Off the Grid Read online

  Insta-crush was probably an understatement. Puppy love? Worship? Maybe a little of all three. He was like catnip—utterly irresistible even when you knew he might not be good for you. He was so far out of her league, but she convinced herself that he’d seen something in her.

  When he wasn’t at the base, he was with her. For three incredible weeks.

  Her brother tried to warn her, but she was twenty-two and thought she knew everything. She really believed that she and John had a special connection.

  She was so certain of their connection right up to the point that she saw him on the beach—at that same BBQ where the picture had been taken—with not one but two women.

  As she’d said, player with a capital “P.”

  Hurt, humiliated, and knowing she couldn’t stay there any longer, Brittany had gone to her brother’s room to write him a good-bye note. She hadn’t meant to spy, but the paper was right there on his desk. It had “confidential” stamped all over it, which basically made it like catnip, too. Brandon was being transferred to Hawaii and recruited for some kind of secret SEAL team.

  Her brother had come in before she could finish reading it and accused her of spying on him to get her job back. Furious that he would think that of her, she’d lashed out at him, telling him that at least she hadn’t lied and betrayed her entire family, including their dead parents. He started to say something. Thought better of it. And then told her maybe it was better if she left.

  They hadn’t seen each other or done more than exchange a yearly phone call since that day. She should have done something. Shouldn’t have let it go on that long. But she was stubborn, and now . . . was it possible that it wasn’t too late?

  Thanks to the picture, she had a way to find out.

  Four

  John resisted the urge to fish his phone out of the trash bin he’d tossed it in for a good three hours. Now, twenty-four hours later, with the account restored and still with no response, he could finally throw it back in again and congratulate himself on a job well done. His answers to her photo question must have convinced her of his—Brand’s—identity, and she’d taken his warning to heart.

  He would be celebrating more if he didn’t feel so bad about lying to her about Brand being alive. He was only trying to protect her, but he doubted Brittany would see it that way when she learned the truth. He hoped to be a long way away when that happened. Preferably on an op on the other side of the world.

  Who was he fooling? Antarctica wouldn’t be far enough. She’d track him down and kill him—which he probably deserved.

  Well, he might have to pay the piper one day, but fortunately, that day would not be today. Today he’d gotten rid of her, which was plenty of reason to celebrate. John was doing his best to do exactly that while sitting at the bar of his favorite hangout with a few of his housemates, waiting for Marta. He’d promised her a makeup date after having to cut their sauna party short the other night.

  But he might have been going at the celebrating a little hard and had a few too many of Alexi’s vodka shots. Most of the bar had had too many of Alexi’s vodka shots. Their group had grown with every chorus of cheers. But the next time his housemate yelled out a toast in Russian (they never seemed to be the same—they could be toasting goats for all he knew), John lifted a pint glass of beer instead.

  He was pretty buzzed, but not too buzzed to notice that itchy feeling at the back of his neck.

  Someone was watching him.

  He did a quick scan of the bar, his eyes snagging on that someone immediately. A woman was standing by the door staring at him in wonder and disbelief. He was used to expressions like that on women, but this wasn’t that kind of wonder.

  He blinked, trying to clear his vodka-hazed vision. He must be more drunk than he realized, because she sure as hell looked like . . .

  Their eyes met, and shock punched him in the gut. He caught the flash of emotion behind the trying-to-be-unflattering-but-doing-a-piss-poor-job glasses and knew he wasn’t imagining anything. Thick, wavy chestnut-brown hair, big baby-blue eyes, skin like fucking powder sprinkled with a few freckles across her nose, pretty, girl-next-door features, tight, curvy little body . . .

  His spine went rigid. No mistake.

  He cursed again with disbelief, trying to think of a way to ward off what he knew was an impending disaster. But there wasn’t time. The impending disaster was heading his way with a very determined, don’t-even-think-about-trying-to-put-me-off expression on her face.

  Brittany had changed. It wasn’t just the five years that had taken her from twenty-two and still part girl to twenty-seven and definitely all woman; it was also the hardness of her expression. She’d always been determined, but the last time he’d seen her there had been some vulnerability and lingering innocence—even with everything that had happened to her. That wasn’t there anymore. The same thing happened to guys on the Teams. It was part life, part experience, and part disappointment that came with a little too much reality.

  He missed that softness. But maybe it was a good thing it was gone. He figured that was what had attracted him so intensely to her. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty—she was—but she wasn’t his usual type. The Barbie Brigade had been aptly named. Brittany had stunning blue eyes and plenty of curves, but she had chestnut-colored hair—not blond—and stood about a foot shorter than him. She was also too girl-next-door wholesome. Messing around with someone like that . . . it wasn’t right.

  Unfortunately, one big mind-of-its-own part of him hadn’t agreed.

  The bar was small, so it didn’t take her long to cross the distance to his stool. He could see the questions and anger in her eyes.

  She opened her mouth.

  God only knew what kind of insults and accusations she was about to hurl at him, but he couldn’t let anyone hear them. He had to shut her up before she blew his cover.

  He did the only thing he could think of to do. Leaning forward, he caught her around the waist and pulled her in tight against him. He was mostly leaning on the stool, and she slid right between his legs.

  “What are you—” was as far as she got before his mouth closed over hers. He kissed her hard. He knew how good she was at talking—and giving him hell—and he wasn’t going to give any of those words a chance to escape.

  He filled her mouth with his tongue just to make sure.

  Oh, shit. Not good. Too good. He remembered this. He remembered the flood of heat. The tight feeling that came over his entire body. The drowning buzz in his ears that made everything else around him disappear. The way she tasted. Warm and sweet with the faint tinge of the butterscotch Life Savers that he used to tease her about chewing. They were supposed to be sucked.

  Damn it, not a great word to think about right now. It made him think of sucking her tongue deeper into his mouth and swirling it around slowly with his own. Tasting every corner and every sweet crevice. God, he really loved butterscotch.

  It made him think of another kind of sucking, too.

  Really wrong. But too right to stop.

  He groaned as his hand slid through her hair to cup the back of her head. It was clipped up in some kind of knot, but enough strands had slipped out to tell him that it was every bit as silky as he remembered. He’d thought he’d been exaggerating it in his mind, but no—he groaned again as he dug a little deeper to pull her head in closer—it was feathery soft and flowed between his fingers like a satin waterfall.

  She’d frozen in shock initially, but it didn’t take long for that first crack in the ice to appear. Her response was tentative at first. A tiny moan. The softening of her mouth and opening of her lips a little wider. The melting of her body into his as the stiffness left her shoulders, spine, and limbs. The slight movement of her tongue against his.

  Oh fuck, yes! You’d think she’d jumped on top of him with the roar of satisfaction that surged through him. He’d never