. I’ve got work to do. Unless . . .” She waited until his laughter had slowed and his attention was fully on her.
“Unless?” He inched closer, and she could smell the sweat from his workout. How was sweat appealing? That was impossible.
“Unless you want to come back with me and . . .” She glanced to the left, then the right. He hunched in, shoulders rounding as if to protect the secret she was going to impart. “Finish our interview for the PR packet I’m putting together.”
He straightened and stepped back as if he were a vampire and she had garlic breath. “Forgot I had a lunch date with Costa and Sweeney.”
“Uh-huh.” Reagan crossed her arms. “I’m getting the information I need from you, don’t doubt it.”
“Whatever you say, Legs.” He jogged away a few feet, then waved over his shoulder. “See ya around.”
“Yes, you will,” she muttered under her breath. “Cocky Marine.”
“That’s redundant.”
“Eeeeek!” For the second time that day, Reagan let out an embarrassing shriek, tossing her keys three parking spaces away and shielding her face. When she peeked through her fingers and found Marianne Cook staring at her in amusement, she groaned. “I hate my life.”
Marianne just smiled. “Sorry you didn’t hear me over all the pheromones you and Higgs were throwing at each other.”
“Phero . . . no. You totally misunderstood the situation.” Reagan straightened her jacket, then smoothed straight down the skirt she wore. “We’re becoming professional adversaries. It’s not a personal thing.”
“Right.” Marianne’s tone said, You’re full of shit.
Time to change the subject. “What’s redundant?”
“Cocky Marine. They’re all cocky. The attitude is issued with the uniforms once they sign on the dotted line. It’s survival.” She glanced down at Reagan’s feet. “I thought I told you to stop wearing heels like that in the gym.”
Reagan looked down at her adorable, so-on-sale-they-basically-paid-her-to-buy-them peep-toe pumps, then kicked one out to the side just a little. “But they’re so cute.”
“They’re a death trap. A walking death trap, literally. You’re going to slip on the smooth floorboards of the gym floor and snap an ankle.” When Reagan opened her mouth to protest, Marianne shook her head. “Never mind, that’s not why I’m out here. I wanted to make sure everything’s okay from last night.”
Last night. She’d completely forgotten she’d ditched Marianne and Kara to get started on work. “I’m so sorry, I should have texted or called when I was finished to see how things were.”
Marianne waved her hand at that and leaned against Reagan’s bumper in a casual slouch. Reagan prayed to the patron saint of automobiles that the bumper didn’t give way on the spot. “No biggie. We all get the whole career thing. I’m not a stranger to weird calls late at night.”
“But how . . . you know what? Never mind.” Reagan opened her driver’s side door and shook her head. “Don’t want to know. Now, you and I need to schedule a time to meet this week, too.”
“Meet for what?” The trainer stood, and Reagan winced mentally at the rust spot on the hip of her friend’s khakis. She prayed it would come out in the wash later.
“Meet to go over the travel arrangements, plus any potential interview questions you might get in the future. Standard PR prep.”
“I’m the athletic trainer. I’m not exactly high profile . . . and that’s how I like it.” Marianne gripped the door frame as Reagan slid in. “Have you interviewed everyone else?”
“Almost.”
“How chatty were the Marines?”
Reagan grinned at that. “Some were extremely chatty.”
Marianne raised a brown. “And others?”
“Bradley was very short,” Reagan said, answering the question she knew her friend wouldn’t ask. “And very smart on how to answer questions pertaining to your affiliation with the team, your relationship, and how that plays out. He’s got it covered. So will you, after I’ve had my hands on you.”
“Why, Reagan, we just met.” When Reagan’s eyes widened and she started to explain, Marianne laughed. “Go to lunch, PR queen. I’ll see you later. In flats,” she added in a firm voice, then shut the door.
Flats. Reagan shuddered—as did Dolly Madison as she pulled out of the parking spot and headed toward the main offices. Some things were just not worth arguing.