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Which was undoubtedly his point.
“I dare you,” she blurted out, her mouth rushing ahead of her brain. “No sex for one week.”
“Sure.” He nodded agreeably. “You said the sex shop’s closed, so no worries.”
She’d never thought he would take advantage of their possibly married state. He wasn’t that kind of guy. They were plenty clear on that particular point—it was just everything else they disagreed about.
“But,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “If I take your dare, you take mine.”
Her hand shot up. “No. I’m done negotiating with you.”
Of course he kept right on talking as if she hadn’t said anything. “For each night I go without sex, I get to choose a drink for you from Fantasy Island’s cocktail menu.”
She really, really needed to ignore the pulse of heat that suggestion generated in her belly. And lower. This was Levi. She didn’t even like him, but apparently her body thought angry sex was something she should try at least once in her life. Preferably tonight.
He watched her calmly, but there was no mistaking the tension in his big body. He had her and he knew it. The problem with having worked with Levi in the field was that he’d learned things about her, like the way she responded to a challenge. Jesus. Emotionally, it made her feel like a five-year-old—when parts of her definitely were all adult around him—but she just couldn’t walk away from a dare.
“You want to get me drunk?” Somehow, she didn’t think he was talking about alcohol.
His teeth flashed as he snagged the drinks menu from the bar and waggled it in front of her. “We both know I’m talking about the other menu, babe. The secret menu, where the drink names are code for sexy stuff. Pink Panties. Angel’s Tit. Tie Me to the Bedpost. I pick the drink. You do the deed.”
4 (#udf205d76-b250-5c33-bd16-ad841b914037)
THE EXPRESSION ON Ashley’s face registered a whole lot of hell no and you’ve got to be kidding me. If he’d been any kind of gentleman, he’d have looked away. Seeing as how he’d moved into bastard territory long ago, however, he merely flipped the menu open and ran his finger ostentatiously down the list of cocktails.
Her long lashes flicked down, her brown eyes following his finger as a truly spectacular blush painted her cheeks. Special Agent Dixon wasn’t a pretty blusher. No delicate shade of pink there. Her whole face flamed as though she’d been dipped in Day-Glo red. The color was kind of cute, actually, although he’d have bet his last paycheck that nothing shocked her.
He’d have lost that bet.
The corner of his mouth quirked up. Guess that won him points in this game of one-upmanship they were playing. He was actually capable of shocking snarky, no-nonsense, I-can-beat-your-ass Ashley Dixon. Today was a red-letter day, and he’d fucking mark it in his calendar. They’d worked together for the last year, and he could count the number of times he’d seen her look out of her element or anything less than perfectly confident. The woman was a chameleon, capable of fitting in anywhere and with anyone. She thought she knew the best way to handle every step of their missions. Worse, she’d been right. She pointed out her accuracy constantly and it was not an endearing trait.
“Sex on the Beach, Screaming Orgasm, Bend Over Shirley.” He winked at her. “Or should I substitute your name for that last one?”
Her blush got deeper. Any brighter and orbiting astronauts would be able to spot her cheeks from space. Together for less than twelve hours, and already he’d pushed her to Code Red. Provided he survived, this week together was turning out to be one of his better ideas.
She sucked in a breath, which undoubtedly meant she was about to start talking or yelling, and that was his cue to keep right on going. Once Ashley got started, she didn’t stop until she’d won.
“Nothing to your liking, Dixon?” He gave her his most winning smile. “Let’s try—”
“Shut up,” she growled. He recognized the look on her face. If she’d been a fellow SEAL, they’d have been rolling around on the sand by now, trading punches. Still, her expression was priceless. He reached for his phone. A moment like this deserved to be immortalized.
“Jesus, Brandon. Have pity on the bartender. He’s gonna think we’re having marital problems already.”
He thumbed on his phone and raised it. “Say cheese.”
She slammed her hand down over his, pinning his fingers to the bar. With her other hand, she pocketed his phone.
He whistled. “Nice move.”
