Wicked Nights. Anne Marsh

Instead of responding, he shot her a look.

      She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so, Cal.”

      She said his name with the same tone of mocking disgust his SEAL teammates had used when trash talking each other, except her voice held a note of sincerity. He’d seen her breasts. Hell, he’d touched her skin, even if it was only the brush of his fingers against the back of her neck, so it was okay. She could call him anything she wanted, because names didn’t bother him. Actions mattered. Not words.

      “What are you going to do about it?”

      “Win,” she said so sweetly his teeth hurt. “That’s what I’m going to do, Cal.”

      Not in his lifetime. “I’ve got you seriously outgunned here.”

      “Bet me,” she said in the same tone.

      He observed her cautiously. Trouble had just shown up on this mission. The playful sparkle in her eyes telegraphed the message loud and clear. Since the only thing she had to be happy about was his leaving the field to her, and he had no intention of doing that, she clearly believed she’d come up with an alternative plan.

      “Uh-huh,” he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in. “What are we betting about?”

      “The outcome of the contract negotiations,” she clarified, smiling up at him.

      “There’s only one possible outcome.” He dismissed her words with a quick nod. “Deep Dive wins.”

      “That’s what you think.” She shrugged casually, clearly baiting her trap.

      He’d play.

      “It’s a fact.” Unexpectedly, he didn’t want to see her get hurt. If she pulled back now, quietly, she could avoid the agony of defeat and all that. Hell, he almost qualified as a gentleman.

      “Then, beat me, fair and square.” She shot him a fierce grin. “I’ll bid. You’ll bid.”

      “I’m not betting you about this.”

      “Why not?” She leaned forward, bracing her arms on either side of him, on the edge of the dive boat. She wasn’t a tall woman and she was careful not to touch him, but somehow she’d turned the tables on him. Again not surprising. Piper had made a career out of shocking him. “Maybe you’re just chicken. Put your money where your mouth is, Brennan. Bet me.”

      “You’re not betting money.” He wouldn’t take her money anyhow. He was almost certain Piper’s cash flow left something to be desired. He wanted to beat her, not bankrupt her.

      She leaned closer. He tried to pretend her bikini-covered breasts weren’t brushing his chest, that her top and his T-shirt were more than enough fabric to keep his imagination from rioting. Piper’s breasts were a sweet handful, curvy tops spilling over the edge of her bikini. When she’d been a platform diver, her swimsuit tops had been engineered to compress and create a smooth, sleek line. This top was something else. Feminine. Tempting. And yet—this was Piper. He didn’t like her, he reminded himself. She didn’t like him, even if she loved pushing his buttons. So where had this chemistry come from?

      “You’re scared.” She sounded smug. “We both know I’m winning this one.”

      And...buttons pushed. “Am not.”

      Great. He’d regressed to being a three-year-old, except for the part of him that was clearly an adult and wanted to show Piper how much he appreciated her bikini top. Which he wasn’t going to do.

      A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He knew that smile. He was in so much trouble here. “Are. Too.” She underscored each word with a not-so-subtle poke in his chest.

      He captured her fingers in his before she could drill holes into his heart. The words flew out of his mouth before he could think about it.

      “Business, Piper. This is strictly business.”

      “Uh-huh.” She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret and—he wasn’t sure, but did she check him out as she pulled away? Getting a read on Piper was frustrating. “You keep telling yourself that.”

       2

      DISCOVERY ISLAND HAD bars for tourists (all with kitschy names like Devil’s Wine and Beer and Skittles) and then there were the places for residents. Diver’s Haven was mostly a local scene since the bar was tucked off the main boardwalk. It wasn’t precisely a hole-in-the-wall, but the place hadn’t exactly earned a prime spot in the local food and wine department, either. It did, however, have cold beer and satellite TV. Tonight, Cal appreciated both. Going head-to-head earlier with Piper had been the icing on a frustrating day of broken equipment, canceled dives and a boat engine leaking enough oil to re-create the Exxon Valdez.

      The bar propping him up was made from salvaged driftwood, an artistic touch he’d always suspected had been Big Petey, the bar’s owner, being cheap rather than fashion-forward, given the booths with cracked vinyl seats. Neon lights in the window advertised brands Big Petey had no intention of stocking and the jukebox worked intermittently, rather like its owner. Big Petey also extended credit to anyone and everyone and had more dishwashers than he did bar glasses because he was incapable of turning down a job seeker. Big Petey was a good man, and he’d never seemed to mind Cal wasn’t much of a drinker.

      Cal had a one-beer limit. Alcohol wasn’t advisable when training, and he wanted his head back in the game. Plus, he’d seen more than one good soldier lose himself inside a bar. So, for the moment, he settled for just sitting at the bar, empty bottle in front of him. The game played on the big screen, and the clack of balls from the pool tables in the back competed with the occasional groan as a batter struck out. Tag and Daeg, fellow former rescue swimmers and current co-owners of Deep Dive, had moved on to the backroom and a game of pool and talking trash. More words flew than balls when those two played, only proving that nothing much had changed since their last tour of duty together. He still thanked his lucky stars every day that he’d been able to convince them to move up here from San Diego and join him rather than reenlisting.

      Big Petey looked over at him when a commercial came on. “You ready for another?”

      He didn’t want to put the man out of business. “If you make it a cola.”

      Big Petey also didn’t stock any name-brand sodas. Local gossip alternately claimed he’d outspent his account with both major distributors or referenced the man’s legendary cheapness. Since the stuff Big Petey poured was no better or worse than what Cal had drunk in dozens of overseas ports, and had bubbles, Cal didn’t care which version of the story was true.

      Big Petey grabbed the dirty glass and stowed it somewhere beneath the bar. “You’re making me a rich man, Brennan.”

      At least he’d merited a clean glass. Maybe. After all, he couldn’t see exactly where the new glass Big Petey slapped down on the bar had come from. It was possible his original glass had simply round-tripped. Big Petey aimed the soda gun in the glass’s general direction and squeezed.

      “Drinks taste a whole heck of a lot better with rum.” Big Petey did not have a personal one-beer limit, and Cal’s choice of beverage was a constant source of amusement for the other man.

      “Big Petey makes an excellent point.” The scent of apples and something floral surrounded him as Piper slid onto the empty barstool beside him, resting her bare arms on the counter.

      A big grin creased Big Petey’s face. “If it isn’t our world champion.”

      Piper made a face. “I didn’t compete.”

      Big Petey grabbed another glass—from the shelf behind him, so definitely clean—and carefully set it down on a cocktail napkin in front of Piper. Piper also merited a bowl of peanuts. If Cal hadn’t already known the other man had been nursing a soft spot for Piper, he now had all the proof he needed.