He's the One (27 page)

The problem was, it had been good. Really good. Her cheeks heated at the thought.

“Never mind. You don’t need to answer. It must have been pretty great to make even
you blush.” He laughed.

“Tucker—” She reared back for another hit, but Tuck backed out of her reach.

He held up his hands in surrender. “All right. All right. No more about that subject.
Just one more thing.”

Carla sighed. “What?”

“He’d be lucky to have you. Remember that.” Tuck leveled his gaze with hers and she
realized how serious he was by the tone of his voice. No joking now. Tuck meant it.

“Thanks.”

“So what are you going to do about Ross?”

“I thought we were done talking about this?”

He shrugged. “Man has a right to change his mind. You gonna call him?”

She debated a snappy comeback. Something clever to put Tuck in his place, but Carla
found she didn’t have any fight left in her, so she opted for the truth. “I have no
idea.”

Through narrowed eyes, Tuck watched her for what felt like a long time before he nodded
once. “So, I wanted to see if we could shave some time off Val’s runs today. Think
you could work with her on that?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Shock at the change in subject from her love life back to the practice
was enough to have Carla stuttering over her answer. Though the look in Tuck’s eyes
as he turned toward the arena told her this was only a temporary reprieve.

Chapter Seven

M
ark scrubbed his hands over his face. His frustrated sigh reached no one’s ears except
his own since he was alone in his office. Hell, he was probably alone in the building,
save for a janitor or two working the night shift. Leaving work to go home alone held
no appeal.

Funny, he’d worked so hard to make his condo into a home, but it didn’t feel very
homey lately. It just felt empty.

The phone ringing on his desk had Mark frowning at the unfamiliar number on the caller
ID. He reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Ross?”

“Uh, yes.” Who the hell was calling him at work this late?

“Jeez, man, you’re putting in the hours. And during summer break, no less. I tried
your house number first but when I got no answer, and saw your cell number isn’t listed,
I figured I’d take a shot at the office. Listen, don’t you get any ideas about making
Becca work this late because I’m not putting up with it. Especially after she and
I are married.”

Pieces started to fall into place and Mark recognized Tucker’s voice.

“Don’t worry about that.” The answer of who was calling raised another question for
Mark. Why was he calling? “So, Tucker, what can I do for you?”

There was a pause, then a sigh, which had Mark more intrigued. Tucker Jenkins, stern
soldier and big and tough bull rider, wasn’t usually one to mince words, yet he seemed
to be at a loss now. What in the world could this call be about?

“Look, Ross. I’m going against my better judgment here, and I’m breaking one of my
own rules by interfering where I have no business, but I can’t stand seeing her like
this. I just want you to know, I don’t do shit like this. You know, going behind somebody’s
back.”

The more Tuck spoke, the more confused Mark became. “Okay. Is Becca upset about something
happening here at work? I would certainly understand if she felt more comfortable
talking to you rather than me—”

“Becca? No, this isn’t about her. I’m talking about Carla.”

Just the name had Mark’s heart rate speeding. “What about Carla?”

Had Tuck tracked him down to defend her honor? Just what Mark needed, a broken nose
to go with his bruised ego.

“You need to call her.”

Huh. Not what he’d expected Tucker to say at all, but at least Mark could honestly
say his not calling Carla after they’d been together was not the issue. “I did call.”

“Call her again.” Tuck’s order came through loud and clear.

Mark would gladly concede the point that perhaps Tucker had tougher skin than he when
it came to women, but a man could take only so much rejection. Mark wasn’t sure he
had it in him to go back for more. “Tucker, I don’t know what she told you—”

“Enough.”

Tuck was obviously a man of few words, but that didn’t change the fact that Carla
had blown Mark off. “Look, based on our last phone conversation, it was apparent to
me she doesn’t want me to call her.”

“Ross, listen to me. I’m not gonna betray her confidence any more than I already have
by repeating what we talked about. Just trust me on this. Call. Her. Again.”

The pounding of his pulse echoed in his ears as a small spark of hope began to grow
inside Mark. “You really think I should?”

“Yes!” Tuck’s booming answer left no room for further question.

The idea of talking to Carla again had him feeling nauseated and excited at the same
time, but he’d do it. He had to. He’d never be able to face Tucker again if he chickened
out. “All right. I will.”

“Good. Do it now. She’s alone in the truck driving home from practice, so she’ll be
able to talk to you without a house full of nosy family members listening in.” Tuck
had thought of everything, and Mark couldn’t be more grateful for the unexpected ally.

“I’ll call right now. And, Tuck? Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, just don’t screw it up.”

Mark laughed, though his nervousness over the impending call had it sounding more
manic than humorous. “I’ll try my best not to. Believe me.”

