against the side of the massage table.
Was he on the menu?
“This isn’t the spa.” Since her butt was stretched out beneath a cabana with a thatched roof, building rules absolutely did not apply. Neither did logic since, although Fantasy Island had twelve private villas, all positioned for maximum privacy and sunset views, what it did not have was an actual spa building. She’d been promised her masseuse would be happy to attend you wherever you wish, madame. “And you’re not in charge.”
“You’re on my massage table.” Amusement colored his deep voice, although his face remained impenetrable. Playing poker with this man would be dangerous. Hell, everything about him screamed dangerous. He certainly didn’t fit the spa’s brand of peace and mind-numbing serenity. He made the gangbangers, with their frequent-flyer cards to her ER, look like tame bunnies.
“That makes me the client.” And your boss. After all, she’d be picking up the tab for this little hands-on session.
“Uh-huh.” He plucked the phone out of her hand. “What could you possibly need to check?”
“The time. Give me back my phone.” She rolled over, sat up, extended an arm, and the sheet promptly dipped to nipple level. Damn it. The spa attendant must have been an Egyptian embalmer in a former life, because somehow the woman had gotten all the individual pieces of sheet strategically arranged to cover the embarrassing bits. Laney could do an emergency intubation on a flatlining patient, but the sheet defied her. She yanked it up and used her armpit as an anchor. Sexy. Not.
“You have a hot date?” He pocketed her phone, ignoring her outstretched hand.
Are you busy? “So. Are you going to massage me or what?”
Oops. That sounded downright pornographic. Her girl bits immediately voted for option B even as she lowered her arm.
“Lie down.” He nudged her eye covering back down, plunging her into the dark. She didn’t do vulnerable—and apparently her credit card wouldn’t need to cover a tip for this man because he had zero customer service skills.
“Wait.” The blast of heat she felt as she processed his order—and followed it—was chemistry. She knew all about chemistry, thanks to medical school. This man simply possessed enough symmetry that her own body had ramped up the pheromone production. It wasn’t personal—it was simply that he was mate-worthy.
“Who are you?”
Before he placed his hands all over her naked body—please—she needed to know his name.
* * *
“GRAY,” HE GROWLED. Since Laney Parker’s sweet little butt had intersected with his current mission, exchanging names seemed harmless. Plus, he was fairly certain that a real masseuse would have introduced himself or been labeled with one of those name-tag thingies. His three-day crash course in massage techniques clearly hadn’t prepared him as well as he’d thought.
Around her, however, he didn’t feel professional. Instead, he’d had a knee-jerk reaction to seeing her spread out and waiting for him. And that was before she’d instinctively followed his orders. How far would she let him push her? She wasn’t the kind of woman he usually went out with, but there was something about her... Raw. Vulnerable. Those were two words that came to mind, although they didn’t begin to describe her. She’d looked stiff and uncomfortable, sitting up on the massage table, until he’d ordered her to lie down. She’d liked the orders. Liked being told what to do, being able to shut off the commentary undoubtedly running through her head, and that was just fine with him. He could think of all sorts of orders he’d like to give her. She was unexpected and hot as hell, a delicious bonus he hadn’t anticipated finding here on the island.
She also wasn’t giving in easily. She’d make him work for her submission. He knew it instinctively.
“Gray, we’re going to need to work on your inter-personal skills.” She paused and then reached up to remove the cloth he’d slapped over her eyes.
“Leave it.” He shouldn’t have given her the command, should have let this scenario play out according to her rules, but he’d gotten a good look at her face when he’d confiscated her phone. Her eyes were dark blue, framed by long lashes. She had brown hair and fair skin, with no hint of a tan, so either she was a recent arrival on the island, or she was an overachiever in the sunscreen department. She’d pulled her hair up in a sleek ponytail that made him want to wrap the glossy rope of hair around his hand, hold her in place for his kiss. His touch. The arch of her brows and her stubborn jawline promised she didn’t take orders from just anyone, so the question was: Could he make her want it? She shifted uneasily, the ponytail sliding over a bare shoulder, teasing the freckle in the vulnerable hollow. Her eyes were authoritative and cool for someone who was waiting around naked.
“Stay down. I’m not done with you.” He pressed his hand against her bare shoulder, encouraging her to roll over. Such a simple touch, his hand against her skin, but she didn’t shrug him away or tell him to go to hell.
Instead, she flattened her palms against the white sheet. She had strong, capable hands, the nails neat and short. She’d eschewed polish, but a pale band of skin circled the ring finger of her left hand. She’d worn a ring until recently.
“You haven’t started. You’re late. And I’m not feeling relaxed.”
He could hear her mentally ticking off the reasons he’d failed her. It should have pissed him off but instead, her words were a challenge he wanted to rise to. It might be his first day on the job, but failure was never an option.
The orders to infiltrate Fantasy Island and lay the groundwork for a takedown operation had been straightforward. SEAL Team Sigma operated off the books. Gray had two weeks to get his team on the ground and canvass the island before Diego Marcos touched down. Marcos was unethical, ruthless and moving more product through Central America than coca. The man shipped weapons with his drugs, and his arms pipeline threatened the political stability of the region. Uncle Sam had more than a few questions to ask Marcos, and SEAL Team Sigma had been assigned the task of bringing the man in.
Alive.
Sometimes the job description sucked. It would have been simpler and safer to take the man down when he landed. A well-placed sniper. A mined road. Hell, a midnight meet and greet in the man’s room. Any of those three options worked for Gray. Instead, he got a hostile extraction. Intercept Marcos and move him to US custody. Although selected resort staff was in on the mission, the island’s vacationing civvies needed to remain oblivious to what was about to go down—and that meant not blowing his cover. He was the masseuse. She was the client. End of story. So what if civilian life, five-star living and gorgeous, classy women were foreign territory?
“Massage time.” The words came out more growl than not, so he added client banter to his growing list of skills to hone. Damn it. He needed to do some recon stat.
She tapped her fingers on the sheet, waiting for something. Damn. Possibly...an apology? Because he didn’t apologize any more than he retreated. He was a take it or leave it man. She thought she was in charge right now. Unfortunately, she was partially right.
“You start by introducing yourself,” she instructed. “And then you greet me by name and go over the paperwork I filled out so we can discuss any sensitivities or pain points I may have.”
It