If he were a lucky man, she’d kill him quickly. Since, however, he was currently married to Dixon and stuck on a tropical island after taking a vow of chastity, his luck was clearly nonexistent. Too bad about the phone, though, because the pictures would have been spectacular. He wiggled his fingers beneath hers.
“We’re done talking,” she snapped. Frankly, he was surprised she got the words out, because she had her teeth gritted so tightly she might need dental work. Her chest rose and fell beneath her shirt and damn it—was that a push-up bra? He leaned forward to get a better view. Why, yes, his cranky, ass-kicking wife was indeed sporting Victoria’s Secret. His favorite kind, too, the type of bra that cupped a woman’s breasts and laid them out framed in lace. He could run a finger down the deep valley her lingerie had created. Follow the path with his tongue and then his dick if he could sweet-talk her into a better mood...
“If you don’t stop staring at my boobs, I’ll hurt you.” Her grip on his fingers tightened. Nice to know she’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat and interrogation techniques. He’d caught Mason teaching her a few new tricks, too, the last time they’d been on Fantasy Island. His fellow SEAL had claimed to be QAing the DEA’s training program, but Levi was pretty sure the guy had just been stirring up shit. Dixon was mean. She didn’t need more ways to hurt a guy.
Speaking of which...he pulled his fingers free. No point in leaving her with the opportunity, and they both knew she couldn’t hold him if he wanted out.
“Is touching allowed? Good to know.” Grabbing her hand before she could snatch it back, he turned it over and pressed a kiss into the palm. The way she dug her nails into his skin was plenty of answer. His Dixon was voting no on the touching. He wasn’t playing fair, but boredom had to be the reason he’d started fantasizing about her underwear. He also wanted to kick ass, preferably beginning with the minister who had fake-for-real married them and ending with Gray Jackson, the SEAL lieutenant commander who’d brought them on the undercover mission to Fantasy Island in the first place. Not that Jackson had had anything to do with their not-so-faux beach wedding, but it was the principle of the thing.
“This is your fault,” she huffed.
Like hell it was. He had no idea what specifically she was blaming him for now, but he’d deny everything to his last breath. That was his plan and he’d stick to it. “What’s my latest sin?”
She tugged. He held on. “Our marriage. Our being stuck here on this island together. I’m busy, Levi. I have a life and I’m supposed to be preparing for a job interview next week. Flying down to Belize to sort out your screwup wasn’t on my to-do list.”
Wait. They were back to this again? “I get it. It’s my fault.”
Never mind that two people had to say I do to get married.
“You said I do,” she bit out. “The minister asked you to say vows and you did.”
“You did, too.” He should know. He’d been there.
“You said it first. You were supposed to pretend to say the words.”
“And we were supposed to have a pretend minister. So signals got crossed somewhere. We’ll uncross them.” He leaned back in his seat and motioned for the bartender. Another beer sounded like his safest bet at the moment.
The beach wedding had actually been kind of cool, although the costumes had sucked. Mason’s sort-of girlfriend had rounded him up at sunset, claiming she needed a stand-in groom for a beach wedding shot for her blog. Since she was a professional blogger and photographer, the request had sounded legit—particularly since he’d known that the actual bride and groom had been detained by his SEAL team earlier in the week.
Since it was indirectly his fault that Maddie was in a bind, helping her out had seemed like the decent thing to do. Plus, Mason had definitely had a thing for the pretty photographer, which had been reason number two to lend an assist. Ashley had allowed herself to be sucked into the crazy, too.
It was hard not to like Maddie. She was cheerful and bubbly, her zest for living putting a smile on the faces of everyone around her. That probably explained Ashley’s participation. Or maybe it had been her annual be-nice-to-strangers-and-nice-women day. Fuck if he knew or cared.
So maybe he’d said yes a little too enthusiastically when he’d been asked to participate. He also had a vague recollection of signing something that the minister guy had thrust in front of him. Confessing that the details were fuzzy probably wasn’t wise.
