Terms of Surrender. Leslie Kelly

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.