Before He Was Wicked: A Wicked Secrets Prequel Read online

  Before He Was Wicked

  A Wicked Secrets Prequel

  ANNE MARSH

  Copyright © 2015 Anne Marsh

  Before He Was Wicked. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Before He Was Wicked cover design by The Killion Group, Inc.

  Wicked Secrets Text Copyright © 2015 by Anne Marsh

  Cover Art Copyright © 2015 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited

  Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Books S.A. Cover art used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved. ® and TM are trademarks owned by Harlequin Enterprises Limited or its affiliated companies, used under license.

  Eight hours and two minutes until Mia Brandt deployed.

  Four hundred eighty-two minutes to find a date, hook up, and engage in some therapeutic, relaxing sex. She’d set her standards appropriately low. She wasn’t expecting the hottest sex of her life, but surely one of the soldiers crowding the bar was capable of giving her an orgasm. Or letting her borrow his penis until she gave herself her own orgasm.

  Other women had casual hookups. Many of the guys she served with did. So she could too. Besides, she wanted to feel normal in a world where IEDs, sand, and not normal were her everyday fare. Normal, and not alone. One of the soldiers here was about to volunteer to help her out with that project, even if he didn’t know it. Yet.

  San Diego’s Star Bar was the perfect hunting ground. The place was packed with vinyl banquettes, lots of smoky glass and beer bottles, and three pool tables in the back room. Ordinarily, she’d have knocked back a beer and moved on to the pool tables, but it was country music night and the dance floor was crowded with soldiers whooping it up. Half the bar was in uniform, the other half out. They were her kind of people, career military who knew that no call tomorrow likely meant a deployment. People with secrets and secret deployments.

  When she shipped out tomorrow, she’d be one of the guys again. Tonight, however, she wanted to feel like a girl. Give herself a special treat. From her post at the bar, she scanned the crowd, looking for a possible target. She could tell a lot about a man by what he chose to drink. And how much. She definitely didn’t want someone so drunk he literally fell out of the saddle. Some of the guys were pretty but too young. She was not in a cougar mood tonight. The big, broad-shouldered guy propping up the northwest corner had potential, but he was too large. She wasn’t sure she could control the situation if he got out of hand, especially not in close quarters. She felt like Goldilocks testing beds. This one was too big, this one too small, but that one... that one was just right.

  Bull’s-eye.

  Choosing her target for the night was like identifying the biggest, gooiest doughnut from the bakery case on diet cheat day, and the dark-haired man in the southwest booth was a maple-glazed, cream-filled, deluxe-sized doughnut. He and his companions had the look of US Navy SEALs. She knew the type: hard, rough-and-tough warriors in jeans, T-shirts, and military boots. He sprawled in the booth, back to the wall, his eyes scanning the crowd while he toyed with the beer in front of him.

  She signaled the bartender. “I’m buying a drink for the guy in the booth behind me.”

  She’d send over a drink, soften him up, and test the waters, so to speak. Not that she believed he had to be drunk to be open to her advances, but a little alcoholic encouragement couldn’t hurt, right? Plus that was what dating people, people on the prowl, did. She knew that because she’d scrawled a cheat sheet on her palm in case she got nervous. It wasn’t smooth, but she hadn’t done this before, and her wingmen were busy finding their own dates for the night.

  “What’ll it be?” The bartender leaned toward her expectantly.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have an easy answer for his question. The same thing her target currently nursed? Was that boring? Something exotic with a sexy name? Damn it. What if she blushed, ordering the thing from the bartender? Or her potential date thought she was sending him a to-do list? She grabbed the sticky laminated card the bartender shoved at her. Redheaded Slut? Slippery Nipple? Blow Job? Sweet baby Jesus, but those names weren’t crossing her lips. Ever. Something expensive was also not happening. She wasn’t a dominatrix billionaire, and the Star Bar wasn’t the kind of place with French champagne on tap.

  “I can come back,” the bartender offered, clearly ready to move on to a more decisive—and paying—customer.

  Opportunity knocking... and walking away. She looked down at her own drink, seeking inspiration. Or a lifeline. She’d ordered her usual longneck beer with a lime in the top. Screw it.

  “Two more of the same,” she decided. She wasn’t exotic or glamorous.

  The bartender popped the tops and slid the bottles over the counter. Mia reciprocated with a ten-dollar bill. Then she inhaled deeply, sucked in her stomach, and headed for her guy’s table. He glanced up when she reached him, a polite look of inquiry plastered across his face. He had manners, an attribute that went straight into her plus column. He was also mercifully alone. The two SEALs who had been sharing the booth with him were yukking it up on the dance floor.

  “I’m buying you a drink.” Tell him what she intended to do. Leave him no way to refuse. It wasn’t really the way she wanted things to go in bed, but it ought to get the night started. She held her breath, waiting for his response. It was no big deal. If he turned her down, she had two beers to console herself with.

  He smiled at her, a slow, sexy, I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world smile that crinkled his eyes up at the corners. He had hazel eyes, the really good kind with little flecks of gold and a whole lot of come-hither. Did he know the effect his eyes had? And if he did, did that make him more or less attractive?

