Pleasing Her Seal. Anne Marsh
repair—even she wasn’t going to eat a chocolate croissant that had bounced off Hot Chef’s chest and hit the jungle floor—but her camera was a different story. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands and then handed it to her.
“The first apology is for scaring you. It wasn’t intentional.” His lips curved up in a grin. “And the second apology is for your camera. And your croissant.” She liked the slow way he smiled at her. It made her feel all melty, like the insides of her croissant.
“It was chocolate,” she pointed out. “One apology may not be sufficient.”
“Call me crazy, but aren’t cameras a bit more expensive than breakfast pastries?”
“I have more than one camera,” she explained. “But at the moment, I’m completely croissant-less.”
“I make a mean chocolate-chip pancake,” he offered, surprising her. With that brawny body, she’d assumed he was an oat bran and protein powder kind of guy. “I could make you a replacement.”
Somehow, she didn’t think his pancakes would take second place. Nope. Just like his smile, she had a bad feeling his pancakes would be addictive. He was a big, scary-looking guy offering homemade breakfast. Talk about checking all the right boxes.
“You cook,” she blurted out when the silence stretched on too long, and then wanted to smack herself. Duh. Obviously, he cooked. He was a chef at the resort, even if he wore camo pants, a black T-shirt and combat boots, and looked more like a badass than a chef.
“Yeah,” he agreed, rocking back on his heels to survey her, presumably for further damage. “I do. Really well, although I’m hearing a no on my offer.”
Only because she was biting her lip. She wanted to scream “yes, please” and not just for his pancakes.
“That’s not what chefs wear.” She flicked a finger up and down, indicating his clothes.
He grinned. “I’m not in the kitchen right now, sweetheart. I’m allowed to be out of uniform.”
And now she was thinking about him naked.
“I’m playing paintball with some of the guys,” he continued.
“At dawn?”
He shrugged. “You all like to eat. I have a job to do most of the time.”
“You don’t have any paint on your shirt.” Although if his alleged teammates had hit him on the butt, she’d be happy to check out that portion of his anatomy, too.
He sighed. “That’s because I’m good.”
Again...maybe. Not that he had any reason to lie to her about paintball, but she had a suspicious nature. She tried to peer over his shoulder, but it was roughly the size of a small tree and offered plenty of places for a gal to dig in. His black T-shirt clung to him in all the right places, and black and green paint streaked his face. The colors drew attention to the strong line of his jaw and a really great pair of brown eyes.
She was staring.
Shoot.
“I saw boats.” She pointed to the lagoon over his shoulder. “Two of those black inflatable dinghy things.”
He turned around, crossing his arms over his broad chest. That move pulled the shirt tight. Since she was an equal-opportunity kind of gal, she checked out his ass, too. Which was tight and firm, unlike hers. She definitely needed to take up paintball.
He shrugged and pointed to the dinghy-less, bad-guy-less lagoon. “There’s no one there now.”
“But there was.” She hated mysteries.
“It could be the Belizean police doing a routine drug check. They patrol up and down the coastline, and we’re only a few miles offshore.”
That sounded feasible. On her last visit to Cancun, back when she’d had vacation time, benefits and a nine-to-five job, she’d spotted AK-47–toting Mexican police patrolling the beaches. The hotel had assured her that was standard operating procedure, although she’d almost choked on her margarita the first time she’d spotted the patrols. She stared at the camera in her hands.
“I have photos,” she said.
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you,” he pointed out. “But I’m happy to look at anything you want to show me.”
That almost sounded like a double entendre, but he said the words with a straight face, making it impossible to be sure. Instead, she focused on her camera and—damn it—its trip to the ground hadn’t done it any favors.
“The memory card’s gone. It must have popped out when I dropped the camera.”
And flown over the edge, she decided a few minutes later, on its way down, down, down for a tropical swim. Mason helped her look, but the card was nowhere to be found. Of course, since she was searching for a teeny piece of plastic in the great outdoors, her odds hadn’t been high to start with.
“I’m thinking I owe you more than a short stack,” he said with a grimace. “Now you’ve lost your pictures, too.”
This was where being prepared came in handy. “Not really. I had the camera set up to do time-lapse, and all the shots should have been transferred to my laptop if the Wi-Fi isn’t moving on island time.”
“Good to know,” he muttered, his eyes on the camera in her hands. “What were you shooting?”
“Not what you were shooting.” When he gave her a lopsided grin, she told him the truth. “Sunrise pictures. Romantic stuff for my wedding blog. Brides will love having their pictures taken up here. I’m shadowing a wedding later this week, and the bride already picked out this spot for her photos. They’re a gorgeous couple.”
She whipped open her planner and flipped to the section where she’d jotted down her notes for the beach wedding. There were certain shots she definitely wanted to make sure she captured, and she did better with a list.
“This is my bride and groom. He’s a hottie. My blog readers will love him.”
Mason took the groom’s picture from her. “This is your guy?”
“Uh-huh.” She’d been in correspondence with Julieta, the bride, more than once before she’d arrived. The Mrs. Guzman-to-be was a pretty blonde, while her groom had the Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome part down. He rocked a white linen suit in the photo Julieta had sent to give Maddie an idea of what they’d be wearing and, if he showed up looking like that, her photos would be outstanding. “What do you think?”
Mason snorted. “Not my type, sweetheart.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “Well, Mr. Guzman clearly appeals to the future Mrs. Guzman, and that’s all that counts.”
“They here on the island already?” He returned the photo and she stuck it back in her planner.
“Not yet.” Which was both surprising and not. “Julieta’s dress is here—that’s the bride-to-be—but I haven’t actually seen them check in yet. Mr. Guzman runs some kind of import-export business and has stuff come up at the last minute all the time. Maybe he had a business thing. It must be nice to have a private plane and go where you want, when you want.”
“Maybe.” Mason gestured at her tripod. “You done here? Want a hand bringing this back to your villa?”
“A hand down the hill would be great,” she said, still thinking about her missing bride and groom. She’d been counting on shooting their wedding for her blog; if they were no-shows, she’d need to make alternative arrangements. “Maybe I’ll see if his brother has arrived yet. Ask him if Mr. Guzman’s plans have changed.”
Mason started breaking down her tripod. “He’s bringing family to his wedding?”
She shrugged. “Just his brother, Santiago, according to Julieta. He was planning to