Semper Paratus (Always Prepared)
—Motto of The United States Coast Guard
Six months chaste.
Coast Guard Lieutenant Commander Scott Everly had gone six
long months without sex, although in all honesty it felt
more like six years.
Unintended celibacy weighed heavily on his mind and body as
he paddled his kayak through the mangrove channel, using
vigorous physical exercise to sublimate his baser needs.
He'd tried it all. Jogging, strength training, boxing,
but in spite of his daily workouts, insomnia plagued him.
Digging deep, he pushed himself harder, rowing full-out
until his shoulder, back and chest muscles ached with just
the right kind of sweetness.
"Better than sex," he lied to himself. "Who
needs sex when you've got all this?"
The early Monday-morning sun bathed warm rays, the color of
Florida grapefruits, across the deep green, tree-shrouded
landscape. it was good to be home again, even if it was only
for three weeks. He was on leave, although the joke in the
ranks was that a Coastie never went on vacation; they were
born ready for action.
While he loved his commission in D.C., he missed Key West
and his family something fierce. He was a Conch through and
through, but when it came down to it, as long as he was near
water, Scott was a happy guy.
As third generation Coast Guard, sea brine flowed through
his veins, and he considered himself the luckiest man on the
face of the earth to be doing a job he loved.
Scott had come home for his younger sister's wedding a
week from this coming Saturday. How could it be that Megan
was old enough to marry? It seemed like just yesterday that
he was pulling her pigtails and putting bullfrogs down the
back of her shirt.
He breathed in the heated scent of summer—ripe mangos,
tangy lime, earthy loam and murky tide pools. The air
smelled rich, sticky and uniquely Key West. A fish jumped,
tail slapping against the water, before sinking back below
the wet depths. overhead, blue-white clouds bunched in the
waning darkness, voluptuous as a plump woman's bottom.
Scott had an urge to reach up and pinch the sky.
Knock it off. He was daydreaming about goosing
clouds? How pathetic was that?
"Snap out of it," he growled under his breath.
It's been too long, old buddy. Way too long.
He was thirty years old, in the best shape of his life and
he hadn't had sex in six months, one week, three days
and twenty-one hours. Not that he was counting or anything.
His last relationship ended because his girlfriend had
wanted him to leave the Coast Guard. Too dangerous, Amber
had said. He'd already been injured twice. Why push his
luck?
He'd flat out told her no. She'd known who and what
he was when they'd started dating. If she cared about
him, she wouldn't ask him to change.
She said she couldn't bear it if he ended up like this
father, killed in the line of duty, and she refused to be
like his mom. Widowed at forty.
Hell, she might as well have asked him to quit breathing.
He'd learned one thing from that relationship. His ideal
mate had to accept him just as he was—military career
and all. He was done bending himself into a pretzel to
please a woman.
Unless of course it was in bed.
Grinning, he stuck his oar into the water, pushed
aggressively against the current. A gator slipped from the
banks into the channel right behind him, but Scott
didn't pay much attention. He was bent on getting sexual
frustration out of his system before meeting an old friend
for breakfast. Alligators were a fact of life in Florida and
as long as you didn't do anything stupid, they generally
minded their own business.
Six months.
The longest dry spell he'd had since college. He was a
charming guy and he knew it. He'd been graced with his
father's good looks and his mother's outgoing
personality. Usually he had no trouble coaxing a willing
lady into his bed, but as much as he wanted sex, short, hot
liaisons had oddly lost their appeal.
What he couldn't figure out was why. Maybe it was
because his baby sister was getting married. Megan's
wedding made him realize he wasn't getting any younger,
but then again neither was he ready for commitment.
So what do you want? Sex or a relationship?
That was the quandary and explained his lengthy dry spell.
Scott blew out his breath and rounded the bend. That's
when he saw her.
Where the channel turned into an estuary just before it
joined the sea, a lone woman bobbed in a small dinghy.
A precarious spot. Rocky shoals. Swift current. And there
were the gators. Not to mention bull sharks.
Instantly, his protective instincts engaged. What was she
doing out here alone at this hour of the morning when dew
still dampened the air and darkness lingered in the shadow
of the mangrove trees?
Was she unaware of the trouble she could get into? Between
drug smugglers, human traffickers, deadly wildlife and the
tourist trade that attracted scores of inebriated college
students, Key West was not a place to be taken casually. As
much as he loved the tropical beauty of his hometown, as a
Coast Guard officer he knew all the locale's dirty
little secrets.
The woman stood up in the boat, her back to him. The skiff
rocked gently.
What was she up to?
She held something in her hands, but he couldn't make
out what it was. Damn, he wished he had binoculars.
From what he could see of her she was thin as a sapling.
Scott preferred women with a little meat on their bones. He
liked rounded bellies, curvaceous butts and lush thighs.
This woman could do with a double helping of his homemade
chicken and dumplings. A thick slab of his famous Key lime
cheesecake wouldn't do her any harm, either.
Still there was something about her that instantly attracted
his attention and it went much deeper than looks. Yes, she
was pretty, but in a careless way, as if she couldn't be
bothered with anything as shallow as tending to her looks.
She possessed both intense concentration and a quiet
serenity that called to him.
She lowered whatever she held in her hands into the water
via a black cable.
Scowling, Scott changed directions and paddled toward her,
territorial impulses driving him. Who was she and what was
she doing here?
He drew closer, but she never glanced up from her task. His
kayak glided over the water, swiftly, silently. If she were
up to something illegal, wouldn't she be more furtive?
