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“Excuse me, ma’am,” a deep voice said.
Her eyes flying open, she saw a twentyish guy, dressed all in white. Marissa had stepped right into his path. “My fault.”
Then something sunk in. He’d called her ma’am.
“Ma’am?” she mumbled. The professor under whom Marissa had interned was a ma’am. Her elderly neighbor, whose apartment always smelled like pickled beets, she was a ma’am. But Marissa?
When, by God, did I become a ma’am?
“Today, that’s a good thing,” she told herself. Today, she wanted to convey seriousness, maturity. Ma’am-ness. Today she was not Mad-Mari, she was Dr. Marissa Marshall. Even if she didn’t yet know who that was, other than a name on a résumé.
It was time to find out. Some people said going to school for so long and making a living by writing sassy words in the comfort of her own living room had been her means of escaping the reality of adulthood. Well, her best friend said it. And maybe her favorite college professor had, too. Maybe she had been putting off the inevitable. Maybe the newly degreed shrink in her head was right in suspecting she’d been so sick of being forced to be an adult when she was a teenager that she’d needed to drop all responsibilities and focus only on herself during her twenties.
But that was over. She was ready for whatever came next, ready for part two of her life. Her blog and her books had been fun. They’d been stress relievers during her all-men-suck period (hence the title of her book). But she was a professional now. Time to put away the snark and move forward.
That’s why her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. That’s why she’d dressed in a simple blouse and a borrowed skirt—her own clothes being far too Mad-Mari-ish for Marissa Marshall. That’s why she wore painful black pumps, more appropriate for a funeral in January than an appointment at the USNA in May. That’s why she had actually contorted herself into a pair of pantyhose for the first time in several years.
Because today, she would be meeting with a Deputy to the Commandant of the Midshipmen, to convince him to hire her to give some guest lectures on campus. She needed the work. She needed the professional credit. And frankly, she needed the money.
Her royalties on her first book had been eaten up by tuition—Johns Hopkins was in no way cheap. The advance on her second book had been keeping her fed, but it was almost gone. There should be more coming in, but, in publishing, money flowed with the speed of sap off an elm. Whatever else she earned she would use to hang out her counseling shingle. For now, though, she couldn’t afford insurance, much less office space.
So hearing from her former professor that the USNA was interested in talking to her about doing a few guest lectures for summer students had been a lifeline tossed when she’d been trying to decide between her cell phone and her cable-TV bills. The phone was important. But she wasn’t sure she could give up her Starz Channel dates with the hot gladiators on Spartacus.
“Okay, gotta nail this,” she said as she got into her car.
Reaching for her notebook, she read over the details for the interview. “King George Street to Gate 1,” she mumbled. “First meeting at two, check in with security an hour before.”
Oh, God. How had she forgotten that? She’d been so focused on preparing for the interview, she’d neglected the details!
“You idiot,” she howled, eyeing the clock. Five ’til one.
Thrusting the key in the ignition, she prayed the car—which had been giving her trouble—would start easily. Fortunately, it groaned only once, then fired up.
Using a lead foot on the gas pedal, she got to the academy in a few minutes. Spying the correct building and the Employees Only lot in front, she weighed her options. The lot was almost empty, so she wouldn’t be taking anybody’s spot. Plus, if she had her way, she would be an employee this summer.
Decision made. Parking quickly, she exited the car, pausing to retuck her blouse and smooth her skirt. The pantyhose were beyond annoying, and she took a second to try to twist them into position. Which just tugged her panties into the wrong position.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she whispered, feeling the elastic panty line riding way too high on one cheek. Her too-tight skirt probably magnified the thing like a microscope did an amoeba.
Marissa did the wedgie-dance, wishing she wore thongs—it felt like she was wearing one, anyway. Better yet, she should have scraped up the money for new clothes that fit better. But the interview had come up suddenly and a borrowed skirt in her size had sounded fine, until she’d put it on this morning. It seemed the months of writing at home had added to her waistline, not to mention her hips and butt. The long pencil skirt fit like a casing on a sausage. And the sausage was trying to escape.