He hung up and, with shaking hands, opened the faculty directory online and scrolled
to Carla’s cell number. He pulled his own cell out of his pants pocket and punched
in the numbers.

“Hi.” Her informal greeting told him she recognized his number, though her hesitation
ramped up his anxiety a bit.

“Hi. I was wondering . . . can we talk?”

She blew out a breath. “Yeah. I think I’d like that. Do you want to meet somewhere
tonight?”

God, yes. More than anything. Heart pounding, he glanced at her home address. “If
you’d like, I can be at your place in fifteen minutes.”

“No! Sorry, just anywhere but my house.”

Mark pulled back from the phone at the force of her reaction, until he remembered
what Tuck had said about her nosy family. She must still live at home. If she did
want to talk so she could let him down gently, he’d prefer not to have an audience
of her relatives in attendance. “Do you want to meet somewhere in the middle? Like
a coffee shop?”

“I’d rather talk in private.”

Hmm. That could be a good sign, or a bad sign. He wasn’t sure which yet. “Okay. Where?”

“Can I come to your place?” she asked.

“Yes. Of course you can. Not a problem at all.” Had he remembered to put his dirty
laundry in the hamper? It didn’t matter. He’d beat her there and make things right
before she came inside. Did he have any beer left in the fridge from the last poker
game? Mark stood as his mind reeled. “Let me give you the address. The directions
are pretty simple.”

 

 

Carla stood outside Mark’s place and tried to ignore the tremble in her hand as she
raised it to press the doorbell.

She never got to it. Before she had the chance to ring the bell, the door was flung
open and Mark stood in front of her, looking better than she’d ever imagined.

“Hi. Sorry, I’m still in my work clothes.” He glanced down at his tie and cringed.
“I didn’t have a chance to change.”

“Don’t apologize. I like it. You look . . . profes-sorly.” And with that realization,
she had to squelch the insecurity she felt all over again. Where was Tuck and his
pep talk now that she needed him?

“Come in. Please.” He stepped back.

She walked a few feet into his home and realized it really was his. It looked like
him—the tailored yet masculine furniture and the accents suggested he’d hand selected
every detail. Crystal glasses and bottles of liquor made for a beautiful but practical
display on the sideboard. Old leather-bound books sat in stacks on every available
flat surface around the room. She had no doubt he’d painstakingly searched for and
chosen each one.

The last book Carla had read was—when? Back in high school before she’d dropped out.

Crap. This was a bad idea. She was about to leave when the expression on his face
stopped her. A frown creased his brow and she noticed the insecurity and hesitation
in him. Mark thought that it was him, that she didn’t want to go out again because
she didn’t like him.

“Mark, I like you.”

He let out a short laugh. “I like you, too.”

“It’s just—”

Mark held up one hand. “Wait, let’s sit down for this conversation. I have a feeling
I might need to.”

Carla sighed. She was screwing this up royally. He gestured toward the sofa, and she
sat. He followed, but left a good distance between them.

“Go on. What were you going to say?”

“I want to see you again,” she began.

Mark nodded. “That’s fortunate, since I’d like to see you again as well.”

“But . . .”

He waited, his face an expressionless mask but she could still see the turmoil of
emotions he tried to hide just beneath the surface. “But what, Carla?”

Frustrated at her inability to express her feelings, she asked, “Why do you want to
see me again?”

“Why?” He smiled. “That’s easy. You’re amazing.”

Disappointed, Carla pursed her lips. “I’m not talking about the sex.” Good sex couldn’t
sustain a deep, lasting relationship if there was nothing else there. She’d had relationships
like that before. She didn’t want that now with Mark, but how could she have more
when they had absolutely nothing in common?

“Neither was I, though the sex was amazing, I’ll admit.” He laughed.

“Then why?” she asked again, hoping with every fiber of her being there was something
more between them.

Mark’s gaze captured and held hers. “It’s everything about you, Carla. How you are
as comfortable sitting on the bottom of the lake grabbling for catfish with Tucker
as you were holding a conversation over breakfast with the heads of the departments
the next morning. How you gave me a chance even when I was making a fool of myself
trying to catch a one-pound fish. I know Tucker thinks the world of you, and I don’t
believe he’s a man to give his respect lightly. I know you’re smart and funny and
kind and patient and beautiful—”

He paused when she wiped away the tears streaming down her face, and then asked, “Do
you want me to go on? I can if you’d like.”

“No.” She swiped at one more errant tear. “But you’re obviously brilliant. You spend
your days with scholars. I spend mine surrounded by manure.”

A frown creased his brow. “Don’t you know, it’s our differences that make me like
you even more. Carla, if I wanted to be with a woman like me, I could be, but I’m
single.”