Or maybe she was just that arrogant.
She bent at the waist, her white cotton T-shirt riding up to
expose her smooth, slender back and showing off her
heart-shaped butt. From the waistband of her low-rise blue
jean shorts, a red thong bikini peeked out.
Scott stared as if he'd never seen a woman in a thong,
angling his head for a better look and feeling his pulse
quicken. What was that all about? Normally, he was a pretty
even-tempo guy and this woman was not his usual
type.
And yet…and yet he could not stop staring at her.
A pair of mile-long legs tapering to skinny, but shapely
calves had his breath coming out in hot, tight rasps.
Exertion. It was nothing more than exertion.
Yeah? You exercise every morning and you've never
gotten short of breath like this before.
Curiosity tickled the back of his neck. Interest tingled his
hands. Startling desire stirred beneath the zipper of his
khaki shorts.
Leave her be. She's not your concern. You need to
turn around now if you want to be on time for your breakfast
meeting.
But he kept stroking straight toward her, hands curled
tightly around the bent shaft of the fiberglass paddle,
because she
was his concern. If anything happened
to her, he'd feel forever guilty for not warning her
about the dangers of boating alone in the Key West
mangroves.
Um, you 're alone.
That was different. He was a guy, for one thing, a native
for another and third, he carried a gun.
Is that really why you're going over? To warn her?
Of course it was the reason. He was Coast Guard. Even though
he wasn't on duty, he'd been raised to look after
people on the coastal waterways. "A Coast Guard,"
his father had been fond of saying, "is a shepherd of
the seas." The Coast Guard motto was
Semper
Paratus. Always prepared.
The glare of the rising sun caught him squarely in the face.
He squinted, wished he'd worn sunglasses, his gaze fixed
on the woman in the dinghy. He turned his kayak away from
the sun, hungry for a second look.
She straightened in silhouette, a lithe figure in the
splendid dawn. The denim shorts she wore were cutoffs with
unraveling threads. One side was higher than the other as if
she'd just grabbed a pair of scissors and whacked away
without measuring.
Scott didn't mind. The shorter side revealed a glimpse
of where her firmed thigh rounded into her buttock. He had
an overwhelming urge to press his mouth to that sweet spot
and nibble.
A shiver went through him and sweat popped out on his
forehead.
Look away. Paddle away. Get out of here.
He didn't move.
She reached for the hem of her T-shirt and in one quick
swoop tugged it over her head, revealing a red bikini top
that matched her bottoms. Although she was not overly
endowed, she curved in all the right places.
More than a mouthful is a waste anyway, his best
friend since grade school, entrepreneur Gibb Martin, loved
to say about small-breasted women. He'd heard somewhere
that the French considered the perfect breast size to be one
that could fit into a wineglass. Frankly, Scott was more of
a leg man. There was a reason Rod Stewart's "Hot
Legs" was on his MP3 player and this woman had hot legs
in spades.
Her hands went to the snap of her denim shorts and in two
seconds flat, she was standing in the wavering boat wearing
nothing more concealing than a thong bikini, still seemingly
unaware of his presence.
Scott held his breath. He shouldn't have been so
impressed. For hell's sake, women strutted the beaches
of Key West in thongs every day of the week. Many of them
moving straight from sand to asphalt without a cover-up for
the famed Duval Street Crawl. Key West was free and easy.
Residents and tourists alike came here to let it all hang
out. He should not have been slack-jawed.
But he was and he had no idea why.
Sure you do. You're six months backed up and
she's a nearly naked water nymph.
So he should mind his own damn business and head back.
Smart. So why was he still drifting here, his gaze glued to
her backside?
Don't be a tool, fool. Go.
His skin sweated against the kayak oar, his fingers curled
so tightly that his short nails bit into his palms. He
caressed her with his eyes from the top of her
caramel-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail that just
grazed the strap of her bikini top, to the nip of her waist,
to the flare of her hips.
Then she gave a graceful little hop and dived headfirst into
the murky water. The muted splash echoed softly down the
channel.
She disappeared from view and the last he saw of her were
cute toes painted pearly peach flipping gracefully as a
dolphin's fin. He waited, and his temples started to
pound. He realized he was holding his breath.
Exhaling, he glanced at his sports watch. She'd been
down there for over a full minute. Just when he was getting
worried, she came up on the side of the boat closest to him.
Talk about superior lung capacity.
Water glistened on her high cheekbones, rolled off her full
lips. Her hair lay plastered against her skin. She looked
like a beguiling mermaid.
Splash, Splash. Catch of the day.
Scott ran a palm across his mouth, tasted the saltiness of
desire on the back of his tongue. It was too early in the
morning for thoughts like this.
Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. She tossed her head,
sent water flying over him, her legs gently threading water.
Then her indigo eyes opened.
She did not startle. In fact, she seemed utterly
self-possessed. As if she'd known all along that he was
watching her. Who was this woman?
Their gazes locked.
A swell of thundering heat rolled through his veins, rushed
straight to his groin.
She did not smile. Did not speak. She didn't have to. He
could feel her disdain.
His head spun and a burst of adrenaline sent his pulse
skipping. What the hell was this? Some kind of extreme
horniness he'd never felt before?
He'd come over here to warn her off boating alone.
Cockily portraying the protector. Donning his Coast Guard
mien. Preparing to show off his knowledge. But one look into
that enigmatic face and something shifted. Tilted.
Suddenly, Scott couldn't help feeling that he was the
one in danger.
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