She tried tugging, keeping her backside toward the interior of the car so nobody would be able to see from the windows fronting the lot. But it didn’t help much. Her inner Dr. Marshall told her to just forget it and hope nobody noticed the obnoxious panty lines. But, damn, she did not want some military man eyeing her tush any more than necessary in the tight skirt.
Then…disaster. She tugged too hard, and felt the whispery sensation of a run sliding down the length of one leg. She looked down to see a thick, ugly line appear at her knee and keep right on going until it disappeared into her shoe. “Shit!”
Panty lines were one thing. A huge freaking run down her shin? Was she just destined to not get this job?
Do something!
There was only one choice. Knowing she might not have a chance to hit a ladies’ room inside, she bent back into the car, perching on the edge of the driver’s seat, her feet out on the blacktop. She cast one more look around, still seeing nobody.
Pulling the door close to her legs, she wriggled the hose off, contorting herself into a ladle shape to tug them out from under the long, slim skirt.
She took the panties, too.
Commando might be more of a Mad-Mari thing, but panty lines would be even more obnoxious without the hose to smooth things out. The skirt was long; she didn’t worry about flashing anyone.
She wadded up the ball of satin and nylon, stuffed it into the glove box, and stepped back out onto the blacktop seconds later. Runless. Wedgieless. Not to mention pantyless.
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
She yelped. Shocked by the intrusion of a deep voice, Marissa swung around, her heart thudding in her chest and her face going up in flames.
Outside the nearest building—a huge one with roll-up doors—stood a man. He watched her, a slight smile on his face. He hadn’t been there a few minutes ago when she’d pulled up, and she had to wonder when he’d appeared, and how much he’d seen.
You were hidden by the door, dummy. No way could he see you, especially below the waist.
Except, of course, her feet had been sticking out. And they’d been encircled by nylon and black satin for a couple of seconds. Oh, and there was the fact that she’d been fiddling with her underwear before clambering back into the car.
He knew. He had to know. She’d been busted like a kindergartener raiding the candy jar. Worse—picking her…seat.
Brazen it out.
Her chin went up and she pretended not to hear him. When she took a step away from the vehicle, he called out, “Uh, miss, seriously, you might want to rethink that.”
Grr. She’d already rethought it, especially with the hint of coolness in the spring air creeping up her thighs. And higher.
“That could get you into some trouble,” the man added.
Gritting her teeth, she said, “Oh, were you talking to me?”
The man, who wore faded mechanic’s coveralls, approached her, wiping his greasy hands on a towel. His expression was impassive, a friendly smile not indicating what he was thinking.
That was okay, Mari had enough thoughts for both of them.
She gawked, making a mental note with every step he took.
Step: Tall.
Step: Strong, with broad shoulders and thick arms straining against the faded fabric of his clothes.
Step: Lean-hipped and slim-waisted.
Step: Long, powerful legs that ate up the pavement.
Step: Great smile, broadening as he drew closer…and oh, a dimple in one cheek!
Step, step, step: Sexy, confident, gorgeous.
How incredibly embarrassing that he could be coming over to tell her he’d seen London and France when she’d done her front-seat striptease. Though, not as bad as it would be if he told her he’d seen the Netherlands.
She told herself to cool it. Maybe he just wanted to say hi. Or he could be coming over to tell her he’d heard the roughness of her car’s engine. Given the way he was dressed, and that he’d come out of a building that was obviously some kind of repair shop, she’d pegged him for a mechanic.
Maybe he needed to know the time. Or to tell her the whole place had been evacuated for a fire drill.
Say anything except I know you’re not wearing any panties.
Not only because it would be embarrassing if he confirmed he’d seen her, but because it was such a sleazy, slimy come-on. And she didn’t want to think this stranger—this very sexy man—had a sleazy bone in his body. That would probably break her long-single, brittle heart completely. Guys this handsome simply shouldn’t be allowed to be scumbags.
Reaching her, the man studied her from behind his sunglasses, which were necessitated by the bright sunshine that painted the tips of his light brown hair gold. She couldn’t help wondering what color his eyes were. Warm chocolate? Jade green? Something dazzling, she imagined. Because only a perfect set of eyes belonged in that face, with its high cheekbones, strong jutting jaw and broad, sensual mouth.
Masculine. That was the only word to describe him.
“Afternoon,” he said pleasantly, as if they’d just been introduced at a social event, as if he wasn’t standing there, thinking about her being pantyless.
