Anne Marsh - Wicked Secrets

“You make a career out of rescuing damsels in distress? And, for the record, I didn’t hit your bike.” She sounded bitchy. She knew that. Accepting help, however, was out of the question. She stood on her own two feet. Or, she admitted wryly, lay on her own butt. Whatever it took. With her brothers and her father all being active duty, bitchy had been the only way to hold her own. Give them an inch and they’d smother her with love and concern. Of course, Tag wasn’t offering love, but, still...she had this. She’d led a team in Afghanistan until she’d retired, so handling a bout of motion sickness was child’s play.

“You want to ask me why I’m so certain you need help?” His calm voice annoyed her, she decided. As did the supreme confidence with which he moved his hands over her body. She just might live, however, thanks to his nifty acupressure trick. Two inches down her wrist and press hard. She could do that.

She took a good look around her, expanding her world beyond the sand, the man and the Harley. Post-sunset shadows painted the sand with stripes of dark. The cruise ship sailed at five o’clock. The beach around her had emptied out, and the sun was no more than a red-orange sliver above the horizon. And...no ocean liner bobbing away on the water or even anywhere to be seen. She asked the obvious question, even though she knew what the answer was going to be. Too late. You snooze, you lose.

“What time is it?”

“Seven.” He extended the wrist with the dive watch so she could see for herself.

“They sailed without me.” Her brain tried to kick into planning mode, but a bout of motion sickness always wiped her out, leaving her fuzzy-headed. Finishing her siesta here on the beach had sounded like a decent enough plan—she could figure things out in the morning.

“No public camping on the beach,” he said pleasantly, as if he’d read her mind. “Go ahead and say it. It won’t kill you.”

“Fine. Can you recommend a hotel for the night?” The emergency twenty bucks and the cell phone she’d shoved in her shorts pocket wouldn’t take her far. She’d have to call for cash and new cards. Rejoining the cruise was probably not feasible—the ship was headed down the California coast for a quick pit stop in Ensenada, Mexico, and then to Cabo, where everyone would get off and fly home. By the time she made it to an airport, her cousin would already be airborne.

“Mia.” She felt rather than saw him shake his head. “That’s not happening. You can spend the night with me.”

“I’m fine.”

Liar.

Her gaze dropped to his hands. His strong, capable hands that were holding her up because otherwise she was likely to butt-plant on the sand. She hated feeling weak. Hated being weak.

“You can’t stay here,” he said, using his calm, logical voice again. She wondered what it would take to get him angry and loud. “You’re sick. You’re homeless. And, since I don’t see a purse, I suspect you’re broke, as well.”

“You certainly know how to lift a girl’s spirits.”

He kept right on talking. “So, the way I see it, you need a place to fall back to for the night.”

He was right, damn him. She chewed on her lower lip as she thought her situation through. Twenty bucks simply didn’t go far, and she didn’t have so much as an ID with her because her cousin had taken Mia’s purse back to the ship. Tag didn’t say anything as he waited for her to come to the obvious conclusion.

“Are you going to make me say it?”

His sigh ruffled her hair. “Yes, Mia, I am.”

Problem was, she was best at giving orders. Not taking them. He didn’t say anything else, though, and he was right, damn it. She needed somewhere to spend the night, she was temporarily broke and she knew him.

“Take me home with you.” She wouldn’t, couldn’t say please .

“You got it.” He rose smoothly, setting her back on her own two feet. So why, if he’d given her exactly what she’d wanted, did she feel disappointed?

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