Terms of Surrender (3 page)

The very thought of that reminded her again that she wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt; that cool spring breeze flitting up her legs now felt a bit warmer.

The man did put off some serious heat.

She suddenly acknowledged the second big danger of going commando—aside from possibly getting caught. Getting aroused.

No, not aroused.
But aware. Very,
very
aware.

He gestured down at his clothes. “That is, if you don’t mind getting in close quarters with somebody so dirty.”

She gulped, more confused than ever. Was this guy intentionally playing word games? Was he propositioning her…or teasing her? Being flirtatious, or serious? Was she just being dirty-minded when thinking about how he’d said the word
dirty?

“I’m not following,” she said.

Appearing sympathetic, he explained, “You look stressed and nervous. Let’s just get in the car and eliminate some of that tension before you go inside.”

Relieve her stress. Her tension.

There was one surefire way to do that. Hmm. Maybe that explained why she’d been stressed for thirteen months, two weeks and four days. Oh, and seven hours. But who was counting how long it had been since she’d been laid? Though, she supposed writing a dissertation had been pretty stressful, too. At least, that’s what the last guy she’d been involved with had thought. He’d stopped calling around the time she hit page one-twenty and officially lost her mind. Well, unofficially lost it—diagnosing yourself was a no-no in her line of work.

“Come on, let’s just do it. You’re running out of time, and you know you’ll feel better afterward.”

There. He’d stopped beating around the bush and suggested they do it.
It,
it. There had been no suggestive wag of the eyebrows, but what else could he mean? They’d moved beyond flirting and pantyhose. This complete stranger
was
proposing he help her relieve her tension by having sex in her car.

“It’ll just take a couple of minutes.”

If he did mean
it
it, she couldn’t help wondering why he’d brag about
it
being over so fast. But she didn’t wonder long; mainly she just felt disappointed. Yeah, she’d been distracted by his sexy wickedness for a moment or two. But now she could only feel punched in the gut by disappointment. He hadn’t gone for the cheap line right away, but he’d still managed to come up with a sleazy suggestion eventually.

He might look like a blue-collar Prince Charming, but he was just another guy playing a game of follow-the-leader with his own dick.

“I don’t think so. Heaven forbid
it
take longer than you think,” she said, keeping her chin up and her eyes narrowed.

Marissa turned to walk away, already wondering how long she’d be thinking about those twinkling amber eyes and that incredibly sexy smile. Would she stop wondering what it might be like to kiss those perfect lips with the words that had emerged from them ringing in her ear?

“Okay, it’s your wallet.”

She paused midstep, glancing back at him. “My wallet?”

“Sure. The towing charge is $250.00.”

Utterly confused, she turned around completely. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He pointed to a nearby sign. The one that said, “Employee Parking Only.” In the small print beneath were a few more words: “Violaters Will Be Towed At Owner’s Expense.”

“They’re real Nazis about it, even when the lot’s practically empty.”

Oh. My. God.

“Like I said, getting your car towed out of here during your interview wouldn’t make the best first impression. And I promise, you do have time to move it. This place is pretty dead. I really don’t mind escorting you to the closest public lot.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered. “You were talking about my car? About where I was parked?”

“Of course.” Then, suddenly realizing the same thing she had—that they’d been having two different conversations—the sexy guy quirked a brow and tilted his head.

“What, exactly, were
you
talking about?”

THE BLONDE WITH THE scraped-back hair, the uplifted chin and the irritated expression was looking at him like he’d sprouted a set of wings out of his back. And while Lieutenant Commander Danny Wilkes did love to fly, he really couldn’t manage it without the aid of an F/A-18 Hornet. Even the most experienced Naval Aviators couldn’t, as far as he knew.

She didn’t answer, merely staring at him with those huge blue eyes, framed with the thickest lashes he’d ever seen. They fluttered as she blinked rapidly, like she was confused, trying to think of what to say. Considering he suspected the two of them had been engaging in totally different conversations, he figured he’d give her a little time to get herself together.

Not physically, of course. Oh, she was already together in that regard.

Funny, ever since he’d caught sight of her a few minutes ago, he’d had the refrain from Van Halen’s
Hot For Teacher
going through his head. Even before she’d confirmed she was here to interview for a teaching position, she’d just come across as that cross of übersmart and supersexy. Like the fantasy ninth grade science teacher he’d never had.

He didn’t know about the übersmart yet—so far their brief interaction had been a little odd, and she hadn’t been at her conversational best.

But supersexy?
Hell, yeah.

Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t imagine what the thick, ash-blond strands would look like falling in a curtain over her shoulders. He’d already noticed the deep blue eyes, but had put away any blue-eyed-blonde-bimbo associations the minute she’d lifted her chin and frowned at him.

