Slippery When Wet Read online

  “I’m your man,” he promised

  Taylor simply smiled at him. Even the torrential downpour didn’t distract him. She’d gone only about three steps toward the beach bungalow when Dev’s arm looped around her, turning her to face him. Then he was kissing her mindless while the warm rains drenched them. Lightning crackled nearby, and they ran inside for cover.Impatience gouged at her, impatience to feel him hard and hot in her hand. Impatience to have him hard and hot inside her.

  He hooked his fingers in the sides of her bikini bottom and pulled it down slowly over her thighs.

  Her muscles went weak and she sagged backward into the macramé hammock chair hanging from the ceiling. His eyes looked black, the pupils dilated with desire. He got down on his knees in front of her as she slid to the edge of the chair and hooked her feet over his shoulders. Before she could say anything, he leaned in and put his mouth against her where she was slick and hot.

  “You certainly are…” was all she could manage as a response. She let out a soft cry as he went to work with his talented tongue—teasing her, tormenting her in the way that after mere days he’d learned she liked best.

  Dear Reader,All the books in the UNDER THE COVERS trilogy were great fun to write, but Slippery When Wet was undoubtedly the best. You see, I put together the opening chapters while sitting on a beach in Cozumel, soaking up sun and listening to the waves (don’t ask if I dropped top—I’ll never tell). My husband and I took our honeymoon in Mexico, and it’s been a special place for me ever since. I loved the idea of a holiday fling, of lovers exploring the tropics…and each other. As for the things you can get away with doing at a beach resort, well, let’s just say the book let me unleash my creativity.

  It’s a summertime book designed to be read on the beach. Still, we can’t always be on vacation. If you wind up reading it at home, I hope you still get the scent of cocoa butter and the feel of sand between your toes. Close your eyes and let me take you where the tropical breezes blow. Drop me a line at [email protected] and tell me what you think. Or visit my Web site at www.kristinhardy.com for contests, e-mail threads between characters in my books, recipes and updates on my recent and upcoming releases.

  Have fun,

  Kristin Hardy

  Books by Kristin Hardy

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  44—MY SEXIEST MISTAKE78—SCORING*

  86—AS BAD AS CAN BE*

  SLIPPERY WHEN WET

  Kristin Hardy

  To Holly, who knows why, and to Stephen, for being my rock.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Prologue

  ELIOT HAD GOTTEN IT WRONG. April wasn’t the cruelest month, thought Taylor DeWitt as the needle sharp bits of ice whirled down in her face, February was. Late February, more precisely, the month of bone-chilling sleet, the month when winter seemed endless, the month of her worst ordeals.

  On the other hand, February had been the month she’d gained her freedom, the month she’d found her strength, the month she’d launched her business three years before. An uncommonly successful launch, she thought, shivering at the edge of the crosswalk in the biting wind that blew in off Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and plastered her chin-length blond hair down to her head. The city’s picturesque Chesapeake Bay location lost some of its charm in winter. Farther inland, powdery snow might blanket the rolling Maryland countryside, but here in Baltimore the winters were just icy, clammy and bleak, making people eager to go somewhere warm.Small wonder then that February was the busiest time in the local travel industry, especially for an agency that specialized in tropical getaways the way hers did. Or had up to now, she thought balefully. She scowled at the scaffolding and construction barriers surrounding the skyscraper that housed her office. Being downtown kept her close to her corporate clients while bringing her walk-in business from the shopping and conference area. The location had been pure gold for her, but for months now, the loss of business due to construction had her company teetering on financial worry. Meanwhile, Alan Champlin of Champlin Travel kept hanging around to tempt her with flattery and a juicy buyout offer.

  Another blast of icy wind whisked up under her coat as she crossed with the light and she gave a heartfelt curse. Thank God she was headed south soon. If construction was going to have her offices closed anyway, it only made sense. Her agents could still work at home. Taylor had warmer plans: two weeks of reviewing properties in the Caribbean, and then a few precious days for herself in Mexico.

  She worked her way around the pedestrian detour that led to her office. The agency had only just begun making a comfortable profit the year before. She had a bit of a cushion from that and from the modest trust fund she’d used to launch the venture, but no firm could sustain such a revenue hit month after month. Four weeks, she reminded herself. In four weeks it would be done.

  Or so the landlord had promised.

  Despite the financial woes that dogged her, Taylor couldn’t help smiling at the gold palm trees stenciled on the glass, the curling letters that spelled out DeWitt Travel. The business was hers, and she’d made a success of it, even with her current challenges. No way was she going to sell out to some mall chain. The chime jingled as she pushed open the door.

  “Hi, Allie,” she said to the receptionist, who sat behind her modular breakfront. “Did I get any messages while…”

  “That’s a crock,” a voice said angrily. A male voice. “I bought the insurance, I did everything I was supposed to. Don’t tell me it’s no good.”

  Taylor looked over the ivy-topped barrier behind the receptionist. Whoever he was, he was tall enough for her to see his tousled light brown hair, not to mention a not-inconsiderable pair of shoulders clad in a dark blue parka.

