Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(27)
Olivia blinked, then grimaced, realizing she’d run through about ten sentences without pausing or taking a breath. As if to make up for it, she blew out a big, blustery one. “I just don’t want you all to feel like I’ve backed you into a corner, that’s all.”
Wolf lifted an eyebrow, casually turning his wrist to glance at his big, black diver’s watch. “And you thought to bring this up now? When we’re an hour from our ETA?”
Olivia’s lips flattened. “I figured better late than never.” She stood her ground, hands on her hips, her eyes darting between the three of them for a good ten seconds before throwing her hands in the air. “Okay, so are you going to tell me about the promise or not? Because if not, then—”
“I’m thinking this is something you should take up with LT,” Wolf said, his tone polite, though when Bran looked over at the guy, his eyes were flashing with suggestion. Oh, ay! Well played, Bran thought, suppressing a grin. “Probably in private,” Wolf added, emphasizing the last word.
Olivia’s narrowed gaze locked on Wolf for a couple long ticks of the clock. Then she swung her eyes over to Bran.
“Hey, don’t look at me.” He held up his hands. “Wolf’s right. If you’re having a crisis of conscience, you need to hash it out with the big guy upstairs.” He pointed to the ceiling, and they all knew he wasn’t referring to God.
“Fine.” She shrugged. “Then will one of you come up and take over piloting for him?”
Bran exchanged a look with the two men sitting at the table with him and knew each of them was thinking the same thing. Time for a little ax waxing?
They seemed to come to a unanimous decision, because Mason nodded at the same time Wolf said, “I’ll take over,” and Bran simultaneously blurted, “Wolf’s your man.”
*
12:32 p.m.…
“So what’s with this whole ‘We need to talk’ song and dance?” Leo asked, his deep voice drifting back to Olivia as she followed him down the tight metal stairwell into the salvage ship’s small galley. A large stove, half of which was a griddle, took up most of the space along the far bulkhead. The rest of the room was crammed with old floor-to-ceiling cabinetry and a little square table that was surrounded on three sides by a booth with faded orange cushions. “Is there somethin’ about this mission you haven’t told me? Will a Russian submarine be waitin’ for us when we get there?”
She perched against the edge of the table, turning to find Leo sliding off his aviator sunglasses and hooking one earpiece over the collar of his T-shirt. Maybe it was the reflection of the azure waters coming in through the portholes, or maybe it was the dim yellow light shining down from the simple overhead fixture, but his usually hazel eyes looked intriguingly, almost mesmerizingly green.
Damn, he’s a handsome bastard.
She’d noticed that about him before she ever met him, when she’d seen him walking across that airplane hangar on the outskirts of Aleppo. He’d been dressed head-to-toe in desert-drab fatigues and wearing a crap-ton of body armor. A combat helmet and those ever-present sunglasses had obscured much of his face, but there’d been no mistaking that impressively male mouth or the breadth of those fabulously wide shoulders.
And speaking of…
His sheer mass seemed to dwarf the already-tight quarters. She thought she could feel his body heat radiating out to her as he propped his lean hip against the countertop, crossing his arms and ankles. Or maybe she was just being fanciful, given she didn’t have all that many clothes on and any subtle shift in the dense, humid air registered on her bare arms and legs.
Sidebar: She wasn’t the only one without a lot of clothes on. There was a whole lot of Leo on display too.
And, okay, yes, so she’d caught herself staring at the crisp, brownish-blond hairs on his forearms more than a time or two since they pulled anchor and started making their way through the choppy seas toward the coordinates indicated on the handheld signal receiver Morales had supplied her with. It was hard not to stare, considering how deft he was at piloting the ship, and how every movement of his wide, capable hands on the controls caused his biceps to bunch and the tendons and veins in his forearms to stand out in harsh relief.
Of course, if her ogling had ended there, she wouldn’t feel like a complete hussy. But you know it hadn’t ended there. In fact, more times than she could count, she’d found herself watching his big jaw work over a piece of chewing gum, or she’d caught herself glancing down at the long, tan length of his legs, admiring the flex of his muscular calves as he adjusted his position in the captain’s chair.
Then, as if all of that wasn’t enough, she figured she’d spent a good ten to fifteen minutes lustfully gazing at the few whorling curls of burnished gold hair peeking from the center of the V in his T-shirt before she was able to pull her eyes away and concentrate on something other than—
“Olivia?”
She glanced up to find he’d paused in the middle of folding a stick of chewing gum into his mouth, one quirked eyebrow having nearly disappeared into his hairline.
Oh, for the love of God. There she’d gone again. What was it about Leo that made it impossible for her to keep her mind on task?
Oh yeah. Everything. From the way he looked—all golden and gorgeous. And the way he talked—all low and Southern. To the way he handled himself in every situation—with integrity and flat-out courage. In short, Leo Anderson was everything a man was supposed to be and then some. Which in turn made her insides go all soft and warm and malleable, making her feel like…well…like a woman.