There was something sharp about her—a little edgy. He hadn’t seen a single pouty look on her pretty face, nor one heavy-lidded, come-hither stare. And she hadn’t walked or stood in a way that emphasized her curves, sending silent signals every guy learned to recognize by the age of fourteen.

Those curves. Oh, he’d definitely noticed those. He couldn’t help but notice. He’d been openly admiring her slim calves while wondering about the long length of thigh he couldn’t see beneath her skirt.

The clothes might be perfectly respectable—demure, in fact, at least if you looked up the definition of
skirt
and
blouse
in the dictionary. But not the way she wore them. The way the skirt hugged every inch of curvy hip and perfect backside, and the afternoon breeze molded her silky blouse against her slim shoulders and full, pert-tipped breasts, made her outfit rank right up there with anything out of Frederick’s of Hollywood.

Sexy and prim, forward and flustered, unsure and determined. All in all, she was a contradictory puzzle—the most interesting one to cross his path in a very long time.

Right now, the only word to describe her was
confused.
The woman was staring at him, her eyes only slightly rounder than her mouth. It was as if he’d said something incomprehensible.

“Towed?”

He nodded, wondering if he should rethink that smart idea. She seemed to have trouble following a simple conversation. “Yeah. Towed. And then they ransom your car back to you for a ridiculous amount of money. They do it all the time. I think that’s how they’re going to fund the next generation of battleships.”

Her mouth snapped shut, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth for a second. She raised her hand to her face, covering her mouth. Then a sound emerged. A chuckle. Followed by another one. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and she slowly shook her head back and forth.

Danny’s own smile widened. They’d apparently been crossing signals and he trusted she’d soon let him in on the joke. He felt even more sure of that when she dropped her hand and her chuckles turned into snorts of laughter.

“I’m such an idiot.”

“You gonna tell me what we were really talking about?”

“Not on your life.”

Ooh. Interesting. Very interesting. He quickly ran over their conversation in his mind, trying to find anything outrageous, but for the life of him, he just couldn’t do it. He’d asked if she wanted to make a good impression and pointed out the window, she’d admitted she was in a hurry, he’d suggested she take a minute to move her car. What could be more innocent?

Except, the dirty part. But, she couldn’t have thought he meant…no. This teacher-type wouldn’t mentally go there.

Her eyes were now damp with what looked like tears of laughter. Her expression had gone from amused to embarrassed.

Okay. Maybe she
had
gone there.

“Did you think I was propositioning you? That I wanted to get you in your car to…”

Looking almost sheepish, she slowly nodded.

“Wow,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been told I sometimes move a little fast. But believe me, I do not usually meet a woman, and, five minutes later, tell her she oughta do me in the backseat of her car.”

Another grin. “Your mom definitely wouldn’t think you were gentlemanly if you did that.”

“My dad would be the one who’d whack me one if I ever did such a thing. And my baby sister would kick my ass.”

Her chuckles finally died, though her smile remained. That smile made her look younger, softer. Made her blue eyes gleam in the bright sunlight. Her tension had eased somewhat, so that she didn’t appear as rigid, and a few years had fallen off her face without that frown and pointy chin-lift thing.

“I’d love to stay and apologize for casting aspersions on your character. But I do need to get to my interview.”

He nodded. “I understand. Just move your car. Fast.”

“Done.” She turned to walk back to her car, pausing once to glance back at him. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Then, a spontaneous urge made him add, “Maybe I’ll see you when you’re finished.”

She stopped and turned around, looking…interested.

Interesting.

“You’ll be working all afternoon?”

He gestured toward the shop. “Lately it seems like I never get out of here. Some of these officers can man a billion-dollar nuclear submarine but don’t know how to drain the transmission fluid out of a Chevy.”

She nodded once, slowly. “Okay then. Maybe I’ll see you.”

If he had his way, she most definitely would. In fact, he might just have to make sure of it. Though it didn’t need it, maybe he’d pop the hood on his much-babied ’67 Impala and give her another oil change. A lengthy one.

He wanted to see this woman again. He didn’t know her name—God, how could he not have gotten her name?—but he definitely wanted to learn it.

As she got in the car, he almost yelled to ask what he should call her if they happened to bump into each other again. But it seemed a little too pushy. If he was meant to know it, he’d know it. If he was meant to see her again, he’d see her again…oil change or no oil change.

Danny was a big believer in fate. That John Cusack movie,
Serendipity,
was a major chick flick and he’d pretended to gag his way through it when his sister had made him watch it once. But deep down, he kind of liked the idea.

He wasn’t a very spiritual guy, but he did believe in things like karma and putting out good thoughts and getting them back in return. What goes around, comes around, that kind of stuff. Call it fate, or destiny, whatever.

Things happened for a reason. People came in and out of your life because they were meant to. And if the beautiful blonde was meant to come back into his, she would.

He stood by the motor pool, watching as she got into her little sedan, prepared to wave as she drove by. But a minute went by, and then another, and she didn’t move.