  “You need to fix it. Now.” The words held the snap of ire and command. Taylor stepped swiftly into the office area.

  He stood in front of Glynnis’s desk. Glynnis was her newbie agent, who looked half alarmed, half mesmerized. All Taylor could see was faded jeans, heavy work boots, and the parka.

  “Is there a problem here?” she asked in the calm, reasonable voice she’d developed to soothe even the crankiest customers.

  He spun around to look at her and she understood the expression on Glynnis’s face. He was tall. He was intimidating. He was obviously angry.

  And he was undeniably gorgeous.

  It took a conscious effort of will to remain cool. Cool, she found, was the best way of defusing anyone’s anger. Except Bennett, who’d only ever gotten angrier, but he was only a dark memory.

  This one had the carved cheekbones and strong chin of a Viking, and the menacing Viking had only fury in his eyes. His jawline might have been as taut as it looked, or maybe it was just because it was currently clenched in anger. She could imagine him clad in leather and fur, striding ashore from his galley to lay waste to a helpless town. His eyes, though, surprised her. Deep set and long lashed, they were a sea-green.

  And currently narrowed in irritation.

  “A problem? I’ll tell you what the problem is. I bought travel insurance nine months ago when I booked this trip. Now I need to cancel and your agent is telling me that I can’t.”

  “We can cancel it, sir. We just can’t get you your money back.” Glynnis
looked at her helplessly. “He got the basic insurance package.”

  “Let me see.” Taylor reached out for the policy. “This is trip interruption insurance. It’s standard. Covers family death or hospitalization. Why are you canceling, Mr….”

  “Carson. Dev Carson.” His words were clipped. “The trip was a honeymoon. The wedding’s been called off.”

  Wedded bliss wasn’t for everyone, that much she knew from bitter personal experience. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be,” he said shortly.

  “Yes, well…” She scanned the insurance contract but she already knew the terms by heart. “Unfortunately, this policy doesn’t cover your reason for cancellation.”

  “Then why do you sell it?”

  She needed to concentrate on the discussion, not on the alarmingly fascinating angles and planes of his face. “It covers what most people need,” Taylor said automatically. “On occasion, when we know people’s plans call for something more comprehensive, we have that as well.”

  “It’s not like I planned to call off my wedding. I didn’t get a detailed explanation of the coverage choices. Under the circumstances, I think I should get my money back.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Carson. There’s nothing I can do. If the trip were just a couple of days perhaps we could work something out, but this is—” she scanned his file “—three weeks. We simply can’t swing it, especially since you’re scheduled to leave in four days.” Especially now, when the company was as cash poor as it could be.

  His brows lowered. “Do you think I can afford to throw away that kind of money on nothing?”

  “Perhaps you could still go. We could try to get the tour company to allow you to substitute companions. Maybe you could take a friend.”

  “I’m not feeling like company at the moment,” he snapped. Just for a moment, an emotion other than anger flared in those sea-colored eyes. “Look, I bought the insurance I was offered. What are you going to do to make good on it?” he asked with an edge to his voice.

  It was Taylor’s turn to bristle. “Let’s not get personal about this.”

  “Oh, but it is personal, Ms. DeWitt,” he said silkily, reading her name off her badge. “My fiancée and I chose a destination—and insurance—based on your agency’s recommendation. You look like the sort of person who believes in standing behind her business.”

  Those extraordinary eyes held steady on hers. Guilt pricked at her. If times had been better, she’d probably have offered to make good on his trip. But times weren’t good, Champlin was stalking her agency, and taking an $8,000 hit was simply out of the question.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Carson. I’ll check into whether any of the resorts or the tour company will give you a break. I warn you, though, at this point it’s unlikely.”

  “What’s unlikely is that I or anyone I know will use your agency again,” he said tightly.

  “I’d urge you to reconsider taking the trip. Cozumel is lovely this time of year. I’ll be down there myself soon on business.”

  “Yeah? Well, I hope you make a better choice of travel agencies than I did,” he said cuttingly and stalked out, letting in a blast of cold, damp air.

  1

  EXOTIC BIRDS HOOTED as Taylor threaded her way along the flagstone path that wove through the lush Mexican jungle of the Iberonova resort, a straw bag slung over her shoulder. To either side of the central sweep of jungle lay the brightly colored stucco huts that housed the hundreds of guests, but a person would never know it. Walking down the winding path, watching monkeys swing overhead, Taylor might have been deep in the Yucatan jungle. A trio of rust-colored birds with nodding topknots on their heads stared at her as she walked by. The enormous, intricately carved stone medallion that leaned against a tree trunk off the path looked Mayan, as though she were approaching the ancient jungle city of Chichen Itza.

  She emerged from the trees at the curving edge of an enormous free-form pool. Palm trees and brightly colored umbrellas shaded the guests who sprawled on lounges, dozing or reading or sipping fancy drinks from the swim-up pool bar. At the center of the pool, a stone fountain sprayed droplets of water that glittered in the sun. Cocoa butter scented the air.And she was warm, warm, warm. No coats, no sleet, no shivering. A sarong and a bikini were all she needed, for the air was soft and hot as a lover’s touch.

