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“Well?” I venture. “Are you coming?”
“Keep your panties on, lady. I guess it sounds like more fun than being slapped by a party princess again. Now turn the fuck around while I get dressed. Unless, you know, you want to put your hands on this body without the kitten scratch.”
Oh, boy.
His mouth is going to make me regret this, isn’t it?
Probably long before I find out if I’m doing the right thing by inviting him to join us—or if I’m making one big fat half-naked mistake with a merman who’s put me under his green-eyed spell.
* * *
I leadMystery Man over to the small private bar and watch as he pours himself a dark stout from the tap and throws together a fresh margarita for me.
“So, what were you doing out there diving this late? Are you a professional Batman impersonator or something?” I stare at the neat white button-down shirt he’s changed into. It hugs his wall of a chest so perfectly it’s almost obscene.
“Work. Fitness. Training. Bit of pleasure, too, if I’m being honest. You’d be amazed what you can see along this stretch of beach up there when the lights start twinkling. Hell, you must know, considering your father owns all this. Pretty damn pristine slice of land.”
He sips his drink with a smile as he looks around, taking in the scenery.
I raise my glass to my lips, unable to rip my eyes off justhowsculpted he is.
Now that I’ve got him relaxed and talking, he definitely sounds too smart to be one more surfer dudebro or workoutaholic gym rat. That leaves one good guess.
“Are you Navy or something?”
“Something,” he says with an elusive wink, taking a long, thoughtful pull from his beer. “You know I didn’t come here to talk shop. I’m here to unwind. I like your bar digs, and the tunes aren’t half-bad.”
“You’re a Kate Bush fan?” I blink at him as “Running Up That Hill” booms from the speakers just a short distance away.
“I’m an atmosphere fan.” He holds up a silent finger, his voice a whisper. “Pretty lights. Calm beats. Cold beer. Gorgeous company.”
I look away too quickly, blushing for what must be the twentieth time since I met him.
Smooth, Delia.
My eyes wander over the party scene. Only a few couples are still swaying drunkenly around the fire, fumbling into the sand underfoot with barking laughter. I’m sure Marnie and Tangerine Man are long gone.
“I didn’t get your name,” he says, standing up and—if I’m not just imagining it—darting his eyes across my top.
I try to keep my face from turning into a Roma tomato.
“Cordelia. But everybody calls me Delia for short.”
“Fuck, for real? There’s a name I’ve never heard outside the Johnny Cash song.” He smiles. “It’s a pretty name. It suits you, your highness. I wonder, though, does Princess Delia dance dirty with strange men who won’t say what they do for a living?”
What the what?
Is he seriously asking me to dance?
The eager look he gives me over the rim of his tall glass saysyes.
Wow. Nobody’s done that since high school prom, and the skinny boy in thick black frames I danced with then hadnothingon this ocean god.
Honestly, his tight-lipped mystery should bother me more. He even jokes about how he’s holding his cards so close to his chest.
Whatdoeshe do for work?
It must be a military thing, I’m sure. This city is crawling with secret agent men built like arrows, even after San Francisco downsized its naval presence a long time ago.
