While he internally debated, she opened her own door and stepped into the warm night air, smoothing her dark pencil skirt down over her hips as she did so. And thank God for skirts that hugged those curves. She was a damn work of art, a true hourglass. He let her get a step in front of him as she walked toward the group congregated on the sidewalk in front of the building, just to give himself another minute of appreciation at the way her hips swung while she walked.

CHAPTER

3

“Good evening, Marines.” Reagan’s voice deepened into a husky, sexy tone that had Greg fighting an erection in the parking lot. “Problems with some tires, I hear?”

She listened as the guys explained having made it home with no problem, parking, then finding the tires slashed when they’d come out to get dinner. She took notes on her phone, getting everyone’s license plates, makes and models, which tires were slashed and where they’d been parked in the lot.

“And nobody else’s tires were slashed? The people who’d parked next to you, for example?”

“Only tires we see slashed are from the team’s,” Tressler said, looking supremely pissed and ready to brawl with anyone who gave him a wrong look. The hothead was in for a rude awakening in the ring if he couldn’t keep himself together and shield those emotions better. “Except Chalfent, his got hit, too, but he didn’t make the team. He leaves in the morning.”

At Brad’s growl, Tressler’s eyes widened. “Which, I mean, he should have,” he finished, then shot Chalfent a look. “Sorry, man. That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” the tall, gangly man said quietly. “It’s okay.”

“So what you’re saying is the person who did this appears to have enough information about the team to know who to target, but not enough to know who was cut this afternoon,” Reagan said quickly, cutting off any potential problems at the knees. “Someone who must not have that much of an inside track to know better.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’ve been thinking. You’re good.” Tressler nodded and grinned, which made Greg take a protective step toward Reagan’s back. She glanced over her shoulder with a grouchy expression, but he didn’t back up.

Tressler caught his eye, narrowed his brow slightly, then shrugged. At least the kid wasn’t a total moron, even if he was a cocky little shit. He picked up on the subtle back-off vibes fast enough.

After she’d gathered all the official documentation, she asked who had called the authorities. The younger Marines all looked at each other, each one shaking his head in turn.

“Nobody?” Reagan glanced between them, then fisted her hands on her hips. “Not one of you thought to report this? Your insurances alone will require that much.”

“We thought we should wait to see what these guys wanted to do,” another Marine—one of Sweeney’s, Greg thought—said. “We figured it was their call, because things are so weird right now with the gym and the training room getting trashed.”

“Can’t fault them for thinking it through,” Greg muttered by Reagan’s ear. “Cut them some slack. They’re babies.”

She turned to cut him a frosty glance. “Half of them are just a year or two younger than me, and a few are my age.”

Whoops. He hadn’t considered that. She’d mentioned being a recent graduate, but he’d simply assumed she’d gone back to school after working for a few years. So she was what, twenty-four? Twenty-five?

Not that he cared. He was only twenty-eight himself. But she gave the illusion of being older than she apparently was. Probably the same way she gave the illusion of being taller, more in control, more sure of herself. She projected it perfectly with wardrobe and attitude.

In full control now, Reagan started to pace in front of the group. “Let’s go ahead and talk to the . . . the . . .” She waved her hand in the air. “The base law enforcement . . . military police.”

“MPs,” Greg added quietly by her ear.

“Thank you. MPs,” she said, not looking at him. “Let’s talk to the MPs and get that situated and on the record. While we’re waiting for them, we need to make some calls for rides to get you guys to practice tomorrow. Once that’s done, we’ll make appointments for you to get your tires replaced at whatever place your insurances will approve. We’ll stagger the repairs so we can get them fixed without jeopardizing your training schedules.”

She started tapping at her phone, and Greg nearly had to pick his jaw up off the floor. He had the distinct feeling she’d left Reagan in the car and brought Ms. Robilard with her to work. Night and day difference.

And the other men noticed it, too. They scrambled to follow her directions, making calls or looking information up on their phones, taking photos and texting people about rides.

The woman knew how to light a fire under a group of Marines.

With a satisfied, if a little grim, smile, Reagan nodded and clapped her hands once to get everyone’s attention. They stopped talking immediately, and Greg nearly laughed at the image of a kindergarten teacher getting the attention of a dozen five-year-olds. “Right, I’m going to take some photos before I go, and then I will see everyone tomorrow.” With a steely stare, she added, “This does not excuse anyone from practice in the morning. You’ve got plenty of time to arrange for a ride, so do it.”

Most mumbled a quiet, “Yes, ma’am,” before she walked off to start taking photos of each car’s slashed tires. Greg followed behind, hands tucked behind his back to keep from thrusting her against one of those vehicles and kissing her senseless. That was, without a doubt, one of the hottest things he’d seen in years. Her ability to take charge in the blink of an eye, command a group of hard-ass Marines, and do it in a sexy pair of heels and body-hugging skirt . . .

She did a dainty little squat, keeping her knees primly together as she angled her phone toward the rear tire of a pickup truck. Her skirt stretched tight over her curvy ass.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly how she commanded their attention so well. Hmm.

“Did you need something else?”

His concentration broken, Greg blinked and uttered the ever-intelligent, “What?”

“You were staring.” Reagan took another photo, the flash momentarily blinding him, then looked over her shoulder. “Did you still need something?”

“A ride back to the BOQ would be nice.”

“Your friends are still here. I assume that’s why. You could go with them.” Snap, snap.

“But then how would you get home?”

“GPS,” she answered easily. “It’s easy enough to key in ‘Home’ as my destination from an unknown place. Not so easy to key in the address of ‘Barracks, Camp Lejeune.’”

Okay, she had a point there. “It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly for me to ditch you now.”

“You’re not ditching, you’re going home to get some rest. I’d actually prefer that, to be honest. The more rested you are, the better you train.” She stood, teetering for just a second before he grabbed her arm to steady her. The short-sleeve blouse she wore gave him the chance to feel the soft skin of her forearm under his thumb. He brushed once over the pulse on the inside of her elbow, felt it hammering and knew she wasn’t nearly as cool as she played.

“You want me to go home and get some beauty rest?” He lowered his voice, stepping in, wondering if she was ever without those damn heels—which yes, did great things for her ass—so he could actually look down at her instead of up an inch. “I don’t think you do.”

“And that’s why I’m the brains of this operation,” she said lightly, stepping back. “Someone has to think about the greater good. Besides,” she added, picking her purse up from the side mirror she’d hung it on to take photos, “you’ll need your strength for battle tomorrow.”