Terms of Surrender. Leslie Kelly

“Uh…”

      “I mean, if you need some directions, I can hop in the passenger seat and show you.”

      Directions? She’d bet he knew a lot about women’s underwear and could give directions on how to get in—or out—of them.

      The very thought of that reminded her again that she wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt; that cool spring breeze flitting up her legs now felt a bit warmer.

      The man did put off some serious heat.

      She suddenly acknowledged the second big danger of going commando—aside from possibly getting caught. Getting aroused.

      No, not aroused. But aware. Very, very aware.

      He gestured down at his clothes. “That is, if you don’t mind getting in close quarters with somebody so dirty.”

      She gulped, more confused than ever. Was this guy intentionally playing word games? Was he propositioning her…or teasing her? Being flirtatious, or serious? Was she just being dirty-minded when thinking about how he’d said the word dirty?

      “I’m not following,” she said.

      Appearing sympathetic, he explained, “You look stressed and nervous. Let’s just get in the car and eliminate some of that tension before you go inside.”

      Relieve her stress. Her tension.

      There was one surefire way to do that. Hmm. Maybe that explained why she’d been stressed for thirteen months, two weeks and four days. Oh, and seven hours. But who was counting how long it had been since she’d been laid? Though, she supposed writing a dissertation had been pretty stressful, too. At least, that’s what the last guy she’d been involved with had thought. He’d stopped calling around the time she hit page one-twenty and officially lost her mind. Well, unofficially lost it—diagnosing yourself was a no-no in her line of work.

      “Come on, let’s just do it. You’re running out of time, and you know you’ll feel better afterward.”

      There. He’d stopped beating around the bush and suggested they do it. It, it. There had been no suggestive wag of the eyebrows, but what else could he mean? They’d moved beyond flirting and pantyhose. This complete stranger was proposing he help her relieve her tension by having sex in her car.

      “It’ll just take a couple of minutes.”

      If he did mean it it, she couldn’t help wondering why he’d brag about it being over so fast. But she didn’t wonder long; mainly she just felt disappointed. Yeah, she’d been distracted by his sexy wickedness for a moment or two. But now she could only feel punched in the gut by disappointment. He hadn’t gone for the cheap line right away, but he’d still managed to come up with a sleazy suggestion eventually.

      He might look like a blue-collar Prince Charming, but he was just another guy playing a game of follow-the-leader with his own dick.

      “I don’t think so. Heaven forbid it take longer than you think,” she said, keeping her chin up and her eyes narrowed.

      Marissa turned to walk away, already wondering how long she’d be thinking about those twinkling amber eyes and that incredibly sexy smile. Would she stop wondering what it might be like to kiss those perfect lips with the words that had emerged from them ringing in her ear?

      “Okay, it’s your wallet.”

      She paused midstep, glancing back at him. “My wallet?”

      “Sure. The towing charge is $250.00.”

      Utterly confused, she turned around completely. “What on earth are you talking about?”

      He pointed to a nearby sign. The one that said, “Employee Parking Only.” In the small print beneath were a few more words: “Violaters Will Be Towed At Owner’s Expense.”

      “They’re real Nazis about it, even when the lot’s practically empty.”

      Oh. My. God.

      “Like I said, getting your car towed out of here during your interview wouldn’t make the best first impression. And I promise, you do have time to move it. This place is pretty dead. I really don’t mind escorting you to the closest public lot.”

      “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered. “You were talking about my car? About where I was parked?”

      “Of course.” Then, suddenly realizing the same thing she had—that they’d been having two different conversations—the sexy guy quirked a brow and tilted his head.

      “What, exactly, were you talking about?”

      THE BLONDE WITH THE scraped-back hair, the uplifted chin and the irritated expression was looking at him like he’d sprouted a set of wings out of his back. And while Lieutenant Commander Danny Wilkes did love to fly, he really couldn’t manage it without the aid of an F/A-18 Hornet. Even the most experienced Naval Aviators couldn’t, as far as he knew.

      She didn’t answer, merely staring at him with those huge blue eyes, framed with the thickest lashes he’d ever seen. They fluttered as she blinked rapidly, like she was confused, trying to think of what to say. Considering he suspected the two of them had been engaging in totally different conversations, he figured he’d give her a little time to get herself together.

      Not physically, of course. Oh, she was already together in that regard.

      Funny, ever since he’d caught sight of her a few minutes ago, he’d had the refrain from Van Halen’s Hot For Teacher going through his head. Even before she’d confirmed she was here to interview for a teaching position, she’d just come across as that cross of übersmart and supersexy. Like the fantasy ninth grade science teacher he’d never had.

      He didn’t know about the übersmart yet—so far their brief interaction had been a little odd, and she hadn’t been at her conversational best.

      But supersexy? Hell, yeah.

      Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t imagine what the thick, ash-blond strands would look like falling in a curtain over her shoulders. He’d already noticed the deep blue eyes, but had put away any blue-eyed-blonde-bimbo associations the minute she’d lifted her chin and frowned at him.

      There was something sharp about her—a little edgy. He hadn’t seen a single pouty look on her pretty face, nor one heavy-lidded, come-hither stare. And she hadn’t walked or stood in a way that emphasized her curves, sending silent signals every guy learned to recognize by the age of fourteen.

      Those curves. Oh, he’d definitely noticed those. He couldn’t help but notice. He’d been openly admiring her slim calves while wondering about the long length of thigh he couldn’t see beneath her skirt.

      The clothes might be perfectly respectable—demure, in fact, at least if you looked up the definition of skirt and blouse in the dictionary. But not the way she wore them. The way the skirt hugged every inch of curvy hip and perfect backside, and the afternoon breeze molded her silky blouse against her slim shoulders and full, pert-tipped breasts, made her outfit rank right up there with anything out of Frederick’s of Hollywood.

      Sexy and prim, forward and flustered, unsure and determined. All in all, she was a contradictory puzzle—the most interesting one to cross his path in a very long time.

      Right now, the only word to describe her was confused. The woman was staring at him, her eyes only slightly rounder than her mouth. It was as if he’d said something incomprehensible.

      “Towed?”

      He nodded, wondering if he should rethink that smart idea. She seemed to have trouble following a simple conversation. “Yeah. Towed. And then they ransom your car back to you for a ridiculous amount of money. They do it all the time. I think that’s how they’re going to fund the next generation of battleships.”

      Her mouth snapped shut, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth for a second. She raised