Especially when it came to money. Glynnis was dead hopeless in the finance department. He couldn't remember a single month since she'd moved in with him that she'd managed to live on the allowance from her trust fund. Maybe that was his fault for always bailing her out. He probably shouldn't have let her get away with "borrowing" from him, particularly when nine times out often she'd just turned right around and shelled out his money to one of her lost causes. She was too damn trusting for her own good.
Which brought Zach's thoughts swinging right back to the very curvy little Lily. Ruthlessly cutting them short, he ripped his clothes off and padded naked into the bathroom, ditty bag in hand. Don't even go there . He washed up and brushed his teeth, then headed back to the bedroom with the full intention of getting some much-needed rest.
But exhausted as he was, sleep was slow in coming. He had a month's leave, and his plan had been to use the time to catch up with his sister and figure out how to hang on to the only billet he'd ever cared to have for the final two years he had left in the service. Now Glynnis wasn't home, he was struggling with the fact that he needed to worry about his career at all, and to top it all off he was half hard from the scent on his pillow left by some Marilyn Monroe lookalike out to bilk his sister of her fortune. This wasn't the way he'd envisioned his homecoming.
He flipped over onto his back, cradled his head in his clasped hands, and stared up at the ceiling. Big deal, so he was suffering a random surge of lust—that would get the zero attention it deserved. And since he wasn't willing to go pound on Lily's door to demand his sister's whereabouts, there wasn't much he could do about Glynnis tonight. But the remainder of his military career was a subject he could devote some attention to.
Nothing was the same as it used to be. He was the only one left from his original unit, for starters. His closest friends, Coop Blackstock, whom he'd met his first day of boot camp, and John "the Rocket" Miglionni, whom he'd met not long after that, had both been out of the service for several years now. Since their discharge, Coop had gone on to become a best-selling author of military-techno thrillers and Rocket was a private detective with his own agency. And all the other grunts in their unit had either retired, transferred, or died.
Zach had somehow ended up as the old man in a new recon unit full of eighteen-, nineteen-, and twenty-year-olds. Jesus . He scrubbed his hands over his face. How the hell had that happened ? In any other business a thirty-six-year-old in his physical condition would be considered in his prime. But reconnaissance was a young man's game and the brass was beginning to hint he should think about giving up field work to teach the younger men its finer points. To teach, for crissake!
Sure, the younger men could go for days on end without sleep and never have it catch up with them, and at some point during the last year or so he had lost that ability. And yes, this last assignment inSouth Americahad been a bitch. But, hell, it had been a hundred and ten fucking degrees with humidity to match. Even the daycare kids, as he sometimes thought of them, had gotten their asses kicked.
So, screw it. He could keep up with them any day of the week. Maybe lately he hadn't liked being in the field as much as he used to, but that was surely temporary. He was just a little discouraged over the way the last assignment had shaken out.
All he needed was a little R&R and he'd be back in fighting trim. He'd always seen himself in a recon unit right up until the day he mustered out of the service for good, and that's exactly what he planned to do until he had his twenty years in and was eligible for retirement.
How to get the brass off his back in the meantime was the question.
He realized, though, that there was no use worrying about it tonight. Flipping onto his side, he pounded the pillow into submission, and stuffed it under his head, only to have another subtle waft of fragrance rise to tease his nose. An image of Lily immediately popped to mind and this time refused to be dislodged.
She was such a little thing—he'd be surprised if she topped out at five-two. But inch for inch, pound for pound, she was pure sex on the hoof. It was more than the sum total of that froth of blonde hair, those blue eyes, and that golden skin. It was the way she moved and the sheer femaleness of her. It was the pheromones she exuded. And it was those curves.
Man, oh, man. Those curves .
She had what used to be referred to as an hourglass figure: round breasts, tiny waist, and full, lush hips. Like a top-of-the-line Cadillac, hers was a chassis designed for a smooth ride—a guy only had to take one look at it to get all sorts of ideas.
The wrong kind of ideas. Zach whipped the pillow out from under his head and hurled it across the room. He rolled onto his other side and pillowed his head on his biceps, swearing another blue streak beneath his breath when the scent he'd thought to rid himself of merely drifted up from the sheets instead. It had been a long couple of days, and he was beat—no doubt that was why he was feeling so susceptible.
But he didn't try to fool himself. Lily Morrisette was the type of woman who could tie a man's thoughts in knots without lifting so much as one single, dainty, rose-tipped finger. And that made her more dangerous than a field full of land mines.
So first thing in the morning, after he'd had a decent night's sleep and his brain was once again working at its usual brisk pace, he'd find a way to send her packing.
Chapter 2
LILY STOOD IN FRONT OF THE MIRRORED CLOSET door the next morning and studied her naked body. The longer she looked, the closer together her eyebrows inched. Who invented the full-length mirror, anyway? She'd lay odds on a man with a sadistic streak.
Okay, maybe that wasn't fair. Perhaps he was a perfectly nice fellow—one so moon-faced in love with his sylphlike wife that he'd invented the thing so she could admire her svelte and no doubt hipless body from head to toe whenever her little heart desired. Besides, it wasn't as if the reflection looking back at her was that bad. If she were seeing it strictly through her own eyes, in fact, she'd probably think, Not fabulous. Could definitely stand improvement. But, all in all, not bad for a thirty-five-year-old who's fond of food .
Unfortunately, her observation was tainted by the remembrance of Zach Taylor's cool gray eyes tracking over her, as well as the knowledge that he had clearly never had to sweat cellulite. Sucking in her stomach, standing as tall as she possibly could, she turned side to side, scowling at the not-much-improved-upon reflection. She was simply so darn… round .
Blowing out a breath, she studied the various components that comprised the whole. It wasn't all bad news. She liked her shoulders, and her arms had nice definition. She had good skin, and her breasts were fairly decent. They were a bit larger than she would've chosen had it been left up to her, but they weren't show-stopper huge, thank goodness. And they were still right up where they were supposed to be—there was something to be said for that.
That was the plus side of the ledger; then things got a little dicey. She was short-waisted and her hips and bottom were the bane of her existence, both being several inches fuller than she cared to contemplate, never mind acknowledge. And being only five feet, three inches tall (well, darn near—five-two and three-quarters, anyhow) her legs obviously weren't the kind that reached to heaven. Thank God for nicely squared shoulders or she'd look like one of those roly-poly punching-bag dolls that always popped right back up no matter how often one pushed the thing down.