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CHAPTER ONE
It was a perfect California evening.
The sun had set a couple of hours ago and now a big ivory moon hung over the Pacific Ocean.
Declan Sanchez’s cottage was right on the beach. The cottage was pleasant and efficient during the day. At night it could become the ideal bachelor pad, a perfect setting for a guy who could have beautiful women in his bed 24/7 if that was what he wanted.
Turn the lights down low. Open the French doors to the salt-scented breeze and the whisper of the surf. Have a bottle of rich-tasting merlot or a crisp pinot grigio ready to pour. Play something sexy and soft on the audio system.
Tonight, the wine was merlot. The music was by Coldplay. The scene was just right. So was the blonde in the living room. She had long legs, great curves, a spectacular face, and she’d made it crystal clear that she was eager to climb into Dec’s bed.
In other words, everything was a go.
Everything but Dec, who stood in front of his bathroom sink staring at himself in the mirror.
What the fuck was he doing? Not what he was supposed to be doing, that was for sure.
And that was crazy.
He was into hot sex with hot women. Had been, ever since he’d turned sixteen. He was thirty-one now and his feelings about sex and women had not changed.
Plus, women liked him. A lot.
There was nothing immodest in admitting it.
Dec was tall. Lean. Tightly muscled. His hair was brown, though women insisted on describing it as chestnut shot through with gold. His eyes were so dark they were almost black. It was an unusual combination, courtesy of a born-in-the-USA mother and a born-in-Colombia father. He had a square jaw and a nose that was—what had one woman called it? Assertive. That was the word. What it meant was that he’d broken it once, taking down a Taliban fighter in Iraq, and it had healed with a little bump below the bridge. It was a nice accompaniment to the scar that laced through one eyebrow, a souvenir of an equally stimulating encounter in the mountains of Afghanistan.
Being a STUD was an interesting job.
Dec knew he looked big and tough and, in the proper setting, intimidating. Hell, he was big and tough. And intimidating. He was supposed to be all those things. Walk into a bar, get dropped behind or even into an enemy encampment—he could handle anything that was waiting for him.
Dec groaned.
Anything but the blonde in the next room.
Okay.
Maybe he could rearrange the expression on his face. How about a smile? An arched eyebrow? Head tilted at an inquisitive angle?
“Fuck!”
He still looked as if he were waiting for a root canal instead of waiting to climb into bed with a hot, built-like-a-brick-shithouse babe who’d spent an hour on the dance floor doing everything but reaching into his pants.
Now it was time for more than that.
And he wasn’t interested in delivering.
Jesus H. Christ, Sanchez, are you crazy?
He had to be.
Okay. Forget re-arranging his face. How about thinking positive thoughts? Meaningful thoughts.
Like, the blonde, naked.
Not just naked.
Naked and in his bed.
Naked, with her hair spread over the pillow, her arms reaching for him, her thighs wide apart…
“Dec?”
Dec jumped. She was right outside the door.
“Dec?” A light tap at the door. “You okay?”
