Still baffled, but with the rational side of his brain sputtering due to the feel of her breasts sliding like white heat against his chest, Blake followed. His eyes on the sway of her hips as he headed for the door, he didn’t lose sight of her even as he took a short side trip to where his friends were waiting.
“I’m outta here,” he said, tilting his head toward Alexia’s back.
Cade followed his gesture, gave an impressed arch of his brows and a thumbs-up.
“Glad to see you’re using your time wisely,” he said with a grin before heading toward the heart of the club noise to party it up in his usual style.
Blake didn’t worry about blowing off his buddy. And given that the lieutenant commander was wearing a T-shirt that claimed Navy SEALs Don’t Make Deals, he didn’t feel bad about not making introductions, either.
He did, briefly, think joining Cade and the rest of the guys might be smarter than following Alexia outside. Those guys were trained to have his back. But some missions just had to be done solo.
Stepping out the club doors into the warm night air, he gave himself a second to adjust to the lack of noise. Nothing better than silence, with a little ocean music, to set a chewing-out to.
Alexia stood toward the end of the building, where the wooden walkway curved toward the ocean. Hands fisted at her hips, she sucked in a breath through gritted teeth, her eyes flashing fire.
“You sure you want to tear me down for the insult privately?” he asked before she could say anything. He flashed his most charming smile to indicate that he knew he had it coming and wouldn’t protest her angry retaliation. “Don’t you want witnesses?”
“Actually, I figured you needed a little air. You know, to clear the testosterone idiocy out of your head before you said anything even stupider.” Then, the fury clearing from her eyes, she laughed.
Laughed? Where had the anger gone? She was like mercury, changing so fast he could barely keep up.
Damned if that wasn’t tempting. She was sexy and fun, with so much energy he felt alive again. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to, though. Maybe it’d be smarter to turn heel and go back into the club. Or, he fingered the keys in his pocket, hop in his truck and drive away.
“Not that you don’t deserve a little teardown,” she continued with a shrug that highlighted well-toned shoulders and the golden glow she’d got at the beach that morning. “But I figure a guy smart enough to know he’s made an asinine comment is smart enough to not make it without a reason.”
Huh? Blake rocked back on his heels, trying to figure that one out.
“I got too close, right?” she guessed. “You’re upset about something and here I come, a total stranger, poking and prodding like I have the right to peek into your privacy. So you slapped me back. That’s natural.”
“Are you for real?”
“Why? Because I didn’t have a hissy fit?” She tilted her head to one side, her curls bouncing around her face. “Do you think women are that easily categorized?”
“I think this is where I got in trouble,” Blake mused. He still wasn’t buying the no-games line. But he was intrigued enough to want to see if she could change his mind. “Want to walk?”
She gave him a narrow look, then glanced at the tiny boardwalk leading to the beach. Smart women didn’t wander off with strangers, so he didn’t take offense. But since there was a party going on along the beach, it looked like a wedding or something, she must have decided there were enough numbers for safety.
She gave him a considering look. As if she was debating something beyond safety. For a second she looked as though she might think he had the potential to haul an ax out of his back pocket. Then she lifted her chin and offered a bright smile.
“Sure.”
As soon as they reached the point where the wooden slats gave way to silken sand, Alexia stood on one foot to remove her shoe, then switched to the other. Not sure when he’d become a gentleman, Blake held her hand to help her balance. Her fingers were dainty. Slender and fragile. Warm. Strong.
The kind of fingers that would feel incredible skimming over his naked flesh. Tugging his zipper down and gripping his hardening erection. Stroking, guiding.
Hell. As soon as she was barefoot, he not only grabbed his hand back, he put a safe couple feet between them. The woman was potent.
“You’re not taking yours off?” she asked.
“Nope.” To end the discussion, he strode onto the beach, his tennis shoes sinking, sand filtering into his socks. Didn’t matter. He had the feeling he’d do better to keep every article of clothing intact.
Although he didn’t have Cade’s track record and fancy-faced looks, he’d had his fair share of women hitting on him. Hitting back always depended on three things.
Timing. Was he fresh off a mission and in need of shedding some pent-up energy, or about to embark on a mission, which would provide him with an inarguable exit strategy?
Spark. A lot of guys he’d served with banged anything that moved. For the notch, for the cheap thrill, to stroke their ego. Whatever. Blake didn’t want notches, thrills or strokes when he got naked with a woman. What he did want was spark. Heat. Something wild and intense, like the rest of his life.
But the most important return-hit factor was the commitment perspective. Years of SEAL training had sharpened his instincts to a razor’s edge, and years of avoiding commitment had honed his ability to discern a woman’s intentions—even if she didn’t realize them herself.
Timing and spark didn’t mean jack if the woman’s perspective was skewed toward long term.
The redhead smiled. A slow, wicked curve of her lips. It didn’t matter that the look wasn’t aimed at him. Blake’s muscles still bunched, his senses sprang to full alert and his dick hardened. Yeah. There was plenty of spark. It was the timing, and the scary depths of her perception, that worried him.
“I’ve missed the beach,” Alexia said after a few minutes of silent strolling along the water’s edge.
“Where’ve you been?”
“New York.” She gave him a saucy look, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “Can’t you tell from my accent?”
Before training for the SEALs, Blake had served as a cryptologic technician. In civilian terms, a linguist. He spoke fluent Spanish, Russian, Arabic and Persian. And once in a while, pretty decent English.
“I meet a lot of people from a lot of places,” he told her. “Most are easy to place by their accents. You don’t have one, though.”
“Seriously? I don’t have any accent?”
He grinned at her affronted tone.
“I’m an expert,” he assured her. “Take it from me, you’re accent free.”
Then, maybe because he was starting to relax for the first time since watching Phil’s helmet blown to smithereens,