Maybe he’s not.
Yeah. Right.
“Hello,” she mumbled.
He pushed the sunglasses up onto the top of his head with the tip of his finger. Oh, my. Not brown, not gold…something in-between. Like fine, clear amber. Absolutely beautiful.
“Wow,” she whispered.
He heard. Because now those eyes were twinkling. Definitely twinkling. She’d heard the expression, but always figured it for an exaggeration. It wasn’t. This guy had you-can-trust-me-I’m-adorable written on his very eyeballs.
“You look a little lost,” he said, that deep voice friendly, matching the twinkle and his small smile.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Are you sure? Maybe I can help. I know my way around.”
A quick glance at the stitching on his chest revealed the name of a popular auto-repair chain: Midas. They must make a lot of house calls to the academy if he was so familiar with it.
Funny that he worked for a company with a name that suited him so well, given those gold highlights in his hair. She only wondered if his big, powerful hands had the golden touch. And what lucky woman was on the receiving end of it.
One thing was sure, he was nothing like the men she usually associated with. There wasn’t a professor-ish feature on him. Probably in his early-to-mid-thirties, he was all man, not boyish, despite the twinkle and the dimples. He was rugged, not a smoothly put-together package like a slick high-rise, but a naturally spectacular formation like…the Grand Canyon.
Okay, that was a little overdone, but still, the guy was robbing her of coherent thought. She could only look at him for another long moment, pretending to consider his offer.
His cheeks were slightly stubbled, a faint smear of grease visible beside his strong nose. His skin was bronzed, his hands calloused, his muscles, she would bet, coming from hard work, not from a fitness club. And the mouth. Oh, did the man have a mouth—all soft, sensuous, smiling lips.
A shiver moved throughout her entire body, so delicate she almost didn’t notice. It took her a second to realize that shiver had been a pure, feminine response to him: attraction. Major attraction. She was no longer calculating how good-looking he was, her gears had shifted smoothly from assess to covet.
Stop it. It had been far too long since she’d been in a relationship if a guy who’d peeping-Tom’d her when she’d pulled off her underwear was giving her the shivers.
He didn’t peeping-Tom you…you Sharon Stone’d him!
She tried to pull her thoughts together, determined not to give him an opening to make a sleazy remark. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“Well, you might not need any help, but I gotta say, you’re really tempting fate.”
Curious about why, but afraid of how he’d answer, she instead replied, “Thanks for your concern, but I’m not worried.”
“Rule-breaker, huh?”
“No.”
“Just like to live dangerously?”
Oh, hell. That cemented it, reminding her of why he’d come over here. He’d definitely seen her strip. “Not in the least.”
“Well, I’ll admit you don’t look the type.”
Her spine stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Gesturing toward her hair, then her clothes, he said, “I mean, you look more like a schoolteacher than a rebel.”
That was a good thing. “That’s the plan,” she mumbled.
“You’re not really a teacher, are you?” he asked.
“Not yet.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, damn it.”
“You’re late.”
“How did you ever guess?” she asked, her tone dry.
There went the twinkle. And the dimple. And a broad, white grin. “’Cause you sped in here like demons were on your tail.”
At least he hadn’t said, Demons were on your naked tail.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I have an interview. It’s fifty minutes from now and they said to check in an hour early.”
He waved a hand, unconcerned. “They tell everyone that. But the place is nearly deserted. It won’t take you ten minutes to get the visitor’s pass, I promise. Don’t worry about it.”
“Still, I don’t want to risk it, so if you’ll excuse me…”
“So you’re worried about making a bad impression?”
Blowing out an impatient breath as he stopped her from turning away with just that amused tone in his voice, she admitted, “Yes, okay? Yes, I am.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not doing very well so far.” He pointed to a nearby building. “Personnel offices have a bird’s-eye view of this parking lot.”
Oh, great. Was he saying that he wasn’t the only one who had seen her doing her impromptu striptease? Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she looked up at the windows, then down at her car, trying to judge the angle. Geometry wasn’t her strongest suit, but it didn’t seem utterly impossible that somebody looking down might have seen as much as this guy had. Plus, she had a sunroof.
“This is bad,” she whispered.
