Sitting shoulder to shoulder beside Blake Whittaker, Gwen
sneaked another glance. He sat stone still,
unmoving. In fact, he barely breathed.
If she hadn’t been sure before, she was now. There was no
missing his vibe. This man clearly had no
love of the water. In fact, he was terrified.
Sympathy welled up inside her. Everybody had a fear, some
little something that sent a shiver down
their spine. As the owner of her own little bag of
insecurities, she could easily understand.
Without knowing quite why, Gwen laid a hand on his arm. She
leaned closer so he could hear her
over the noise of the motor. “Lucky has been taking people
across these waters all his life. He hasn’t lost
one yet.”
Fingers still locked in a clench, Whittaker shifted his
body away from hers. “That’s good to know.”
Gwen purposely let her hand drop. He obviously didn’t
welcome personal contact. Still, she admired
his determination. He was doing what his job required him
to do, even if he didn’t like it. That took a lot
of guts. “I take it you aren’t admiring the view.”
His reply was short and sweet. “No.”
Not a talky man at all.
Heavens. He was as friendly as a rattlesnake.
Her sympathy melted a bit. She was doing her best to be
nice and all he could do was blow her
off. “So are all agents trained to be rude sons of bitches
or does it just come naturally to you?”
Like a robot going into motion, Whittaker turned his head.
One hand lifted. He pushed up his
sunglasses, giving her a view of his eyes. “They train us
to be bastards,” he answered with all seriousness.
The impenetrable glasses went back down.
Then, quite unexpectedly, he grinned.
His smile caught her unaware, and her breath caught in her
chest in surprise. “That’s good to know,”
she squeaked like a nervous schoolgirl. Oh. My. God. The
upturn of his lips made his mouth absolutely
sensual.
She hadn’t realized until that moment how damn good-looking
he was. He had a face like granite,
all sharp lines and angles: high forehead, chiseled
cheekbones, strong straight jaw. He wore his black
hair in a short uncombed style that helped soften the
severity of his face. His suit fit him well, tailored to
accentuate his muscular arms, broad chest, and washboard
stomach. There wasn’t a spare ounce on his
lean frame.
Now that his demeanor had lost a layer of frost, he
reminded Gwen of a stallion—roped and
harnessed, forced to be tame. She couldn’t help but think
that a wild streak lurked beneath the surface
of his calm, straining to break free and run loose. She
could imagine how Mr. Straight-Laced Tight-Ass
might be in other situations . . .
Feeling heat creep into her cheeks, Gwen quickly turned her
head. While she’d never admit it out
loud, she’d been reading a lot of erotic romances and
wishing she was the heroine, being swept off her
feet by the drop-dead gorgeous hero.
Truth be told, Gwen actually had no idea what Whittaker
might be like in bed. Or any other man for
that matter. Though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, she’d
never found a man she would dare to be that
intimate with.
Yes, she’d dated, had even fooled around a little. But
she’d never taken the plunge and moved any of
her relationships to the next step.
She was twenty-seven years old and still a virgin.
Gwen inwardly winced. Unlike Tessa and Addison, she didn’t
have enough confidence in her body
to strip to the buff in front of a human male. Needless to
say, her boyfriends invariably got frustrated with
her inhibitions and dropped her like a hot rock. And since
Mers didn’t age like humans, it was beginning
to look like she was going to have a long, lonely life
ahead.
Being the world’s oldest bachelorette didn’t appeal to her
one bit. And just because she’d never had
sex didn’t mean she didn’t think about it. She did. A lot.
She gave Blake Whittaker another surreptitious peek. Oh
goddess, he was pure eye candy. If I were
going to give it up, that man would be the one. Everything
about his looks appealed to her.
But there was no way in hell she’d try getting down and
dirty with a government agent. All she
really wanted was for Agent Whittaker to get the hell out
of town. The sooner, the better. Until that time,
she doubted she’d breathe easy.
