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“Fuck off,” Dante said, shoving the bandana he’d used to wipe his brow back into his pocket.
“Watch your language, man.” Ronan turned and headed down the trail. “According to my girl, Chrissie is as sweet and innocent as they come.”
“Of course she is,” Dante murmured, attempting a slow and steady jog as Ronan disappeared around a bend in the trail. “Of all the country starlets, I get saddled with the Disney princess.”
Dante made it to a section of the trail not far from the parking area before he slowed to a walk. His leg ached from hitting the hotel gym before the sun rose this morning. He glanced down at the red scar on his right knee. The surgeon had promised it would fade with time. But Dante didn’t give a damn about the scar that disappeared when he put on his cargo shorts. He needed his knee working at 110 percent. Perfect wouldn’t cut it. Not for his line of work. SEALs had to be the best.
And until I can prove that I’m mission-ready, I’m stuck here.
He paused on the trail and took a drink from his water bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a couple near the wall of red rock that rose up like a mountain in the desert. His hand holding the water bottle froze in mid-air.
The woman wore a black wig that looked like it had been stolen from the Addams family set. But despite her Morticia hairdo, she possessed a body that up until a few months ago, he would have risked damn near anything to explore. Her sports bra hugged breasts that would easily fill his hands. And her abs…another time and another place, he’d push aside his determination to steer clear of Vegas flings for a chance to run his tongue over her taut stomach—and back up to her chest.
His mouth. That body. He could have a field day. But…
I didn’t come to Vegas for the breasts.
Dante lowered the water bottle, his gaze still fixed on the couple who hadn’t glanced in his direction. The man stood just out of arm’s reach, and for a second Dante swore the guy was trying to execute some sort of dance move.
Maybe all the exotic dancers in Sin City bring their one-night stands here…
Dante closed his eyes. A few months earlier, he’d visited Vegas for his teammate’s wedding. He’d been ready to leave the memory of his cheating ex-wife behind him. And he’d fallen into bed with an erotic dancer who faked an orgasm onstage in her underwear eight times a week. The show was sexy as hell, and so was Summer when she’d driven him out to the canyon and pushed him up against those rocks…
Shit, Summer had been a lesson in how not to rebound from a broken marriage. Sure, he wanted to get laid. But he also wanted to take a page from Ronan’s playbook and hand over his heart to the woman in his bed. He wished to give the woman in his life 100 percent loyalty and love, the same way he gave his country his all when he was out there working alongside his team. And yeah, maybe that made him a bigger pansy-ass than his busted knee.
Dante opened his eyes and glanced down at his scar again. Right now, healing was the only thing he needed to focus on. And not dying of boredom in the process.
He shook his head and lifted his gaze to the desert path.
“Ahh!” came a scream. A woman’s scream. From the direction of that couple.
He froze for a second and then zeroed in on the rock wall. Months ago, he’d heard Summer cry out with pleasure while pressed against those rocks, and it sure as shit didn’t sound like that.
He broke into a run. His gaze remained on the woman in the black wig. He picked up the pace as the shirtless asshole crushed his hips against the woman he’d tossed up against the rock. The bastard had pinned her arms overhead, rendering her close to helpless.
Pain rushed through Dante’s leg, but he ignored it. As he drew closer, he scanned the woman, only this time he wasn’t checking out her body. He was trying to determine the best way to pull the man in the cowboy hat off her without causing further injury.
Five more steps.
His knee begged for mercy.
Later. I can’t stop. I saved the hostage. And now I’m going to rescue the girl in the Morticia Addams wig.
Chapter Two
You’re fired.
As soon as she could breathe, Chrissie planned to kick Jared, the backup singer masquerading as a cowboy, out of the music video. Or maybe she’d wait until after the shoot. They couldn’t afford the time it would take to find another backup singer…
But I might never say those words. I might never inhale oxygen again.
Her backup singer’s mouth claimed hers and erased any hope of regaining her breath. And his hips thrust against her as if he was doing everything in his power to prove he could ruin her music video. She tried to claw her way free from the train-wreck of a kiss. But Jared had finally decided to commit to his role.
If only you’d bothered to learn the choreography, you would know we’re not shooting a domestic violence PSA.
She fought harder as black dots clouded her vision. One last push and…
She was clawing at the air. The weight of Jared’s body had disappeared. She could breathe. She could move.
