Chapter Two

       James: What the hell are you wearing?

       Becca: Costume 4 bar I’m promoting.

      Now there was a challenge. And one Levi Everton knew was damn near impossible. Becca Wolfe would never be satisfied with any of these mere mortals.

      But with her feet spaced apart and her lithe, lightly tanned legs looking ridiculously long, she sure looked ready for action.

      All Levi could do was stare.

      Her costume was hot—a tiny leatherette skirt and an even tinier leatherette tank showing off her cleavage with a strategically placed rip. The top ended just beneath her ribs, baring a stretch of her flat, toned tummy. Slung low on her hips was the ammo belt, and on her back was a bottle from which two hoses emerged, and then fed into the “pistols” she held in each hand. She had golden arm cuffs, emblazoned with the soda company logo. She was like some ancient Greek warrior Goddess. Selling sexed-up soda.

      Was this really square Becca Wolfe—the ice princess who’d never let a boy talk to her, let alone touch her? Had seven years really made such a difference?

      He watched, both irritated and amused, as that guy who’d asked her for a shot theatrically fell to his knees and offered himself to be used in whatever manner she chose. Becca nodded ever so slightly—as frigidly regal as ever—and flipped him a vial from her belt. Then she glanced up and asked. “Anyone else?”

      The whole damn lot of them got on their knees.

      All except Levi.

      No, he remained standing, watching as she bestowed her favors—either a direct shot from a pistol into a mouth, or a vial from the belt. Telling himself he couldn’t possibly want her as badly after all this time.

      That he couldn’t want her even more.

      She’d been a crush. It wasn’t like she’d broken his heart or anything. But she’d given him the push to succeed. The way she’d smacked him down—she’d looked horrified that a guy like him had dared ask her out. Yeah, that had stung. Not that he’d ever let her know it.

      Finally she stepped away from them, calling out as she turned away with a flick of her long, luscious hair. “That’s all for a moment, minions. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

      A few groaned and walked after her, but it seemed she’d now mastered the art of a polite rejection—a smile, a firm answer, and even more firm look. And then she walked.

      But Levi walked too, striding out to circle around his prey so he ended up in front of her, blocking her path back up the beach. She tried to give him the polite smile and that death look. But he was determinedly immune. She wasn’t hurting him this time.

      “So…” She stopped about three feet away and tried the up-and-down appraisal she’d leveled that other guy with. “Look at you, after all these years.”

      Last time she’d seen him he’d worn nothing but the black jeans and black tee uniform of the café she’d liked to hang out at and where he’d worked insane hours. Now he was in fawn-colored chinos, a pressed white shirt and a navy jacket, looking stupidly country club for the Greek isles. In his defense, he’d had an important meeting with an investor who lived on the island. But now he was back to holiday mode. “What, you think it’s too flash for the beach?”

      “Far too flash. You’re overdressed.”

      He saw her glance dip to the watch on his wrist. Was it really only money that mattered to her? Status? “Compared to you.” He couldn’t help his sarcastic bite.

      Her cocoa eyes narrowed. “What, you think because I’m dressed like this, I must be easy?”

      He chuckled. He’d bet everything she’d had plenty of guys trying it on with her dressed like that. “Aren’t you?”

      Her chin jerked up. “You can look, but you can’t touch.”

      “That’s what lap dancers say.”

      “You would know.”

      He laughed again, anticipation tightening his gut. “You always were a tease.” He stepped forward. “Flash the eyes. And then deny what you’re offering.”

      “I’m not offering what you’re thinking.”

      “Why do you think you have hundreds of men hanging around you?”

      “They want the free juice.”

      “It’s not the juice they want and you know it.”

      “No I don’t, but if that’s the case they’re going to be disappointed.”

      “Then why look so easy?”

      “I’m advertising. I prefer this outfit to a sandwich board.”

      “But what is it you’re advertising?” He took one more step nearer—breaching intimate—and lowered his voice. “The soda, or sex?”

      “Oh, you do think you’re flash,” she whispered with bite.

      “That’s because I am,” he said loftily. “I guess the question is, am I now flash enough for you?”