3

      BLAKE TOSSED AND turned in his bed. Thoughts of Macy in those jeans and that lacy red top made it impossible for him to sleep. He’d wanted to kiss her as soon as he saw her lick the whip cream from her lips. That pink tongue had darted out and all he could think of was capturing it with his mouth. He’d wanted to cover her in the white confection and lick every inch of her.

      Damn. He had it bad for her.

      He sat up on the side of the bed. He needed a shower, a cold one.

      Why did she have to be a reporter? If she had any other occupation he’d be doing his best to get in her bed. He couldn’t remember when a woman had affected him the way she did. Her laugh, smile and the way she walked with those lovely curvy hips swaying back and forth held his attention.

      He thought back over their conversation. Even though she’d pried, she did it respectfully. True to her word, she hadn’t asked him a single thing he couldn’t answer. And when she dug a little too deep, she’d backed off and made them chocolate chip cookie pies, her version of the whoopie pie.

      She was hot. Smart and funny. The perfect combo.

      But he couldn’t risk hanging out with a woman who might reveal secrets he prided himself on keeping. He might slip up, get carried away. And the last thing he needed was for his superiors to see something like that in the newspaper.

      He’d been thinking about taking the honorable discharge on offer, and maybe settling down like his friends Rafe and Will. They’d all met when Will was their captain on missions in Iraq and Afghanistan.

      Will had retired and Rafe had been in charge the day of the ambush. Rafe had all points covered. There was no way they could have anticipated the assault. There would have been a lot more casualties if they hadn’t been so prepared.

      Before the memories pulled him into the darkness, Macy’s smile flashed before him.

      Damn. Damn. Damn.

      He needed to go for a run, but the docs said it would be another three weeks before his leg could take the pounding.

      The town might be small, but they did have a health club that was open twenty-hour hours, specifically for folks who worked shifts.

      Grabbing his swim shorts, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Throwing on his leather jacket, he was at the club in less than five minutes. A swim would be the only thing to burn off the excess energy. It was his substitute form of meditation since he couldn’t run. The club was nearly empty at four in the morning, and for that he was grateful. He didn’t have to make conversation or smile. The sleepy girl at the desk waved him by when he flashed his membership card.

      Diving into the water he struck out hard, his arms and legs going at a blistering pace. After twenty or so laps, he slowed down and cleared his mind. The blank slate, his therapist suggested to calm his nerves, was hard for him to find some days. Tabula rasa, she’d called it. It was a challenge to find it when the sexy woman’s face kept popping up over and over again.

      Then there was his mother who had waited up to pepper him with questions when he’d returned the night before. Macy had nothing on his mom, who kept giving him strange looks and then smiled when he said he was tired and needed to sleep.

      He’d never understood women, and his mom was the most confusing of them all.

      “I don’t know what that water ever did to you, but I hope you’re never that mad at me.” Macy’s voice penetrated his concentration. He nearly gulped a mouthful of water as he stopped abruptly. He was at the end of a lap, and she stood above the lane in a formfitting navy swimsuit.

      Hell. The woman was trying to kill him.

      His cock was so hard it hurt. He leaned up against the wall and put his arms on the side of the pool to hide the evidence.

      What was he, twelve?

      Get yourself under control, Marine.

      “I have to give up running for a few more weeks and this is the way I meditate.”

      She chewed on her lip. “I thought you did yoga, or sat and chanted to mediate.”

      He smirked. “That’s awful closed-minded for someone who has traveled the world. Some people do. But I have trouble shutting off my brain if I’m not moving. When I sit still— Well. I have insomnia and sometimes exercise is the only way I can get myself to calm down.”

      She sat down and dangled her legs in the water. “I hope it’s not because of what we talked about last night,” she said worriedly. “It’s my nature to push at people until they give me what I want. I tried not to do that with you, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

      He couldn’t tell her the truth, so he lied. “No, it wasn’t that. Well, maybe a little. But not in the way you think.” He’d made a fool of himself. “Why are you here?”

      She pointed through the window where a man had Harley on a treadmill. “One of the trainers from the rescue shelter is working with Harley. The treadmill is made for people who have bad joints.”

      “She didn’t seem to have any trouble running around the other day.”

      “No, but she shouldn’t have done it. Running like that is bad for her. We’re trying to teach her to walk at a fast pace on the treadmill. This was the only time Jack could do it. He’s a vet tech at the shelter and his shift starts at seven.

      “I thought while they worked out, I’d come do some laps. I didn’t realize it was you until you made that last turn. I guess, though I never thought of it that way, swimming is my meditation, too. I do it more to make the puzzle pieces of my life and the stories I tell fit together. When I’m doing something physical, it helps me figure stuff out. And like Harley, I have a bad knee. I like running, but it doesn’t like me.”

      He glanced at her left knee, there was a round puckered scar there, and then a long line that intersected it. His head snapped up, his eyes met hers. “You were hit.”

      She nodded. “About three years ago. It was a through-and-through, but did some ligament damage on the way out. Nothing like what you’ve experienced.”

      The thought of her being harmed brought out his protective instincts. He pulled himself up out of the water and sat beside her. “You don’t have a limp.”

      “Nah. I had some great physical therapists.” She traced the scar on his right leg. “Wow, that’s nasty. Must really hurt.”

      Her touch had an instant affect on him. Thankfully her eyes were fixed on his right leg and knee. The scars went from his midthigh through his knee and calf. In all he’d taken three bullets in the one leg. And another one in his back. “It’s a lot better than it was six weeks ago. What were you doing when you got hurt?”

      “Researching a feature on the Arab spring. A demonstration I was covering got out of hand. Had to run for the border the first chance I got, and we were attacked. We were lucky that the marines were waiting on the other side.

      “I got hit.