tugged at one side of the long sleeve so she could pull her arm out. She tugged the other side down, turned with a smile. “Need any help?”
“Sure.” His tag was still on, but she pulled the zipper down anyway, enjoying the deep groove of his spine, his supple height, the way his muscles seemed to swell out of the confines of the suit as the zipper moved down. He shrugged; she pulled the shoulder of the suit—and he pulled his right arm out.
On the inside of his biceps was a small gray hammerhead shark tattoo. It made her wonder what else might be tattooed on that big brown body.
Marcella moved over to unscrew her regulator and unclamp the BC from the oxygen tank. She busied herself with the various tasks of taking off and sorting her gear, hauling it to the Acura, peeling off the wet suit, toweling off her sleek black tank suit. She didn’t want to be attracted to Kamuela, someone she worked with. Nothing good could come of it, she told herself sternly.
“See you guys tomorrow,” she said to Kamuela. Ching, who’d been napping in the SUV, had woken up to help his partner with the gear. Kamuela lifted a hand as she climbed into the Acura. She didn’t wave back.
“Get me home, Matt. I can feel the bacteria multiplying as we speak.”
“You got it, babe.” The Acura laid down a little rubber as they pulled away, and Marcella thought that expressed her frustration nicely.
Chapter 8
Marcella finally got out of the shower when she felt parboiled. She wrapped her long hair in one towel and dried herself carefully with another, checking for any wounds that could harbor bacteria. Nothing on her but the mole on her hip and the bullet scar on the outside of her triceps, where a bank robber had winged her a year ago. She slipped into her terry-cloth robe, and with the towel on her head tucked in turban-style, went in search of food.
She hit the On button of her computer and put a Lean Cuisine meal in the microwave. The calm the underwater world had wrought might have been a dream. The e-mail icon was lit up on her computer, and she opened it to find a message from the Club.
Funny timing. She’d been going to surf their catalog. She clicked on the icon.
Kamuela appeared in a photo avatar, under the name “Mano,” asking her to meet. She knew mano meant “shark.” He wore a black mask, a silky unbuttoned aloha shirt, and worn jeans. Part of the Club’s anonymity, and its sexy appeal, was that everyone wore masks—but he was easily recognizable with his broad chest and muscled arms.
“Oh my God.” Marcella clapped her hand over her mouth. “He must have recognized me. Oh my God.” She clicked over to her own avatar, where she appeared with the mask on, her lush hair down, looking flirtatiously over a bare shoulder, under the name “Maria.” In the photo, she was wearing a bustier that laced up the back, showcasing her curves.
She was probably as recognizable to him as he was to her.
Marcella got up and went to the fridge. There still wasn’t much in there—a withered apple, some dubious leftovers—but there was a bottle of Pinot Grigio. She grabbed it, splashed a glassful, took a swig.
He had to know it was her. He was a detective, for godsake, used to assessing people, memorizing them, mask or no mask. She remembered his arm brushing hers in Pettigrew’s apartment—his nearness had activated something subliminal, a sizzle they must both be feeling. But why approach her through the Club? Why not just ask her out?
But maybe he hadn’t recognized her. Maybe he was just looking for someone to hook up with.
No. The timing couldn’t be coincidental, she told herself. He’d been trolling profiles and he’d seen hers. He could even blackmail her with it, ruin her reputation. The Club wasn’t illegal, but it was definitely inappropriate—too much vulnerability for the agent and the Bureau.
She went into the bedroom, picked up Loverboy’s bowl. “This is what other women have girlfriends
“Sure.” His tag was still on, but she pulled the zipper down anyway, enjoying the deep groove of his spine, his supple height, the way his muscles seemed to swell out of the confines of the suit as the zipper moved down. He shrugged; she pulled the shoulder of the suit—and he pulled his right arm out.
On the inside of his biceps was a small gray hammerhead shark tattoo. It made her wonder what else might be tattooed on that big brown body.
Marcella moved over to unscrew her regulator and unclamp the BC from the oxygen tank. She busied herself with the various tasks of taking off and sorting her gear, hauling it to the Acura, peeling off the wet suit, toweling off her sleek black tank suit. She didn’t want to be attracted to Kamuela, someone she worked with. Nothing good could come of it, she told herself sternly.
“See you guys tomorrow,” she said to Kamuela. Ching, who’d been napping in the SUV, had woken up to help his partner with the gear. Kamuela lifted a hand as she climbed into the Acura. She didn’t wave back.
“Get me home, Matt. I can feel the bacteria multiplying as we speak.”
“You got it, babe.” The Acura laid down a little rubber as they pulled away, and Marcella thought that expressed her frustration nicely.
Chapter 8
Marcella finally got out of the shower when she felt parboiled. She wrapped her long hair in one towel and dried herself carefully with another, checking for any wounds that could harbor bacteria. Nothing on her but the mole on her hip and the bullet scar on the outside of her triceps, where a bank robber had winged her a year ago. She slipped into her terry-cloth robe, and with the towel on her head tucked in turban-style, went in search of food.
She hit the On button of her computer and put a Lean Cuisine meal in the microwave. The calm the underwater world had wrought might have been a dream. The e-mail icon was lit up on her computer, and she opened it to find a message from the Club.
Funny timing. She’d been going to surf their catalog. She clicked on the icon.
Kamuela appeared in a photo avatar, under the name “Mano,” asking her to meet. She knew mano meant “shark.” He wore a black mask, a silky unbuttoned aloha shirt, and worn jeans. Part of the Club’s anonymity, and its sexy appeal, was that everyone wore masks—but he was easily recognizable with his broad chest and muscled arms.
“Oh my God.” Marcella clapped her hand over her mouth. “He must have recognized me. Oh my God.” She clicked over to her own avatar, where she appeared with the mask on, her lush hair down, looking flirtatiously over a bare shoulder, under the name “Maria.” In the photo, she was wearing a bustier that laced up the back, showcasing her curves.
She was probably as recognizable to him as he was to her.
Marcella got up and went to the fridge. There still wasn’t much in there—a withered apple, some dubious leftovers—but there was a bottle of Pinot Grigio. She grabbed it, splashed a glassful, took a swig.
He had to know it was her. He was a detective, for godsake, used to assessing people, memorizing them, mask or no mask. She remembered his arm brushing hers in Pettigrew’s apartment—his nearness had activated something subliminal, a sizzle they must both be feeling. But why approach her through the Club? Why not just ask her out?
But maybe he hadn’t recognized her. Maybe he was just looking for someone to hook up with.
No. The timing couldn’t be coincidental, she told herself. He’d been trolling profiles and he’d seen hers. He could even blackmail her with it, ruin her reputation. The Club wasn’t illegal, but it was definitely inappropriate—too much vulnerability for the agent and the Bureau.
She went into the bedroom, picked up Loverboy’s bowl. “This is what other women have girlfriends
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