suit cupped her breasts, creating an illusion of bare skin that had him wanting to get closer.
Real close.
He was rotten for noticing, but she was so sexy standing there on the beach. Besides, he wasn’t dead—yet—which was pure luck given how his last tour of duty had ended, so he’d looked. Twice. Sue him.
She wasn’t glancing his way, anyhow. She had her feet planted in the sand and her eyes on the ocean. The water started crystal clear, but picked up color as the bottom dropped away beneath the surface, though he didn’t think she’d stopped to admire the view. The set of her shoulders made her seem somehow lost. Unsure. Like she had no idea how she’d ended up on a beach or what she should do now that she was here, despite the swimsuit.
No more rushing to the rescue. Remember?
Parking beside him, Tag Johnson whistled. He pulled off his helmet and switched off the engine of his own Harley. “Now, there’s a sight a man doesn’t see every day.”
Cal Brennan, the third in today’s unofficial club, clearly didn’t disagree. “Real pretty, Johnson.” A fellow former rescue swimmer, Cal Brennan didn’t miss much, but right now, his focus was all horizon. Daeg’s gaze followed Cal’s out to sea.
The latest storm kicking up over the Pacific was still working her way toward shore, but the sky was already overcast with dark clouds moving in. The flight ceiling was dropping by the second. The weather boys hadn’t announced the arrival of the first tropical storm of the summer yet, but Daeg could read the signs. A storm was blowing in, fast and hard.
That storm was all business.
Their business.
All three of them—Daeg, Tag and Cal—were former spec ops, the heart and soul of a combat rescue team stationed in San Diego, California, that had seen more than its share of missions. After they’d survived the navy’s BUD/S training and Hell Week, they’d been each other’s eyes and ears. They’d fought together and swum together, always on the alert and ready to roll out with a mere moment’s notice. After that last tour, though, Cal had cashed out and returned to Discovery Island, the small hideaway off Northern California where he’d been born and raised. Cal might not be in the business of search and rescue for Uncle Sam anymore, but he’d started Deep Dive, an elite private company specializing in just that. The business also brought in divers from around the world for advanced training. So when Cal had accidentally overbooked, Daeg hadn’t had to think too long or too hard about the request to pitch in.
He was all in.
And just in case the teaching got boring, Cal was putting together a volunteer dive-rescue team for the island to handle anything that went bad—diving accidents, boating mishaps, capsizing and the like. Since the nearest dive team was twenty miles away, located on the mainland where a fire department ran a part-time operation, Cal wanted his island to have its own team that would provide a faster, better response. From the looks of that sky, they’d be busy sooner rather than later.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m heading back to base.” Brennan kicked the cycle into gear. Base was the dive shop they’d rebuilt into a command center for their training and search-and-rescue business. “Get ready before the storm hits—”
Tag whistled low, still eyeing the dark horizon. “You in, Daeg? We’ll check the gear, go over protocols.”
Tag gripped the handlebars, clearly anticipating some action. Those sure hands knew every inch of the Seahawk he’d put up in the air when an emergency call came in. He’d coax a smooth ride from the chopper, drive her beneath the cloud ceiling like he was taking a walk in the park. He needed the adrenaline rush of the flight, the urgency of pitting himself against the wind and the water every bit as much as Daeg did.
Daeg himself hadn’t been back to Discovery Island since he’d enlisted ten years ago, had told himself he didn’t miss the place, but now he wasn’t ready to leave. Something about that woman teased his memory. His senses.
“Daeg’s got his eye on something—someone—else,” Cal teased. “Man’s on a whole different mission.”
In response, he made a rude gesture, waving off Tag and Cal.
They weren’t wrong.
He slipped off his helmet and steadied the bike. The bike sank slightly into the hot asphalt. The sun had heated the island thoroughly, but even the California summer gave ground when the rays left and the ocean breeze kicked in. Fastening the helmet to the seat, he bent down and started unlacing his boots. Maybe he’d take a walk, see where it led him.
He had at least an hour to burn before the rain came.
And he was in the mood to forget. He wanted to flirt a little. Maybe get to know the pretty beachcomber if she was interested. After the past couple of months, he needed a bit of sweet oblivion.
When he’d been in the navy, storms always meant trouble. Someone, somewhere, would need a rescue, the H-60 would go up and his team would hit the water. No matter how dangerous that water got, he didn’t leave until the rescue happened.
Except once.
Usually, he exhausted himself physically and then sleep followed. But lately the dreams had been getting worse, as if his mind was just plain done forgetting what had happened on that final tour. The pills the doctor had given him weren’t an option as far as he was concerned. Too many good soldiers went that route and never came back. That last mission had messed with his head enough—he didn’t need a chemical assist.
So his options were working his butt off until he dropped—which his injured knee protested vociferously—or finding himself a woman. His gaze slewed right to the woman in the bikini before he could censor that last thought. Behind him the cheerful noise of the island’s boardwalk picked up as the tourists toweled off or suited up for a predinner stroll. There were plenty of women around, checking out the beach, some scantily clad but somewhere, somehow, he’d lost the urge for a mindless, anonymous hookup. Maybe he’d feel different by the end of the summer yet right now, with his R & R stretching out in front of him, he just felt empty.
The ocean kept calling his name like always and he couldn’t imagine staying put. He shuddered at the thought of going all white picket fence with a nine-to-five job.
Good luck with that.
Before he could change his mind, his boots landed beside the bike and he rolled up the jeans. Since his inner stalker was anxious to get better acquainted with Ms. White And Crochet, he’d give in to temptation.
Take the chance.
“That’s a real nice sunset,” he said when he was standing behind her, because apparently, this was the night to trot out every lame line known to mankind. Hell. He was rustier at the social-skills thing than the newest recruit.
Her head shot up and she almost jumped at the sound of his voice, her hands getting a death grip on her canvas tote. As he got his first full-on look at her face, he realized he was in trouble here.
He knew this face, knew this woman. Danielle Andrews. His Dani.
Catching her elbow with his hand, he made sure she didn’t fall.
She was still gorgeous. Even more so than she had been the last time he’d surprised her on the beach. Then, the feel of her skin against
