Tawny Weber - A SEAL's Secret

She didn’t let herself look toward the corner where Super Hottie was sitting, in case he returned her interest. He probably hadn’t even noticed their arrival. But still... It was difficult enough to sashay into a room full of strangers. She didn’t need to be self-conscious, too.

“Roz didn’t have to go to any trouble,” said a sweet-faced brunette dressed as a sleek black cat as she hurried forward to meet Livi. “She already provided enough food to feed, well, the Navy.”

The woman gestured to the crowd in case Livi didn’t realize the male half of the room were sailors out of uniform.

But Livi didn’t have to be told.

One, the bar, Olive Oyl’s, was in Coronado and catered to the naval base. Two, Roz didn’t close off half her bar for anyone but sailors. And three, well, just look at the guys. They were the epitome of all things military, from their fit bodies to their buzz haircuts to their powerful demeanor—even the guy dressed like a duck.

“Roz figured it’d been a while since dinner and thought people might be hungry. She has a need to feed,” Livi said with a smile and a shrug. “She brought cupcakes and lasagna to my catered wedding, just in case, and I quote, ‘the caterer sucked and the cake was boring-ass vanilla.’”

She bit her lip. Should she have said ‘ass’? Maybe she should have just kept quiet. She never knew if her words would be taken right or not.

But the other woman’s appreciative laugh eased her discomfort. Livi set the tray on the table and uncovered it, then stepped back as a dozen people attacked the egg rolls and nachos.

“Looks as if Roz knew what she was talking about,” the woman remarked, her expression slightly stunned.

“She always does.” Roz had even told Livi not to bother changing her last name, since the marriage wouldn’t last long enough for the paperwork to get filed.

“I’m Eden,” the cat said, holding out her hand. “You must be Roz’s niece.”

Livi blinked, wondering how she’d guessed. Most people didn’t believe them when they were straight-out told, since the only shared trait—physical or personality-wise—between Roz and Livi was their height. Few people knew them both well enough to realize how alike they were, from their taste for green tea to their love of animals.

Aha.

“Eden the vet?” Livi asked. “Purveyor of furry addictions and cuddly friends?”

“Oh, you met Pedro?” Eden exclaimed.

At ease now, Livi fell into a delighted discussion about her aunt’s new three-legged cat.

But her nerves still fluttered, like the wings of a nagging butterfly. Not about the crowd. She’d found someone to talk to. Nope, these were sexual nerves. The kind that were inspired by curiosity and fed by desire. The kind she hadn’t felt in, oh, about a million years.

Unable to resist any longer, sure they’d settle once she assured herself he wasn’t paying any attention to her, Livi looked toward the corner.

The lair of Super Hottie, the sexiest man in the room.

She blinked.

Livi’s butterflies turned into fighter jets, roaring through her system. She locked her knees against the trembling and thanked God that the thick foam of her costume hid her instantly rock-hard nipples.

Because he was staring.

At her.

And he looked as if he liked what he saw.

Uh-oh.

* * *

WELL, WELL. Lt. Commander Mitch Donovan leaned against the wall and watched the gorgeous blonde dressed as a Twinkie talk to Sullivan’s wife. Mitch had never had much of a sweet tooth. But right now he had an intense desire for a taste.

A mellow grin played over his mouth as his gaze drifted down the length of her golden sponge cake−shaped body. How could a woman covered in that inspire lust at first sight? Then his eyes wandered lower, to where the costume ended at mid-thigh. Those were some damned sexy legs, from what he could see. His eyes lifted to her face again and his lust kicked up a notch.

As a man who was used to excelling in extremes of all kinds, he appreciated his body’s instant reaction. He just didn’t quite understand the Pavlovian intensity of it.

She was pretty. Her honey-blond hair was twisted back, leaving her face bare. Dark brows contrasted with the color of her hair and slashed over eyes that seemed to be taking in the entire room at once.

His gaze narrowed. Her expression was friendly, her body language relaxed. But the hand she’d tucked into the side of her costume clenched and unclenched, her fingers fluttering over the foam.

Intrigued by the contrast—always curious when confronted with even the hint of a puzzle—he glanced back at her face to search for other signs. Of fear. Of nerves. Of...

Mitch’s brain went blank.

He didn’t think it’d ever done that before in his life. But it was blank, so he couldn’t be sure.

All he could see were those eyes. Huge, filled with so many emotions he didn’t understand. Lashes so lush they cast a shadow around those eyes, giving her the look of a startled doe. A very sexy, very appealing startled doe.

“Irish.”

Who was she? He held her gaze, imagining those big eyes staring up at him as he poised over her body. Wondering if she’d keep them open after he’d plunged inside or if she’d close them and ride out the ecstasy.

“Yo, you want a drink?”

She blinked, those thick lashes brushing the delicate curve of her cheeks. The move should have broken the spell, but Mitch still couldn’t look away. She wet her lips, the pink tip of her tongue briefly sliding over the full cushion of her bottom lip. He was glad he’d opted for jeans with his costume instead of tights. The zipper didn’t offer much give against his sudden erection, but he was hard enough that he’d have ripped right through a pair of tights, superhero-issue or not.

What did she taste like? Hot and mysterious? Sweet and tempting? How long would it take before he could find out?

“Mitch. Donovan. Lt. Commander, dammit.”

Mitch blinked.

Frowned.

What?

He turned his head, meeting Chief Petty Officer Gabriel Thorne’s impatient stare.

Damn.

“That’s Lt. Commander, dammit, sir,” Mitch shot back. “And what’s your problem?”

“I’ve been talking, but you’re not listening. I’ve gotta tell you, Irish, I’m not used to being ignored.”

Mitch’s lips twitched. Truer words were never spoken.

Shirtless, wearing buckskins and a feather behind his ear, Gabriel Thorne—call sign Romeo—was a man who thrived on attention. And he had plenty to thrive on. Mitch had served with the guy for six years off and on, and he’d never once seen him get shot down. Actually, Mitch wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Romeo make the first move. The guy was usually too busy fending off the women to need to.

“Since I don’t plan to go home with you tonight, I’m not worried about bruising your ego,” he told his friend, happy to gloss right over the temporary and mind-boggling fog of lust. Mitch wouldn’t let himself look toward the blonde again. Not until he’d had a chance to analyze what had happened and figure out how she’d managed to short-circuit his brain.

“My ego is Teflon,” Gabriel assured him, his black eyes dancing with amusement aimed at the both of them. Native American blood ran strong in Thorne, from the hint of blue in his close-cut hair to the gold of his skin and razor-sharp cheekbones. “Besides, it’s not just the ladies who pay close attention, my friend. I knock, the enemy listens.”

“Might have a little to do with the IED you’re aiming their way,” Mitch pointed out with a grin. A demolitions expert, Thorne could make a grenade dance around a corner, scurry down a hall or chase a man up a mountain. “But don’t let me rain all over your fantasy with my boring reality.”