Then his hands tightened against her back, and he said in a low, gritty voice, “You wanna know how I am?” An exhalation of amusement, which just perhaps wasn’t amusement at all, huffed out of his lungs. “I’m so blown away it’s not even funny.”
“No,” she said on a disbelieving laugh, pushing up to look down at him. She had no illusions about herself. She was tall and skinny and had decent boobs, but hips and a booty that could belong to a twelve-year-old boy. She knew men found her reasonably attractive, but in no man’s universe was she close to being in this guy’s league.
Her mass of strawberry-blond curls, by now scary-crazy-frizzy from air that was still humid from an earlier, short-lived downpour—not to mention Diego’s demanding hands tangling in them—fell forward to intertwine with his sleeker black curls. She looked down at her hands where they splayed against the ebony fan of hair on his deep golden-brown chest. After nine days in the tropics, her skin was the tannest it had ever been. Unfortunately, all that meant was that, instead of its usual 2-percent-milk hue, it was the color of anemic toast.
Diego brought both hands up to smooth her hair away from her face, gathering it into a fat ponytail at the base of her skull. Holding it in one fist, he looked into her eyes, and his own were free of laughter for perhaps the first time since he’d sauntered up to where she’d been dipping her toes in the surf and introduced himself. “Yes,” he refuted, as the fingertips of his free hand brushed up and down the side of her throat. His thumb left a streak of fire in its wake as it briefly swept her jawline. “You blew me right out of the ballpark.” His full mouth developed a wry slant, and his broad shoulders performed a minute shrug against blindingly white sheets. “I didn’t see that coming.”
It was probably a line, but if so, it was a good one. Lord knew it was working on her—her heart felt gooey as a chocolate truffle left out on a hot tropic night.
Diego stared up at her. “I love your mouth.” His voice was rough, his dark eyes hot, and Tasha’s heart pounded as he crunched up from six-pack abs with the clear intention of kissing her. Before he could, however, his cell phone rang.
He swore and glanced at the nightstand where it rested. Then swore again.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning his attention back to her. “I have to get this.” He gently levered her off of him and onto the middle of the mattress. Then in one smooth, unbroken movement, he pushed to his feet, swept the phone off the stand and, thumbing the green button, brought it to his ear. “Yeah,” he said. “This better be important.”
Watching him, Tasha realized he didn’t look charming in that moment. He looked dangerous: big and dark and unselfconsciously naked, his eyes hard and his mouth grim. Untangling the sheet from the bed, she pulled it up, covering herself and tucking it under her armpits. She glanced at her watch.
Oh, God. She needed to think about getting dressed if she wanted to catch the last plane back to Nassau.
Dragging the sheet with her, she climbed off the bed. Suddenly, what had seemed so daring and exciting several hours ago—impulsively agreeing to accompany Diego to the big island of Andros—felt reckless and so not smart. She began gathering her scattered clothing.
She slid into her panties, pulled on her sundress and was digging through her purse in search of something to pin her hair up with when warm, hard arms slid around her waist and pulled her back against a warmer, even harder chest. “Heyyyy.” Diego hunched to breathe in her ear. He’d pulled on the shorts and muscle tee he’d worn earlier. “What are you doing?”
It was hard to think with his heat and scent and feel all around her, and she cleared her throat. “My plane leaves in an hour and a half. I need to get to the airport.”
“Stay here with me another night. I’m supposed to be on vacation but my boss tracked me down and I have to go out for a bit to talk to him. But I’ll only be gone an hour, tops, and then we can have the rest of the night.”
“Oh.” Temptation beckoned, and for a minute she thought she could give in to it. Then reason and her usual pragmatism resurfaced. She pulled her e-ticket out of her purse and wagged it in front of their faces. “I don’t think so. I have a reservation.”
He kissed the side of her neck. “I’d really, really like to spend the rest of the night with you,” he murmured in that low, deep voice of his. “I’ll get you back to Nassau tomorrow, I promise, even if I have to charter a seaplane.” He moved his lips to the vulnerable hollow behind her ear.
And both Tasha’s reservations and her spine melted. “Well, maaaaybe that would be okay.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He swung her around to face him and kissed her long and hot and deep. Her purse fell from nerveless fingers, and the next time she managed to locate two semi-functioning brain cells to rub together, Diego was pushing off of her as she once more lay flat on her back on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at her. “I don’t like to leave either of us hanging this way, but my boss is an impatient sonuvabitch, and I told him I’d meet him in—” he looked at his watch “—shit, two minutes.” He bent down and planted another fast, hard kiss on her lips before straightening again. “I’ll be back just as soon as I can, okay?”
She nodded; he groaned. Then with a muttered “I will not kiss her again. I will not kiss her,” he turned on his heel and strode from the hut.
She’d barely dragged herself upright, repaired her lipstick and finally located a couple of clips to deal with her hair when the pounding on the door of the little hotel hut commenced. Grinning, she whirled from the mirror and raced on bare feet to open the door. “Hah! Forgot your key, didja?”
But it wasn’t Diego on the lanai. Several dark-skinned men in the light blue uniform shirts and black berets of the Royal Bahamian police pushed past her into the one-room hut. Not one of them offered her the usual friendly smiles she’d become accustomed to seeing since her arrival in the islands. These men, wrapped in Kevlar vests, were grim-eyed and grimmer-mouthed.
“What’s going on?” she demanded, only to find herself herded to a chair, where all she could see was the red tuxedo stripe that ran up the leg of the officer’s black slacks as he and the curve of the hut blocked her view of most of the activity going on around her.
But she could hear them dragging the mattress from the bed and opening and slamming drawers. Then suddenly the officer in front of her stepped aside, and an older man in a khaki shirt stood in his place, one hand folded at the small of his back, the other hanging loose at his side, a black dress hat with a red band and white bill tucked under his arm.
“I am Inspector Rolle of the DEU,” he said in a deep, melodious voice.
“DEU?” she squeaked. “What’s that?”
“Drug Enforcement Unit. Your name, please?”
“Tasha.” She swallowed, wondering what the hell was going on. It couldn’t have anything to do with Diego...could it? “Tasha Riordan.”
“Where is your accomplice, Ms. Riordan?”
Panic punched harder. Oh, God, oh, God, this was so not good. “Accomplice to what? I don’t have an accomplice!”
“This is your room?”
“No. No, I’m a guest.”
“A guest of whom?” he demanded sternly.
“Diego...?” She stumbled to a halt, and the austere-faced inspector raised bushy brows at her.
“I never actually got his last name,” she stammered. “I know that sounds—” Then her brain finally kicked in. “It should be on the registration, though.