that still doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with you in exchange for using my image on film.”
“I’m not sleeping with you, either,” she said, a little too loudly, because the group of teenage girls, who’d moved nearby, giggled. And she thought she heard one of them say that they’d sleep with him without any problem, and yeah, Cash would no doubt take them up on it, jailbait or not.
“Well, that’s settled then. Unless world peace depends on it, this is a no go.”
“My future jobs depend on it. But that’s something you wouldn’t understand,” she stated, unable to keep the anger from bubbling up. And it was so damned easy for him to throw away something that her future was riding on.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, his laid-back surfer attitude disappearing, his blue eyes darkening.
“It means, you can go back to your surfer-dude, beach-bum ways or your criminal ways or whatever ways you have and not worry about the rest of us who actually have to work for a living.”
He stared at her hard for just a second, and then he was back to being cool, calm and collected. “No one says, surfer dude, anymore.”
“Thanks for your help. All of it. Especially since I won’t be able to quote you on it,” she fumed. “Just go be with your waves, because I wouldn’t want to interfere with letting you ride another one or hang ten or whatever it is you do with your life.”
He took a step toward her so there were mere inches separating them, kept his voice low. “And what you do with your life is so all-fired important?”
“More than playing some trumped-up version of a water sport.” She grit her teeth so hard her jaw ached, the anger pumping through her faster than she knew what to do with it, except aim it at the guy who’d caused it. Sure yes, there was always next time, but to come so close and have it ripped from her grasp hurt too badly.
“You know, it must be so easy to make judgments from that side of the lens, splicing the story together to make sure all of it fits together seamlessly. Perfectly. But real life’s not like that.” He ran a hand over her bare shoulder and her body reacted before she pushed his fingers away. But it didn’t stop him. “Real life’s dirty. Messy. Imperfect. But you’re too uptight to let go and enjoy those parts.”
“I’m not uptight,” she said as every muscle in her body screamed with tension. And he had the nerve to laugh.
“Really? Are you sure? Because right now, you look like the dictionary definition,” he said.
He grabbed her bag from where she’d dropped it in the sand when they’d started arguing and held it and the release papers out to her. She grabbed both from him and crumpled the papers in her fist.
“I’m calling your boss about this,” he said over his shoulder as he’d turned to walk away.
Then she opened her mouth, came up blank and flipped him off instead. He just shook his head at her and threw his free hand in the air.
“Thanks for nothing,” she finally muttered and stomped up the beach.
Things were so much easier behind the lens, and that’s exactly where she was headed. It was time to cut Cash right out of the video and out of her thoughts. Permanently.
3
THREE SEPARATE FIGHTS with three separate surfers, all of whom kept trying to drop in on his territory, and one broken board later, Cash cursed his way back into the boat. His using several different languages to mix together a nice, potent string of words made even the captain of the boat whistle in appreciation.
“Haole, I think I need to start writing this stuff down,” he said. “The Wahines are getting to you.”
“I need another board,” Cash demanded of no one in particular, grabbed one from the corner of the boat and started waxing it up. He was going to catch another ride if it killed him. And he was not going to think of women or wahines or whatever else they were called.
“Surfboard climb up your ass on that ride, brah?” his friend and surfing buddy, Mike, asked as he jet skied up to the bow of the boat, tied it off and climbed aboard. “You seem uptight.”
Mike was a native Hawaiian, lived, worked and raised a family on the main island and was always ready for some major surfing when Cash came calling. They’d been up since before dawn, searching for the perfect swells, and now, as the sun shone his mood only worsened.
“Me? Uptight? Me?” Cash asked, before he threw the disk of sex wax across the boat.
“Yeah. Just a touch.”
You’re supposed to be pretending to be on vacation, dude, so chill the hell out. Don’t blow this.
Cash shook his head, took a deep breath and got his shit together. “Sorry, man. It’s nothing. Nothing important.”
It shouldn’t have mattered how upset Rina was about her film, because he had his own problems. Beyond that, he didn’t do the “oh you’re my savior” kind of thing. He left that part of the job to Justin and some of his other teammates who had that gift for helping women and coming out the hero. His chosen path of just steering clear always worked out best in his personal life. When he was on the job as a Navy SEAL, then sure, he needed to come out the hero, and so far, he’d been lucky.
Beach bum my ass.
Normally, it didn’t bother him when someone made assumptions about his life. And it especially shouldn’t have mattered what the hell Rina thought because it was his duty to get the tape and disappear from her life. But there was something about her, something that had stopped him from pulling his regular “come to bed with me and I’ll show you my stick” line of bullshit that seemed to get to most of the women who approached him.
Then again, most of the women who approached him were looking for one thing and one thing only, portraying a big wave surfer for this current job didn’t discourage them. For the purpose of this mission, he was simply known as Cash, the rogue surfer, and no one but the DEA—and Justin, his partner in crime and SEAL team member—knew he was actually here as part of a Gray Ops mission to bust a major drug runner. And he’d screwed up majorly by letting his emotions get the better of him yesterday when he should’ve been picking Rina’s pockets.
Gray or Black Ops missions were common enough in the Special Forces community. Usually, they didn’t involve a major Government Agency like the DEA, but one of Justin’s childhood friends who’d recently made agent had gotten him involved with an offer neither man wanted to refuse.
The money was good, the experience and networking even better and the rush the best part of it all. Cash would stay with the SEALs as far as the teams could take him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in the military once he got sidelined. The higher up the ranks he climbed, the less action he was going to see—a fact of all military life, and he planned on keeping all his options open.
Most of the women who hung around the beaches and weren’t serious surfers themselves weren’t looking for much more than a good tan and great sex, and that was fine by him. A lot of them were already taken, too, married or otherwise, and to them, Cash gave the impression of being a walking, talking vacation, twenty-four seven. He did nothing to try and change this perception of himself, because it didn’t matter. It was all part of the pattern.
A pattern he blamed on his mother’s love for Johnny Cash, the singer. It was an ironic twist of fate, since her son wasn’t sure any woman would ever be able to walk the line for him. His mother hadn’t been able to for his father, and that betrayal always stayed with him.
Rina didn’t fit that pattern at all. Dedicated. Determined. And those serious brown eyes that noticed everything. She was adorable, even when pissed off, her accent deepening.
He flexed his hands as even now he thought about running them along the swell of her breasts until she said his name in a way that signaled