  Taylor skirted the pool, heading toward the beach. Ahead, a short stone walkway leading to the sand was lined with parallel walls of warm golden stone that rose higher than a man’s head. On their inner surfaces, a series of primitively carved stone faces with Mayan features stared impassively at one another. A young girl turned a porcelain knob as Taylor passed and water gushed out of the stone lips and out of the fluted funnels below them. The guest showers, Taylor realized. Leave it to the Iberonova to turn even the prosaic into atmospheric whimsy. Then she looked through the showers at the vista beyond and caught her breath.

  Ahead of her, curving palm trees framed the view of an ocean that stretched out an impossible shade of aqua, darkening to indigo on the horizon. A white catamaran with a sail banded in turquoise, blue-green, and magenta glided over the waves. Palm-thatched palapas dotted the beach like giant parasols, guests stretched out beneath them on sun couches. And the waves whispered.

  She couldn’t stop the smile.

  For two weeks, she’d been hopping from island to island, resort to resort, sometimes three or four properties in a day. Every night, she was somewhere different, never anywhere long enough to unpack, let alone relax. It hadn’t been about relaxing, though. It had been about work. Admittedly, work she enjoyed, but work nevertheless.

  This, though, this was her time. Seven precious days to herself, to sleep in until noon, to read, to lie on the beach. To do absolutely nothing that she didn’t want to do. She picked up her straw bag and started down the broad beach.

  The sand was hot on her feet, the sun warmed her shoulders and made her glad of her dark glasses. As she walked past the sun worshippers, she relaxed to hear the mix of languages. No Texas twangs or Southern drawls or nasal Yankee accents talking about PTA meetings and yesterday’s big game here. The mix of French, Italian, German, and Spanish danced into her ears. Perhaps they were talking about the banal, but with the musical flow of syllables, it hardly mattered. The English she heard was from other shores—British, Australian, New Zealander. Americans were outside the norm here.

  Which was probably just as well, considering the fact that most of the European and South American women matter-of-factly dropped top when they hit the beach. Taylor set her straw bag in the shade of a palapa, pulling over a sun couch. A beautiful Hispanic woman walked toward her, breasts standing out proud and high and completely bare. Taylor smiled to think how the vice president of the Rotary Club and his wife would have reacted to the sight. Probably just as well that she’d booked them to Fort Lauderdale.

  She untied her sarong and spread her towel out on the lounger. For a moment, she stared at it, then she moved it back out into the sun. Just for a little while, she’d give herself the luxury of baking in the heat, before she yielded to reason and shifted into the shade.

  Lying back on her couch, she sighed in pure bliss, listening to the soft rush of the waves, the breeze whispering through the palm fronds of the palapa. Reaching into her bag, she rummaged for the bottle of sunblock. With her brown eyes, she was the rare blonde who took to the sun readily, but it still paid to be careful in the tropics. She’d seen the lobster-red tourists and didn’t want to be one.

  She spread sunblock along her legs, idly watching a pair of topless women walking up the beach. What must it feel like to have the sun warm your bare breasts, skin that hadn’t felt the caress of the sun in years, if ever?

  It was a surprisingly enticing notion, she thought as she smoothed the coconut-scented lotion along her arms. Intriguing.

  Tempting.

  A woman on a sun couch nearby chattered something in what sounded like Italian to her male companion and t
urned to lie on her back. He made a pretend grab for one of her breasts and she batted his hands away laughingly.

  Like night and day compared to what she’d known, Taylor thought, remembering her ex-husband Bennett, who’d had a positive aversion to sexually assertive women.

  At least when the woman in question was his wife.

  Taylor shook her head as she spread sunblock on her neck and chest. The past was the past. She wasn’t the woman he’d cheated on, the demoralized mouse that he’d bullied into submission anymore. She’d ignored Bennett’s rants and forced through the divorce. So what if marriage was just one more thing she hadn’t finished? She’d been so focused on living down her family reputation as a quitter that she’d stayed in the marriage long after she’d realized it was toxic. Some things weren’t meant to be finished. It was just as well that she’d gotten on with her life.

  But had she? Taylor set the bottle in the sand. Until Bennett, she’d been quick to have a good time, quick to be outrageous. Before she’d quit college to marry him, those were the qualities—her sexiness, her wildness—that had drawn him. Then it had all come to a screeching halt. Since the divorce, since she’d gotten free of him, she’d rebuilt her self-esteem. She’d thrown herself into work and made a success of herself. It gave her pride. On the other hand, it had also taken all of her time and energy, leaving none for her private life.

  No more, she thought in a sudden surge of recklessness. It was time to do something outrageous, time to live life like the old Taylor. After all, she was on vacation.

  The Italian woman gave a magnificent roar of laughter, propping herself up on her elbows and giving her mane of hair a shake. Taylor lay back and closed her eyes. How Bennett would have hated the very idea of women sitting topless on a beach, though that wouldn’t have stopped him from leering. And the very idea of Taylor doing anything so brazen, well, it would have given him a stroke.