  He slid over, patting the banquette beside him and interrupting her internal monologue. “Have a seat.”

  And oh, that deep male voice. It was as perfect as the rest of him. Maybe she should have started with someone who rated slightly lower than a 10.5 on a scale of one to ten. A nice six or a seven. She had no idea how women did this on a regular basis.

  As if he’d sensed her discomfort, he turned down the wattage on his smile. “I don’t bite.”

  What if she wanted him to? She sat down with an audible thunk, her butt bouncing on the vinyl seat. He rescued the beer bottles before they crashed on the table. He might not be in any kind of a rush, but she was operating under a deadline.

  “I have eight hours,” she blurted out. Yay her. “Can you work with that?”

  It wasn’t a smooth proposition. Part of her wanted to fall through the floor and order a do-over. The rest of her was just... lonely. She needed someone to hold her. Needed the fantasy of strong arms and a warm heart. She’d have to make do with a strong heartbeat, but what was wrong with wanting to feel normal for one night?

  ~

  “Eight hours for?” Tag Johnson understood time limits—hell, he understood English, which he was fairly certain his beer-offering, gorgeous-but-strange new companion was speaking—but he had no idea what needed to be accomplished within the eight hours. Move her car from her parking spot out front? How long he had to drink a beer he didn’t need or want? He needed specifics.

  “For sex,” she blurted out.

  Wait. What? They hadn’t even been introduced yet, although the beer made a good calling card.

  “I have eight hours for us to hook up.” She said it like she was asking him to service her car, and he felt the corners
of his mouth tug upward.

  “A relationship on fast-forward.” How many orgasms could he give her in eight hours?

  “Well?” She glared. His lips twitched.

  “That’s a whole lot of firsts to cram into eight hours.”

  She shrugged and pulled out her phone to check the time. “Seven hours and fifty-nine minutes. The clock’s ticking, sailor.”

  He wasn’t into the bar scene and one-night stands. But he was lonely and shipping out soon. If he was honest, it would be nice to go home with someone and spend the night in that someone’s arms. Nice probably didn’t top any woman’s list of top ten adjectives in bed, so he’d throw in sexy and erotic as hell, but it was the nice part that called to him.

  His companion looked nice. She had long brown hair in a sleek ponytail that brushed the sun-kissed skin of her throat when she turned her head suddenly, more than a little jumpy, and a little spray of freckles on the bridge of her nose that begged for kisses. The Army uniform was a surprise, although he wasn’t sure why. Women served, and he had nothing but respect for them.

  She looked at him impatiently. Right. Ticking clock.

  He pushed her gently toward the edge of the seat. After all, he was trapped until she got up, unless he wanted to slide the long way around the U-shaped booth. “We could have our first dance now,” he suggested.

  Her thigh brushed his, her hip colliding with the edge of the table as she jumped. She was nervous, although she was trying to hide it. It was cute and kind of endearing. When he stood up, she tilted her head back, staring at him.

  “One night. Seven hours,” she reminded him.

  No pressure. “You docked me fifty-nine minutes already?”

  She shook her head. ”I reserved the time for foreplay.”

  While he digested that, she plowed on, still talking. “A second drink. Some small talk in the bar to get to know each other enough that we’re okay with getting naked together. Then it’s a ten-minute walk to my hotel. That’s my short-term plan.”

  Good to know that she was a planner.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” He winked and patted her on the butt.

  She shook her head, but she didn’t take his hand off at the wrist. Instead, she towed him toward the crowded dance floor. “It’s important to be clear.”

  Was it possible to be clearer? Because he didn’t think so. She’d give him those hours and nothing more. He fought the urge to growl, to crowd her. Take her. Fuck. He was going to be more than a horny sailor on shore leave. He’d be the best lover, the best man she’d ever held, and then she’d keep him. Or at least remember him after her time was up, because they were both shipping out and those were the rules for tonight.

  “Seven hours. Got it.” Her words were a challenge, and he loved a good challenge.

  “And then—” She was facing away from him, making it impossible to see her expression. Needing to fix that, he wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her back against him.

  Because, yeah, he had a whole lot of interest in the then portion of events. “And then what happens next is up to you.” He just hoped they were on the same page.

  She bit her lower lip. “I’ve never had a bar hookup. I feel like I should put that out there. However, in the plus column, I’m a fast learner, I’m reasonably attractive, and you’re hot.”

  “The hot part is what matters tonight.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to reassure her. He was pretty certain she was offering him a night of no-strings sex, and he should be in or out. He wasn’t sure if sex was really what she wanted though.

  “And then part of me is just happy not to be alone,” she continued, and his heart did that marshmallow thing again. They were so on the same page, even if she didn’t realize it.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Master Sergeant Mia Brandt.”

  “Tag Johnson. Petty Officer Second Class.” She outranked him. The guys would give him shit, but he didn’t care. Wrapping his fingers around her hips, he lightly tugged her backward another inch. She came easily, inhaling softly when her butt pressed up against his front. For just a moment, he drank it all in while the bar music throbbed around them.

  “We can do whatever you want. A little talking. Some drinking. I could even be talked into dancing.”

