her feet into socks and then shoes and started lacing up. If the call box was close enough, she might even have time for a quick dinner before her shift started. A shower, too.
“Ma’am.”
She was so engrossed in carrying out her plan that she didn’t hear the approaching car. Later, she would blame it on the wind that clapped in her ears. On the zone that she always slipped into whenever she became a woman of action, which is how she liked to think of it—whether she was running or pulling herself out of one of life’s nose dives.
Ivy dropped her hands, which had been gathering the hem of her shirt in order to pull it over her head, and looked up. Way up.
Six feet, broad shoulders, buzz cut. Probably a Marine.
That ribbon of thought was immediately followed by: rugged, like the man was cut out of
the dry, craggy hills that surrounded them; intense—his mouth was firm, lips thin, eyes a startling, clear shade of green-blue and focused relentlessly on her face.
Blond. Ivy had a weakness for blonds built like a god.
Of course, with her current work schedule and her history of poor relationships, she indulged only from a distance now.
Ivy placed a hand on the open door, and realized that she still held her bra, as white as a flag of surrender. She tossed it into the backseat behind her and ignored the flush of heat that swept up her neck and settled in her cheeks.
But he had noticed and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was an imposing figure. Not just tall and broad, but cut. The muscles of his shoulders and pecs were clearly outlined by his t-shirt.
Her skin tingled and flushed with sensitivity. Even her nipples responded, puckering into beaded delight.
Ivy made herself blink—it was the only way to break the tension between them.
She wondered where it came from. The sudden awareness of him—his shape, his strength, the chiseled features—and her swift reaction to his everything male.
She never responded this way—so quickly and completely—especially to a stranger.
She thought: Wow. And it kept repeating, like ticker tape running through her head.
She stood and said, “It’s about time.” Thinking about all the scenarios in which she’d found herself over the years—wishing someone would send in the Marines—but with no one but herself to rely on, and not at all about the timing of his arrival. But her words irritated him. She could tell by the way his face tightened, his eyes became hooded.
He lifted his hands—strong, long, tapered fingers—and placed them on his hips. Narrow hips in snug denim. The move caused his biceps to bunch, the corded muscles in his forearms to ripple. And she noticed three things at once—a hot spear of need shot through her body; she was badly in need of some male attention; and them were fighting words.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he returned, sarcasm slicing and dicing his words.
Chapter Two
Jake thought about not stopping. He had orders. R and R. Vegas. Now. And they had come from the top. General Fielding had looked Jake in the eye and asked him,
“When was your last vacation, Lieutenant?”
Jake had to think about it. “December 2010. A week with my sister and her kids in Kalispell.”
The General had nodded. “You need sun. You need hot.” He thought for a moment. “Vegas. Go home and pack a bag. Do not stop for provisions. I don’t even want you helping the little old lady across the street. I want you in Sin City by sundown. We’ll see you in four days.”
“Yes, Sir,” Jake had replied, because he’d had no alternative. But he had no idea what he would do in Vegas. He wasn’t a gambling, strip-show-watching, buffet kind of guy. Three hours later he wished he’d thought to counter the General. To suggest that he hike Yosemite or fly down to Cabo San Lucas for a little scuba diving. Anything other than sitting in a hotel room for four days, watching HBO and ordering room service.
“And Lieutenant,” the General had called after him, “I’ll be checking in with you. I want to hear slot machines and highball glasses in the background.”
“Yes, Sir. Vegas.”
And then he had come upon a disabled vehicle and a stranded woman changing clothes on the side of the highway. His foot was on the brake even as the General’s orders were swirling around in his head.
She was young, tall, graceful.
She had hair the color of whiskey.
A body that was fine-tuned