Below the Belt(88)

“Can’t fault them for thinking it through,” Greg muttered by Reagan’s ear. “Cut them some slack. They’re babies.”

She turned to cut him a frosty glance. “Half of them are just a year or two younger than me.”

Whoops. He hadn’t considered that. She’d mentioned being a recent graduate, but he’d simply assumed she’d gone back to school after working for a few years. So she was what, twenty-four? Twenty-five?

Not that he cared. He was only twenty-eight himself. But she gave the illusion of being older than she apparently was. Probably the same way she gave the illusion of being taller, more in control, more assured of herself. She projected it perfectly with wardrobe and attitude.

In full control now, Reagan started to pace in front of the group. Her heels made the sexiest clicking sound on the pavement of the parking lot. “Let’s talk to the MPs and get that on the record. While we’re waiting for them, we need to make some calls for rides to get you guys to practice tomorrow. Once that’s done, we’ll make appointments for you to get your tires replaced at whatever place your insurances will approve. We’ll stagger the repairs so we can get them fixed without jeopardizing your training schedules.”

She started tapping at her phone, and Greg nearly had to pick his jaw up off the floor at the change. He had the distinct feeling she’d left Reagan in the car and brought Ms. Robilard with her to work. Night and day difference between the unsure co-ed and the professional businesswoman.

And the other men noticed it, too. They scrambled to follow her directions, making calls or looking information up on their phones, taking photos and texting people about rides.

The woman knew how to light a fire under a group of Marines.

With a satisfied, if not a little grim, smile, Reagan nodded and clapped her hands once to get everyone’s attention. They stopped talking immediately, and Greg nearly laughed at the image of a Kindergarten teacher getting the attention of a bunch of five-year-olds. “Right, I’m going to take some photos before I go, and then I will see everyone tomorrow.” With a steely stare, she added, “This does not excuse anyone from practice in the morning. You’ve got plenty of time to arrange for a ride, so do it.”

Most mumbled a quiet, “Yes, ma’am,” before she walked off to start taking photos of each car’s slashed tires. Greg followed behind, hands tucked behind his back to keep from thrusting her against one of those vehicles and kissing her senseless. That was, without a doubt, one of the hottest things he’d seen in years. Her ability to take charge in the blink of an eye, command a group of hardass Marines, and do it in a sexy pair of heels and a body-hugging skirt . . .

She did a dainty little squat, keeping her knees primly together as she angled her phone towards the rear tire of a pickup truck. Her skirt stretched tight over her curvy ass.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly how she commanded their attention so well. Hmm.

“Did you need something else?”

His concentration broken, Greg blinked and uttered the ever-intelligent, “What?”

“You were staring.” Reagan took another photo, the flash momentarily blinding him, then looked over her shoulder. “Did you still need something?”

“A ride back to the BOQ would be nice.”

“Your friends are still here. I assume that’s why. You could go with them.” Snap snap.

“But then how would you get home?”

“GPS,” she answered easily. “It’s easy enough to key in ‘Home’ as my destination from an unknown place. Not so easy to key in the address of ‘Barracks, Camp Lejeune.’”

Okay, she had a point there. “It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly for me to ditch you now.”

“You’re not ditching, you’re going home to get some rest. I’d actually prefer that, to be honest. The more rested you are, the better you train.” She stood, teetering for just a second before he grabbed her arm to steady her. The short sleeve blouse she wore gave him the chance to feel the soft skin of her forearm under his thumb. He brushed once over the pulse on the inside of her elbow, felt it hammering, and knew she wasn’t nearly as cool as she played.

“You want me to go home and get some beauty rest?” He lowered his voice, stepping in, wondering if she was ever without those damn heels—which yes, did great things for her ass—so he could actually look down at her instead of up half an inch. “I don’t think you do.”

“And that’s why I’m the brains of this operation,” she said lightly, stepping back. “Someone has to think about the greater good. Besides,” she added, picking her purse up from the side mirror she’d hung it on to take photos, “you’ll need your strength for battle tomorrow.”

“It’s training, not battle.”

“I wasn’t talking about practice. I was talking about dealing with me.” And with that sassy parting shot, she slid between two cars and disappeared to continue her photo documentary.

“Higgs, let’s go man. This day’s a big cluster and I’m ready to hit the rack.” Brad appeared by his elbow and tugged lightly on his neck. “Sweeney’s dropping us back by home on his way.”

“Oh, joy.” He followed along, not at all willingly.