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Sure enough, the breaker was where she thought it was, but any relief she felt at finding it was doused when she realized it was ridiculously high off the ground. Oh yeah, it was high, well above her reach, or any normal human’s, for that matter. Resigned to the climb ahead of her, she splashed her way closer.
She couldn’t help but ask herself if the night could possibly get any worse, as she heaved herself on top of the washer.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she yelled over her shoulder, “I said go to the lawn!” She jerked the metal panel, but it wouldn’t open. “I need everyone outside and safe.” There was the sound of more splashing and she grimaced. “I said—”
“Come down from there before you get hurt,” came an order from behind her.
Meagan froze at the deeply resonating voice of Samuel Kellar, the sexy, blond-haired, blue-eyed, irritating, arrogant, six-foot-two—if she had to bet her life on it—head of studio security, who she knew all too well and wished she didn’t.
Samuel, or Sam as everyone called him, had directly coordinated much of the show’s security over the past few months, especially the open casting calls. She’d had innumerable occasions to know with certainty that few people could rattle her nerves the way Sam could. When Sam said jump, people jumped. He didn’t ask anyone to do anything, he ordered them. And since that trait irritated her to no end, how was it that the man made her want to both yell at him and strip him naked at the same time—she didn’t know.
But shouting wasn’t her style, nor was sleeping with a man like Sam. She preferred subtle and submissive, to his demanding and arrogant. Unfortunately, Sam wasn’t the least bit dissuaded by her sharp-tongued retorts meant to be off-putting. In fact, he infuriatingly seemed to enjoy sparring with her.
And just when Meagan thought Sam’s presence ensured that the night really, truly, couldn’t get any worse, it did. With frustration, she yanked at the panel door with an unsuccessful jerk that hiked her butt up in the air. Meagan froze, mortified, in the embarrassing position. Sam, her sexy pain-in-the-backside, now had a view of her backside. Because Meagan was pretty sure her skimpy, wet, hot-pink boxers weren’t leaving much to the imagination.
* * *
SAM KELLAR MIGHT BE former Special Forces, a man of restraint and discipline who considered himself a gentleman, but he was still a man when it came down to it. And the man in him was standing at attention for Meagan’s impossibly sexy, heart-shaped butt, despite the cold shower he was enduring. It said a lot about how much he wanted this “taboo” woman. Taboo because they not only worked together, but she chilled him with her ice-princess routine every time the sparks between them got too hot.
“Get down, Meagan,” he ordered, having no doubt he would get an argument—prickly arguments were part of her ice-princess routine.
She yanked ineffectively at the panel door. “Not until I turn off the water.”
“I’ll do that,” he promised. “Come down before you—”
She slipped before the words were out and then tried to right herself. He didn’t wait to see if she was going to succeed or fail. Sam wrapped his arms around her long, slender legs to make sure she didn’t fall.
“Sam!” she objected, pressing her hands to the ceiling, shifting unsteadily to stare down at him. Their eyes locked. Awareness flashed hot and fast between them, a silent understanding that she was half naked and in his arms, and that this wasn’t the first time either one of them had thought about such a moment.
“Let go of me,” she said, a hint of panic in her voice, the same panic he heard every time their combustible attraction flared to life.
“And let you break your pretty little neck?” he asked. “Not a chance.” Not giving her time to object, he slid his hands to her waist and forcefully lifted her down from the washer. Not an easy task from his lower position, and she ended up plastered against him as intimately as those shorts hugged her backside. And oh yeah, the man in him was alert and present all right. He’d wanted this woman too long not to react to having her lush body pressed to his.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. Her hips were melded to his, her hands pressed against his chest—hands he’d often dreamed of having on his chest and all kinds of other places. Sexual awareness had caught them like the water they couldn’t escape.
Her nervous energy escalated, just as her temper did, meaning their same routine as always. “Sam, damn it! The house is being destroyed. My career is being destroyed.” She squirmed out of his arms, and reluctantly he let her go. “I have to stop the water.” She turned back to the washer.
