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I approached the reporter with a sneer, watching her scan the opulent beach homes behind me

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I approached the reporter with a sneer, watching her scan the opulent beach homes behind me. She gathered her long, chestnut-colored hair and arranged it over a bare shoulder.

"Can I help you?" I asked, biting back a displeasure that softened as my gaze swept down her stunning body.

I focused on her legs. Curvy and toned. The fabric of her dress, and what was underneath, proved impossible for me to ignore.

"Hi." She flipped her sunglasses to the top of her head. "I'm with The Palmira Post. I'm looking for people who saw the plane before it crashed on the beach. Do you live here? Did you see it? The plane?"

The reporter's press pass dangled in between her breasts and a red bikini flashed like a stop sign under her white dress. Why was she wearing that to a crime scene?

I rubbed my lips together. My hand went instinctively to my hip, and I realized with a pang of unease that I'd left my gun on the terrace. I hated myself for automatically being so paranoid. This woman wasn't a threat. She was just a young, eager reporter. Harmless.

Still. I wasn't going to tell her that I saw the entire crash from my balcony. Watched as the small plane landed on the beach. It clipped the leg of a man, making him bleed all over the sand. I ran down and helped him as fast as I could.

Tried to stop the bleeding, probably saved his life.

Then I casually walked back inside before anyone noticed me. And I wanted it to stay that way, dammit.

Grunting, I shook my head and tried to ignore the reporter's gorgeous face.

My eyes settled on a clump of sand clinging to her ankle, and I was struck by an overwhelming urge to brush it off with my fingers and then run my entire hand up, up, up the inside of her smooth leg. Over her calf, skimming the side of her knee, grazing her inner thigh.

All the way up until my fingers reached something hot and wet. I licked my lips and shook my head again. "I don't want to be in the paper."

She flashed a pretty smile, and her gaze lingered on my chest. Oh. Right. I wasn't wearing a shirt. Her eyes shifted to the tattoo on my left bicep, her smile grew wider and her gaze skittered to my abs before she raised her eyes.

"My name's Skylar. You can call me Sky. I understand that you don't want to be quoted, but could you tell me anything off the record?"

I was struck by the pale blue hue of her eyes, the color of the Gulf on a clear day, a startling and beautiful contrast with her hair.

I stepped back and smiled despite myself. "I don't do off the record. People should never talk to the media, you know."

She laughed. "Ohh, come on. I'm one of the good reporters. I won't misquote you."

"Really? Don't all reporters say that? Why should I trust you?"

She stopped laughing, which was too bad, because the sound was sweet as honey. "Trust me? Of course you can trust me. And, anyway, I'm looking for the person who helped the man hit by the plane. One of the paramedics said he was young and maybe had a tattoo."

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