Laney double-checked her seat belt and wondered, not for the first time, why Harlan had picked this particular locale for their honeymoon. He’d been a grade-A asshole, but maybe the man hadn’t been as clueless about their bedroom fun times as she’d believed. Maybe he’d had fantasies and she’d not been enough. Well, screw that. This time the only fantasies that mattered were her own.
ON A GOOD DAY, Laney saved at least five lives by noon. Her numbers dipped during the slower weeks, because not all days were a constant rush-rush of heart attacks, gunshot wounds and four-car freeway pileups. San Francisco traffic made the Autobahn look tame, and the off-ramps at Balboa Park alone had ambulances pulling into the bay on a semimonthly basis. Instead of scrubbing in, arms up as she hip-checked her way through the surgery door, however, now she was...naked.
Absolutely butt-naked and stretched out, waiting for a man to come and run his hands over her body.
Usually, naked was cause for celebration, except for the inescapable fact that she was all alone in a cabana with the same grade-A ocean views that had greeted her plane yesterday. Her surroundings included miles of powdery white sand, dotted with palm trees, and nothing but the calm blue Caribbean Sea begging for a close encounter with a snorkel. Fantasy Island—which was a ridiculously fantastic name—was undeniably much prettier and calmer than her usual Monday morning gig.
Harlan didn’t know what he was missing, the bastard. Oh, he was still a good-looking bastard, tall, broad shouldered and dark haired. He’d been tapped to play football for his college, but by then he’d already decided medical school lay in his future, and he’d passed on the team because he couldn’t risk the damage to his hands. If she hadn’t taken the Hippocratic Oath herself, she’d have been tempted to step on those talented fingers. Hard.
Imagining Harlan here on Fantasy Island was surprisingly difficult, although he’d been the one to pick out the place for their honeymoon. She was fairly certain she remembered what good sex was like. Or, at the very least, she remembered having sex. Decent sex with matching his-and-her orgasms at the end. Since both she and Harlan were trauma surgeons, they didn’t share too many off-the-clock hours, and she’d had to schedule time to make love with him, which was a sad commentary right there. This trip had been her chance to not be in control of every step of their sex life, and she’d been looking forward to it. While he, on the other hand, had been checking out nurses.
She wriggled on the massage bed and snuck another peek at her phone. Her ponytail slid over her shoulder and she forced herself not to grab it and play with the ends. But holy awkwardness. Lying here like a slab of meat hadn’t been in the spa brochure. Her cabana boy—aka masseuse—was late. The spa attendant had turned on some kind of New Age crap music, heavy on chimes but missing any noticeable beginning or end. The chiming went on ad nauseum. For added bonus points, the attendant had spritzed the air, and Laney’s towel cocoon smelled like some kind of floral scent that made her nose itch.
Waiting was not a good use of time. The sixty hours a week she spent—had spent—in a San Francisco trauma bay had been measured in increments of a minute or less. Of course, the same could be said about her sex life, which was her problem right there. She hadn’t been getting any, ergo she had sex on the brain.
Or maybe that was the resort’s fault. Her libido had Madeline’s explanations on the seaplane playing in a sexy loop through her head. Place an order from the cocktail menu—and pick a sexual fantasy. A Good-Night Kiss, Affair, Climax, Double Jack, Triplesex... Pick one. Point. All she had to do was ask for it.
She lifted her head up and fished her phone out from beneath her sheet. Six minutes late. She’d scheduled thirty minutes for this massage business—so she had twenty-four minutes left.
She liked to keep to her schedule.
Her masseuse, apparently, did not share her outlook on life.
“You’re cheating, sweetheart. No phones in the spa.”
Two big legs appeared in front of her, legs as big and rough as the voice issuing orders. Laney looked up and up and...sweet baby Jesus, the man had good genes. He was also more than a little rough around the edges. His face was all hard lines, his hair cut ruthlessly short with military precision. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw as he towered over her. He wore the loose white pants and form-fitting T-shirt that all the male resort employees sported, but somehow he managed to make the cotton look lethal, as if he were balanced on a razor edge, ready to pummel or go brute predator on the first threat that crossed his path.
This was her masseuse?
He tapped her phone. As if he had the power to make her do precisely as he commanded. It wasn’t hard to imagine him giving orders. Hit man. Maverick CEO. Rogue mercenary. She had no idea who he was, but her body leaped in anticipation when his thighs bumped 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.
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