It seemed a valid point. One she couldn’t refute. She forced herself to meet his gaze.
“I guess you’re right.”

“Good. I’m glad you agree. So, if you’re satisfied with my answer, how about if we
finally get around to that date? I could take you out for a nice dinner.” Mark reached
out and took one of her hands in both of his.

Yes, she was satisfied with his answer. Carla glanced down at their fingers, intertwined,
and then back up at the sincerity on his face. She smiled. “Or we could order in,
and then afterward, maybe you can do that one thing you did to me in the tent again?”

“Uh, of course.” His cheeks colored all shades of red as he swallowed hard. “That
was just a simple matter of physiology, actually. You see, if you stimulate—”

“Mark?” She moved closer to him on the couch cushion. Carla didn’t need to know how
he’d given her the best orgasm of her life using just his mouth and hands, but she
did want him to kiss her—and do it again.

“Yes?”

“Stop talking now.” She hooked one hand around the back of his neck and reeled him
in until they were inches apart.

“Okay.” He grinned, and when he took off his glasses and set them on the coffee table,
she knew things were about to get wild.

Read more Kate Angell in
No Strings Attached
,
available now.

 

 

“B
londe, metallic blue bikini, left side of the pier near the boogie board rental,”
Mac James said in a low voice as he handed Dune a twenty-ounce cup of black coffee
from Brews Brothers. The scent of Bakehouse doughnuts rose from a bakery box. “I’m
betting Brazilian wax. She’s definitely a two-nighter.”

Dune Cates raised an eyebrow. “Brazilian?”

Mac blew on his coffee to cool it. “Women discuss boxers, briefs, or commando on a
man. I debate waxing.”

Dune shook his head. Mac was his partner on the professional beach volleyball tour.
On court, they were as close as brothers and in each other’s heads. Off court, their
lifestyles differed greatly. Mac was up for anything at any given time. Dune, on the
other hand, was more conservative. He had foresight and weighed the pros and cons.
He knew when and where to draw the line, whereas Mac had no boundaries. He saw life
as a free-for-all.

Mac had dated more women than Dune could count. He’d recently parted ways with a waxing
technician at VaDazzle Salon in Los Angeles. The salon was known for its pubic hair
designs. Mac now played his V-games with the eye of an expert.

Dune had pretty much seen it all. His bed partners shaped their pubes into lightning
bolts, hearts, and initials. One female surfer dyed her pubic hair pink. Another was
striped like a zebra. His most fascinating lover had been shaved and decorated with
stick-on crystals. She’d sparkled like a disco ball.

His preference was, and always had been, a light bikini wax or totally natural. He
didn’t need creative techniques to turn him on.

He leaned his forearms against the bright blue pipe railing that separated the boardwalk
from the beach. He took a deep sip of his coffee. It was mid-morning and the sun warmed
his back right between his shoulder blades. The heat never bothered him. He’d grown
up at the beach. The sand and shoreline were home to him. It was where he earned his
living.

He looked toward the boogie boards. The blonde stood out. She was definitely Mac’s
type. His partner loved long hair and legs that went from here to eternity. The woman’s
hair skimmed nearly to her waist and her legs were sleek and toned.

Dune read women well. He knew who liked him as a person and who only wanted a piece
of his action. He recognized the blonde as a woman who enticed men and enjoyed their
attention. She made a theatrical production of laying out her towel, then rubbing
on suntan oil. She was soon slick. Her entire body glistened.

Beside him, Mac opened the bakery box and offered Dune first choice. He selected a
glazed doughnut. Mac chose one with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.

“Sweet Cheeks near the volleyball net,” Mac said between bites. “Red one-piece, black
hair, French wax. Nice walk. I’d follow her anywhere.”

Sweet Cheeks was tall and slender, Dune noted. She moved with the slow, sensuous grace
of a woman who knew her body well and owned the moment. The lady was hot.

Mac squinted against the sun. “Tattooed chic in a fringed camo thong bikini, third
in line at the concession stand,” he said. “Is that a tat of a rattler coiled on her
stomach?”

Dune checked her out. “Looks like one.”

She was a walking advertisement for a tattoo parlor. He saw just how much she liked
snakes when she widened her stance. A python wrapped her left leg; its split tongue
darted out as if licking her inner thigh.

“Snakebite, Dude,” Mac said. “Woman’s got venom. I bet her pubes are shaved and tattooed
with a cobra.”

“She’s definitely into reptiles.”

Mac reached for a second doughnut, topped with cinnamon sugar. “Sex and snakes don’t
mix. I’d go soft if I heard hissing or a rattle.”

“Major mood killer,” Dune agreed.