  To prove his point, he twirled her around in his arms. Her happy laugher bubbled up around them, her uniform skirt swishing a cheerful little rhythm of its own. Off-balance from the sudden spin, she leaned into him, her breasts brushing against his chest.

  “You’re crazy,” she said, but it didn’t sound like a complaint to him.

  “Crazy for you?” he suggested in his best bad-boy drawl, and she laughed outright.

  “Someone’s been listening to his country music.” She twined her arms around his neck. “I’ll bet you like to lead too.”

  He didn’t know her, but he already knew he liked her happy.

  “I aim to show you,” he agreed and swept her into an impromptu dance. Jig. Some kind of awkward hip bump followed by a dip and a sway. Some women were built for dancing, all grace and rhythm. His impromptu date? Not so much. But she hummed a few notes and bumped along with him, although he had no idea what her song was supposed to be. It could have been a Christmas carol or Lady Gaga. Mia was awkward, bright, beautiful—and tone deaf. It sure was a happy noise, though. He grinned and two-stepped her around the crowded floor.

  She laughed up at him in between verses. ”You’re not singing.”

  Not a chance in hell. He knew his limitations.

  “You’re loud enough for two,” he said.

  Her thighs brushed his as he bent her backwards. The move did amazing things for her breasts. The buttons of her uniform blouse stretched and strained, threatening a complete wardrobe failure.

  “You don’t mind?”

  Land mine. “About?” He pulled her up and maneuvered around a sailor and his date. The couple had abandoned dancing in favor of kissing right where they stood. Maybe they had a time line, too.

  “Dancing? My fabulous singing skills?”

  He shook his head. “I’m having a good time.”

  “So am I,” she said, and they both pretended she didn’t sound surprised. He told himself it was just a dance. The music switched to a slow song, the singer calling home from the road to tell his part-time girl that he’d be late and asking her to wait up. Tag wasn’t sure what the girl in question had decided upon, but the singer whined on about the difficulties of the road he was on. Since the only easy day was yesterday, at least according to his SEAL instructors, Tag didn’t feel a whole lot of sympathy for the guy. You did what you could, and you enjoyed what you had. End of story.

  When the song ended, he tugged Mia toward the side door. It was hot inside the bar and not that much cooler outside. Still, fresh air was fresh air, and they had a view of the beach through the palm trees.

  He braced a shoulder against the wall and looked down at his date. The white twinkle lights decorating the eaves of the bar cast sparkly shadows on her face. “We’ve had our first dance.”

  “Mission accomplished,” she agreed. “Time to move on to the next phase of the operation.”

  God. She was fun. Then he reminded himself that they only had one night and time was ticking.

  “First kiss?” He braced a hand against the wall by her head.

  Normally he wouldn’t have moved this fast or been this blunt, but there was that whole running out of time drumbeat in his head which made the fantasy—of being normal, of having a simple, fun bar hookup—a limited-time offer. She shipped out tomorrow. He shipped out in three days. If they’d been civilians, maybe this stayed a one-night fantasy... or maybe it became a cute story to tell their kids someday. She’d tempted him, and he didn’t have the willpower to resist. So he kissed her without waiting for her answer.

  He slanted his mouth over hers. She opened up for him with a moan, her hands fisting his T-shirt and hauling him closer. He could do closer. With
out breaking contact, he stepped into her, setting his hands on her hips. He moved his hands up, untucking her shirt and sweeping his thumbs over smooth, warm skin.

  He groaned, pulling back. No matter how short on time they were, there were things he wasn’t doing outside a bar and up against a wall. Mia definitely deserved better than that. He did, too.

  He ran his thumb over her lips. “Are you okay? Are you ready to leave?”

  Not perfect words, but it seemed too soon for you’re fucking amazing.

  He’d settle for thinking the words.

  She blinked up at him, which was kind of cute. And because they were on a schedule, he wrapped his fingers around hers and started for the sidewalk.

  “You’re my vacation from everyday life,” she told him. “If you were a drink, you’d be one of those fun ones, with the ice cream and the vodka and the little paper umbrellas.”

  Once again, he had no idea what she meant. He didn’t want to waste any of their time figuring it out, though, not when he could be figuring her out. Or getting her naked. Getting inside her. Any and all of those options worked for him.

  “My hotel’s to the left,” she said when they hit the sidewalk.

  Mia took over, leading the way. Tag was content to follow along in her wake. She got them to her hotel in double time—she’d scored a three-star beachfront place that was motel-style, two stories, with an outside staircase that allowed them to skip the having-sex-with-a-stranger slink through the lobby.

  “Up,” she said, pointing to the stairs. She followed him up, patted his ass at the top of the stairs, and announced their direction. “Fifth door on the left.”

  Awesome. A woman of few words. And frankly, he didn’t mind. It would be a challenge to see what he could coax her into saying during sex.

  He counted off the doors, stopping when he hit five.

  “Home sweet home?” he asked hopefully.

  “You bet.” Reaching around him, she unlocked the door and held it open for him. The room was a standard motel room with a double bed and a connecting bathroom. Mia flipped on the bedside light and checked her watch.