One thing he definitely remembered about their wedding, however, was the clothes. Somehow, he’d always thought weddings involved big white dresses and dress uniforms. Turned out he’d been wrong. Wonderfully wrong. Ashley had arrived on the beach rocking a white string bikini with BRIDE spelled out in sequins over her outstanding ass. He’d offered to sound the letters out in Braille, she’d slugged him, and the ceremony had proceeded from there. If only they’d ended up not married, it would have been perfect.
“You still got the swimsuit?” Because truth be told, he wouldn’t mind seeing it again.
“I’m ordering a new one,” she said tightly. “NEWLY DIVORCED.”
“That’s a bunch of letters. Your ass is gonna need to get a whole lot bigger.” Ashley had a great butt, curvy and apple shaped. Not that he’d ever been granted touching privileges, but he had eyes in his head and the sequins had screamed look at me.
She sighed, as though he’d screwed up yet again and it was killing her. “Are you telling me my butt looks big?”
He didn’t think she’d misinterpreted his words that badly, but Ashley definitely liked to mess with him. “Stand up and I’ll give you my honest opinion.”
“You suck,” she told him without heat.
“Imagine what I’ll be like after fifty years of marriage.” He grinned at her. “I’m like fine whiskey. I just get better with age.”
“More like old produce,” she muttered. “You stink and you’re slimy.”
“I’ll put my trunks on. We can get some honeymoon shots. Or—” He grabbed his beer and discovered it was empty.
“Or what?” she asked impatiently, signaling the bartender for a refill for him.
“Or you could just strip my trunks off of me. I’m flexible that way.” Coming on to Ashley Dixon, DEA agent and sometime-SEAL-team partner. Was that really what he intended? His dick was definitely up for it—she was a gorgeous woman—but his head also had zero problems with it. Betrayed on all fronts.
The bartended picked that moment to return with Levi’s fresh beer. Ashley promptly swiped it. Apparently they’d already moved into the splitting-community-property stage of their breakup.
The bartender’s head swiveled between them as he took in the tension. “Everything okay here?”
“See?” Levi snagged the beer and took a swallow. Since they were married, she could share. “Even the bartender thinks you’re going to lose it.”
Ashley made the teakettle noise again, the bartender beat a hasty retreat, and Levi mentally adjusted the guy’s tip up. One of them needed to get something out of the situation.
“Murder is now a definite possibility,” she growled.
He wasn’t sure why she thought he was an ogre or Bad Marriage personified, but he hated it when she started slinging stereotypes around. Just because he’d never chosen to get married didn’t mean he’d screw it up if he did. “If we’re married, I’ll fix it.” He would, too.
Her eyes narrowed. “How? By killing me?”
And this was why they could never have a conversation. She was stuck on felonies and bloodshed.
“You’re awful menacing for a newlywed on her honeymoon.” He fought to keep his temper under control. So she’d been surprised by their newlywed status. He had been, too. Didn’t mean she had to be a bitch about it.
“I’ve had provocation,” she said darkly and knocked back his beer. Her throat worked as she polished off his drink and he made a note to order two beers in the future.
“And I paid for that,” he said mildly.
She looked down at the empty bottle. “Sorry.”
She wasn’t. Not even remotely based on the satisfied smile she gave him, but that was okay. If she wanted a beer, he’d get her a beer. The whole reason for coming down here had been to take care of things. Dragging her along had been an impulse, but he still couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
If they were married, he kind of liked the idea of having this week to themselves. It was no honeymoon, but it felt right. Almost as right as the unexpected urge to take care of her, which was stupid. Dixon was about as cuddly as piranha-cactus cross. She’d sooner cut his balls off than accept a helping hand from him. Honestly, he didn’t see what the big deal was if he gave her an assist, but she’d always been funny that way.
“I’ll fix it,” he repeated. “You just tell me what you need.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s an open-ended statement, Brandon. You might want to rephrase.”
Hell. Was he supposed to get turned on? Probably not, he decided, although he blamed her. She was the one who’d brought up sex in the first place. Not him. He was positively an angel. Really, he’d be doing her a favor to disabuse her of the notion that there was anything nice about him.
“I treat you to an island vacation and now you’re giving me grief?”
She stared at him like he’d just crawled out of a foxhole after two weeks in the sand with no shower. “Is the word romance not even in your vocabulary?”