They drank their coffee and ate their doughnuts in companionable silence. All along
the coastline, sunbathers sought their own private space. That space was limited.
The expanding crowd was an improvement from the previous summer when the economy tanked
and one person had the entire beach to himself. It felt good to Dune to see his hometown
thrive.

Mac nudged him, pointed right. “Check out the desert nomad at water’s edge.”

The woman was easy to spot. She was short and overdressed for the beach. She wore
all white. White reflected the sun. A Gilligan bucket hat covered her hair. Her sunglasses
were enormous, hiding her face. A rain poncho capped her shoulders, and she wore waterproof
pants tucked into rubber boots.

She walked slowly along the compact sand, only to retreat when a splash of foam chased
her. It appeared she didn’t want to get wet. She bent down once, touched the water,
then quickly shook the drops from her hand.

She played tag with the Gulf for several minutes before turning toward the boardwalk.
She tripped over her feet and nearly fell near the lifeguard station. The guard on
duty left his female admirers and took her by the arm. He smiled down at her. She
dipped her head, embarrassed.

The lifeguard gave her an encouraging pat on her shoulder and sent her on her way.
Her rubber boots seemed overly large, and she stumbled two more times on her way to
the wooden ramp. Sunbathers scooted out of her way.

The closer the woman came, the slower Dune breathed. His heart gave a surprising squeeze.
Sophie Saunders.
He was sure of it. No one else would dress so warmly on a summer day. And Sophie
was naturally clumsy.

Ten months had passed since he’d last seen her, although he’d thought about her often.
They’d come together for a worthy cause: to boost the Barefoot William economy.

His younger sister, Shaye, had organized a local pro/am volleyball tournament to keep
their town alive. He’d provided the professional players. The pros were auctioned
to amateur athletes. Sophie had bid ten thousand dollars to be his partner. She wasn’t
good at sports, but she had the heart of a champion.

Sophie, with her brown hair and evergreen eyes, had a high IQ but low self-esteem.
She was a bookworm, shy and afraid of her own shadow. She feared crowds and the ocean,
yet she’d powered through the sports event and made a decent showing. He wondered
if she’d ever learned to swim.

Her image had stuck with him. He remembered things about her that he’d rather have
forgotten. She had amazing skin, fair, smooth, and soft. Her scent was light and powdery:
vanilla and innocence. Her hair smelled like baby shampoo. She hid her curves beneath
layers of clothing, yet her body gave off a woman’s heat.

She’d bought her very first swimsuit for the tournament. He could close his eyes and
still picture her in the cobalt blue tankini. He could hear the male fans on the outdoor
bleachers applaud and whistle their appreciation. Sweet Sophie had an amazing body.

Their team had fought hard during the event. He’d tried to shield her when they’d
battled through the loser’s bracket. His best attempts hadn’t saved her, not by a
long shot.

Sophie wasn’t the least bit athletic and had taken a beating. Opponents nailed her
with the ball, time and again. She’d gotten sunburned, bruised her knees, and eaten
sand. Yet she’d never complained. Not once.

To this day he regretted not telling her good-bye when the weekend ended. Instead,
he’d watched her walk away. It had been for the best. She was a Saunders, and he was
a Cates. A century-old feud had separated the families back then.

The lines of hostility had blurred when Shaye married Sophie’s brother, Trace. Both
sides had eventually accepted their marriage. Only his grandfather Frank had yet to
come around. He was old Florida, opinionated and stubborn, and set in his ways.

Dune figured everyone would forgive and forget once Shaye became pregnant. She and
Trace wanted to start a family. Dune anticipated her announcement any day now. No
one would want to miss the birth of the couple’s first child.

He absently rubbed his wrist. He’d played a big part in Barefoot William’s financial
recovery, only to suffer for it later. Tendonitis was a bitch. Freak accidents occurred
in all sports. Some were career-ending.

He’d taken a dive at the South Beach Open and fallen on his outstretched hand prior
to his hometown tournament. He’d suffered a scaphoid fracture.

His orthopedist put him in a short, supportive cast and recommended that he not take
part in the event. Dune refused to let his family down. He managed to serve and spike
with one hand as well as others could with two. He’d played through the pain.

In retrospect, he knew he shouldn’t have participated. He’d aggravated his fracture
further. Despite additional surgery and extensive therapy, he never regained full
strength in his fingers and wrist.

He was a man of quick decisions, yet the thought of retirement left him feeling restless,
indecisive, and old.

Sophie was so young. She was twenty-five to his thirty-six. Their age difference concerned
him. He’d dated sweet young things, all worldly and experienced. But Sophie was unlike
any woman he’d ever met. She was sensitive and vulnerable, and made him want to protect
her.

He preferred no strings attached.