The pig pit crackled off to the side. The remains of a carcass and a few stray sweet potatoes still smoked mouthwatering scents into the ocean breeze. Darcy shuffled her attention to the crewdogs blending together in a mesh of khakis shorts, bland swimsuits and bad Hawaiian shirts. The cluster of aircrew members was mostly comprised of the deployed contingent from McChord. But in the tight C-17 community, she knew their faces anyway.
Live music mingled with the waves in an impromptu concert. Hunkered down on the sand, Lieutenant Bo Rokowsky plucked out a Clapton classic on the guitar while Cutter wailed along about Layla.
Darcy threw herself into the semblance of normalcy, all the while too aware of undercurrents tugging her with dangerous power—toward Max. He had acted the attentive, albeit quiet, boyfriend as promised. His arm draped around her shoulders. Did he know he was playing with the chain on her dog tags? God, it seemed so intimate, the way her dog tags trailed up and down between her br**sts with each tug to the chain.
They'd become friends the past weeks, a friendship marked by a definite physical distance. No touching. Until the brief, too-hot moment in his boat earlier.
Tonight there was so much touching she was beginning to believe in moonburns.
Darcy guzzled her fruity drink and let herself mellow into the light buzz humming through her, nothing compared to the full-blown buzz from Max's touch.
Think of something else. "How's it going with Lucy and Ethel? Is Lucy feeling better?"
Max's knuckle rested against the sensitive curve of her neck. "Perry adjusted her diet. She's back up to speed now."
"Good." Darcy's eyes gravitated to Max's preppy assistant.
Perry lounged against a palm tree while talking to Bronco. Coconut bra dangling from around the big lug's neck, Bronco grabbed an umbrella drink from a muumuu-clad matron passing out beverages and leis.
Personnel from the O'Club and base dive shop catered the event, a mother and son duo.
"So you'll be taking both Lucy and Ethel out tomorrow?"
"Uh-huh."
That enigmatic, heavy-lidded stare of his made her long to shock it off. And wouldn't he be shocked wide-eyed if he knew what she longed to do with the drawstring on his swim trunks?
Stop.
If the guy wanted her, he knew where to find her. She needed to respect his boundaries—and find some for herself before she unknotted that string with her teeth. "Perry will be helping you?"
Max nodded.
"Diving in teams, right?"
He grunted a yes. The dog tags traced slowly down the inside curve of her breast. She shivered.
Darcy tipped her head up to him, her face close to his. The scent of coconut and musk and man filled her already fuzzy senses. "Hey, Max?"
"Yeah, Darcy?
"Thanks for playing your date role so well."
"No problem."
She wanted to say much more. Like thanks for understanding she needed him here tonight, just as she'd needed him after the snake attack. For a man who proclaimed himself antisocial, he tapped into her needs well.
Her needs.
Darcy swallowed.
She glanced at Bo Rokowsky strumming his guitar. She couldn"t help but wonder why she wasn't in the least attracted to Bo. His dark-haired perfection drew women. His sense of humor held them. He never lacked for anything to say. Problem was that Bo, a man her own age, suddenly seemed too immature.
Yeah. Thanks bunches, Dr. Maxwell Keagan. "You're doing a great job keeping the clueless Romeos and matchmaking Cupids at bay."
"Glad to help." His finger slipped along the silver chain.
The dog tags clinked. Slid. Up. Down. Up again until her br**sts beaded in longing for the firmer caress of a warm, broad palm instead of cold metal. "Problem is, you're doing too good a job."