Free Sandra Hill by Hot, Heavy Page A

morning.
    It took them more than an hour to get back to the cave, because they had to take care they weren’t spotted along the way. Once they got to the site, Ian raised a halting hand. The bush was still in place in front of the cave, but that didn’t mean anything. “No firing,” he said into his headset, “no matter what she does.”
    He pulled the bush aside and tried to see inside, without actually entering. She was lying on the floor in the same place, except she was facing the wall. Her body, under her hooded robe, was deathly still. Something wasn’t quite right. He could sense it.
    He took out his pocket flashlight, shone it inside as he entered. And was attacked by some whirling dervish with a raised knife. Ian made neat work of stepping aside, but still the knife hit his chest … orrather his assault vest and body armor. It could have been worse … much worse. When he didn’t fall to the ground—dead, for chrissake, if this idiot had her way—the whirling dervish threw herself at him, pummeling him about the chest and head as he lifted her by the waist so that her bare feet dangled off the dirt floor. He lowered his hands to get a better grip.
    “Oh, my God!” With a gasp of surprise, he stared at the now screaming dervish in utter astonishment. Because the dervish was butt naked … and said butt was in his hands. He smiled. He couldn’t help himself.
    Glancing to the far end of the cave, he saw on closer inspection that her robe was covering piles of leaves and sticks. Ergo, she had to be naked to attack him.
    “Listen, sweetheart, you’d better stop squirming and scratching so I can go over and pick up that robe to cover you. Otherwise, you’re going to be doing the full monty for not one but eight men.”
    She drew her head back from where she had been attempting to bite his shoulder and yelped, “Eeeek!” on seeing him in the balaclava hood. All he could think of, though, was the view he got of her breasts when she leaned back.
I am not looking. I am not looking. They are not pretty. Nope. Not even close. Hell, who am I kidding? We’re talking Pamela Andersons here. Practically.
He didn’t even care that she had B.O. out the wazoo.
    But then, the harridan with practically Pamela Anderson breasts looked over his shoulder toward the cave entrance and did a double eek, “Eeeek! Eeeek!” at all his squad mates in full military geargawking at the picture of him holding a squawking, naked shrew. She yanked his hood off his head and glared at him, as if he were at fault. “Get my robe, you lackwit. And stop leering at my breasts. I’m not a cow.”
    No, baby, you are not.
He walked her over to her robe, her sweet breasts pressed against him; he could swear he felt their firmness all the way through his vest and body armor. He leaned down, with her clutching his neck and her legs wrapped around his hips so that he wouldn’t turn and show her to the rest of the guys. It was clumsy work easing down to a squat and pulling her robe over her head. Thank God for all those duck squats in PT.
    “Can we come in now?” Cage asked. “Or is this a private party?”
    All five of them were pulling off their hoods and taking off their weapons and vests as they walked in. And they were all grinning.
    “You are a beast,” she said and punched him in the arm.
    “What did I do now?”
    “Bringing all your troll friends here.”
    “Hey, it’s not your cave.”
    “I was here first.”
    “So that’s the cheese, huh?” Pretty Boy remarked. To Yasmine, he said, “Pleased to meet you, pretty lady.”
    Someone made a snorting sound of disbelief at the pretty-lady observation. It might have been Yasmine.
    “I’m Lieutenant (jg) Zach Floyd, but you can call me Pretty Boy. Everyone does.”
    It was definitely Yasmine who snorted withdisbelief now. This time at Pretty Boy’s conceited self-assessment.
    Pretty Boy extended a hand to shake with her, but she backed away.
    Ian grabbed her forearm and pulled