Page 42 of Hot & Heavy

"She seems to have latched on to you, Mac," JAM said, "like you're responsible for her or something."

"I know, and I actually feel guilty for turning her over, terrorist or not," Ian confessed. "That's all I need in my life… a cat with an attitude and a hag with an attitude."

"I think I know what country she comes from," Geek said. "I recognize the accent."

They all turned to him with interest.

"Iceland."

Some of them laughed, even Ian, who said, "Aw, shüüt! A freakin' Eskimo."

"I said Iceland, not Alaska." Geek looked at him as if he were dumber than dirt. But then, Geek looked at everyone like that, him being so much smarter than the average guy.

"Iceland, Alaska, North Pole, whatever. It's colder than a witch's tit up there," Cage said.

His use of the word tit reminded them all of a pair of those they'd seen recently.

Geek went off on one of his usual tangents then about the statistical probability of Yasmine being from Iceland based on factors and exponents and international language codes and modern Icelandic being similar to Old Norse and numbers and numbers and numbers and other crap.

Cage spoke for them all when he said, "Geek, you make my head hurt."

Luckily, something happened to interrupt the flow of Geek's brainy discourse… or perhaps not so lucky.

"Sonofabitch!" Omar's jaw dropped practically to his chest.

"Hot damn!" JAM added.

"Holy crawfish! I think I've died and gone to heaven." Cage put a hand over his heart and sighed dramatically.

Omar, Cage and JAM were sitting on the opposite side of the table from Ian, Geek, Sly and Pretty Boy, who had their backs to the doorway.

The four of them turned on their seats, looking back to see what had caught their buddies' attention.

Three women were walking toward them, two of them dressed in traditional Navy uniforms—Ensigns Amber Wilson and Dolores Baxter. The one in the middle—the statuesque blonde—wore fatigues with an olive drab T-shirt.

Ian's brain morphed into slow-mo then. He couldn't quite grasp the scene unfolding before him. His men were talking with excitement, but he filtered out their words of astonishment and appreciation.

First, he took in the fact that the woman in the middle was gorgeous. Well, not gorgeous. Her nose was too straight and her face too thin for that. Stunning would be a better word.

Her blond hair hung down her back in a long braid, like a twisted skein of spun silver. Except it wasn't gray; it was platinum.

She was tall, at least five-ten. With legs that were as long as a Coronado mile. Despite her slim frame, her breasts were nothing short of magnificent. Probably due to some push-up thing or other that women used to fool men. Even so, the favorite part of his body jump-started into full-tilt testosterone overload; if it could say howdy, it probably would.

When was the last time I was this attracted to a woman?

Never.

Her chin was lifted high like some friggin' princess looking down on all the lesser beings, including him.

No, in particular, him. Why me? Ian had no illusions about his sex appeal, compared to some of the other studs sitting with him. Hell, he even had a receding hairline.

Hold the train! Something strange is going on. He frowned in confusion.

Why were her blue eyes directed at him with haughty disdain? He didn't even know the woman.

Yes, I do.

It can't be.