Sure was. He kept it in a list that included marriage, peacetime and disarmament. Those were all good words—just not for him. He knew his limitations.
“I know how to romance a girl.” The words probably would have sounded better if his voice hadn’t come out all gruff, like her question was a challenge that pissed him off.
“Not sex her up,” Dixon snapped. Jesus. Did she ever slow down and not take offense? Or was it just him that irritated her so badly? “I mean real, bona fide romance.”
“Maybe you better give a for example. Are we talking flowers and candles, or do you want me spouting poetry?”
She snorted. “I’m not anti-flower, but that’s not what I meant. You’ve got flowers and candles covered right here in this bar, and we’re about as far from romantic as it’s possible to get.”
He made a give-it-up gesture with his hand. “You’d better educate me then, Dixon. As a public service.”
“Tell me about the first girl you dated seriously.”
“Gonna have to define seriously.” Candlelight was a good look for Ashley. She smelled good—he’d noticed that as soon as he sat down. If pretty had a smell, it was Ashley. Fruit, flowers, maybe both. Hell if he knew, but he liked it. She smelled edible, and he wanted to lick her from head to toe, even though it would be a seriously bad idea. He had no doubt at all that she’d throttle him.
“Are you serious?” If her grip got any tighter on her beer bottle, she might shatter the glass. While he found her strength kind of sexy, he also found it frustrating. Her opinion of him was about as low as opinions could get. Kinda made him feel like he was the dog turd stuck to the bottom of her mental sneaker.
Whatever. Ashley kept right on yelling at him, which was also familiar territory. “You dated the girl for more than a single night. You did things that did not involve a bed, a wall, the floor, or your penis poking her. You exchanged nonpornographic words, and if pressed, you could come up with a list of at least five things you liked about her that did not involve sex acts.”
“You realize that, by that definition, we’re dating seriously, babe.”
Her forehead got the cutest little crinkle in it when she was thinking. Since his logic was solid, he tugged the beer out of her hand and stole a swallow. Beer always tasted better when it belonged to someone else.
“Arresting drug lords doesn’t count as a date,” she protested eventually. She knew he had her.
“I brought you to this gorgeous tropical island.” He waved a hand around the beach bar. “You’ve got sand, stars, and unlimited alcohol.”
Double gotcha.
She grabbed her beer back. “You don’t like anything about me.”
“That’s not true either.”
She pointed the beer bottle at him. “Prove it. If we’re dating, tell me what you like about me.”
“Might want to rephrase that, babe. Narrow your terms a little.”
Honestly, he didn’t know where Dixon had gotten the idea that he didn’t like her. She was part of his team. He had nothing but respect for her job skills. So what if they rubbed each other the wrong way and gave each other shit? That didn’t mean he didn’t like her. Liking didn’t come into it at all. The sidelong look she sent his way drove him crazy. Also made him want to misbehave, since she so clearly expected the worst from him.
“If you want an ode to your left boob, I’m happy to give it a shot,” he continued. Yeah. That did it. Ashley’s lips tightened, and her mouth flew open. She’d achieve nuclear detonation in three seconds if he didn’t start talking fast. Since coming up with haiku about her breasts on the fly actually did exceed his capabilities, he gave her the truth.
“You’ve got killer skills with hardware. That’s one. Two? You can break down and reassemble an M4 as fast as any of the guys on the team.”
“Dating isn’t a job interview,” she said dryly. “And that’s the kind of crap I put on my résumé. I’m not feeling the romance here.”
“Shut up. I’m in charge of the list. Three? You’re not afraid of anything. You got something to say? You say it. Doesn’t matter if it’s just me, or the SEAL team commander, or half of Congress. If it’s on your mind, you’ll say it.”
She laughed. “Yeah. I’m blunt. I’ll give you that.”
He hadn’t realized his list was up for discussion. “You’re happy. That’s number four. I’ve never heard you bitch about field conditions or wanting something different. Not saying you’re Suzy Sunshine, but when we’re on a job you don’t bitch just to bitch. You roll with what life hands you.”
