IN OVER HIS HEAD Read online

  As she made her way toward the Marine Patio, she couldn't help but wonder what he'd look like out of those jeans.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later she found out. He looked damned good.

  Leaning back in her chair as she washed down the last bite of her tuna salad sandwich with a sip of iced tea, she caught sight of him entering the pool area from the lobby doors. Even though he now wore a bright white T-shirt and a pair of dark blue swim trunks, and the Stetson had been replaced with a baseball cap, there was no mistaking he was the same guy. The way he moved, with that smooth, athletic, confident gait, was a dead giveaway. As was the fine physique.

  He appeared to be searching for something or someone as he walked around the pool, weaving his way among the lounging sunbathers.

  Stirring her iced tea with her straw, she watched him pause, settling his hands on his hips. With his eyes narrowed against the sun's glare, his gaze slowly panned the pool area. Her own gaze slid over him and again her lips pursed with female appreciation. There was no doubt he fell squarely into the "hunk" category. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had a ruggedly attractive face that looked as if it came straight from one of those tourism print ads for Wyoming or Colorado.

  He started walking again, with that slow, measured gait that riveted her attention. Her eyes, which seemed to suddenly develop a mind of their own, zeroed in on the area directly below where his giant belt buckle had been. Pressing her lips together, Lexie swallowed once. Yup, Mr. Cowboy was definitely put together quite … nicely. In fact, she couldn't recall the last time she'd seen a pair of swim trunks filled out so … perfectly. Maybe he should have stayed covered up in those jeans. No telling what sort of havoc this guy would wreak in those swim trunks.

  A sigh of envy escaped her for the woman this hunk was no doubt looking for. Lucky girl. Probably some Pamela Anderson look-alike who favored thong bikinis—and actually looked good in one.

  She tried to imagine herself as a Pamela Anderson/thong-sporting/luscious man-magnet and had to force back a laugh.

  Not in this lifetime. So engrossed was she in her silly daydream, it took her several seconds to realize that Mr. Cowboy had stopped walking. And that he now stood directly in front of her. And that she was staring at his groin.

  A wave of embarrassed heat washed through her and she jerked up her chin, silently thanking the ingenious soul who had invented sunglasses. At least Mr. Cowboy wouldn't know she'd been visualizing his big … belt buckle. Yup, that's what she'd been thinking about. Absolutely. Um, except that he wasn't wearing the belt buckle any longer. But, hey, how would she have known that if she hadn't looked?

  Now that her chin was back up where it belonged, she found herself looking at a face that confirmed her earlier assessment of "hunk". He wasn't handsome in the classic sense—his features were too rough, too stark. But there was no denying that the dark brown eyes, the high slash of cheekbones, his firm, full lips and square jaw combined to make an arrestingly attractive face. He looked big and tall, muscular, solid and strong, and even though a small feminist inner voice scolded her for not being immune to his obvious masculinity, everything girly in her heaved out a silent, Oooohhhhh.

  His gaze settled for a second on her Marlins hat, then tracked slowly downward. She suddenly felt uncharacteristically self-conscious about her pool hair, ratty cap, baggy shorts and damp shirt. Not to mention her suddenly hard nipples—which she longed to blame on a freakish cool breeze, but nothing even remotely resembling a cool breeze had wafted by.

  Before she could cross her arms over her chest, he raised his gaze back to hers, then touched the brim of his hat. "You must be Lexie Webster," he said in a deep, sexy voice.

  Even if she wasn't Lexie Webster, she suspected no one would have blamed her for claiming she was. Especially since most of the males who sought her out at the resort were normally accompanied by their wives and/or several children. And the rest of them were either under sixteen or over eighty.

  Before she could answer he continued, "Tim at the registration desk told me to look for a gal by the pool with a shirt that read Activities And Sports Director." His gaze wandered downward once more, touching on the words emblazoned across her chest, then rose again to meet her eyes. A crooked grin lifted one corner of his mouth and a dimple creased his cheek. "That would appear to be you."

  Lexie forced herself not to stare at that dimple, which could be summed up in one word: sexy. Or two words: damn sexy. Offering him a smile she said, "Yes, I'm Lexie Webster. What can I do for you, Mr.…?"

  He instantly extended his hand. "Maynard. Josh Maynard. I'd like to sign up for your classes."

  And wouldn't I love to teach you everything I know. Lexie inwardly scowled at her errant inner voice then shook his hand. A tingle raced up her arm when her palm met his large calloused one in a firm grip. He had a nice handshake. No bone-crushing and no limp, wishy-washy stuff. Releasing his hand she asked, as if she didn't already know and hadn't already ogled him in his cowboy gear, "Are you a guest at the resort, Mr. Maynard?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I just checked in, and I'm ready and eager to get started. And please call me Josh."

  She couldn't recall the last time someone over the age of twelve had called her "ma'am." "Which classes were you interested in taking, Josh?"

  "All of them."

  "All of them? We offer nearly two dozen." She smiled up at him. "That won't leave you much vacation time for relaxing."

  "I'm not here to vacation. I'm here to learn."

  "I see." Her lips twitched. "In that case, I'll be sure to sign you up for the Make A Basket From Palm Fronds craft session."

  A frown formed between his brows and he settled his hands on his hips, dragging Lexie's gaze involuntarily downward. His long fingers spread out across his hips, pointing like arrows toward his groin. She cleared her throat and instantly jerked her attention upward. Good grief, she was turning into a pervert. Anyone would think she was a sex-starved nympho who'd never seen an attractive, hunky cowboy with a killer dimple.

  You are sex-starved, her inner voice taunted. And you never have seen such an attractive, hunky cowboy, let alone one with a killer dimple.

  Hmm. Well, at least she wasn't a nympho. Probably. And just because it had now been eleven months, three weeks and five days since she'd had sex, that didn't mean she was starved. Heck no. She was merely a bit … peckish. Darla's words flitted through her mind. You are primed…

  "I reckon the palm frond basket-making is one I can skip," he said, yanking her attention back to the conversation. "What I need to learn is how to sail."

  She noted he said need as opposed to want. "We offer beginner lessons here at the resort, and I can recommend several excellent sailing schools in the area for more advanced lessons. Do you have any sailing experience?"

  "No, ma'am. But I'm a quick learner, and I've read up on the subject. What I need is practical, hands-on instruction." He looked around, as if trying to see if anyone was listening to them. Then he stepped closer, leaning toward her. Warmth that had nothing to do with the bright sun enveloped her, along with his scent—a combination of freshly laundered clothing and some sort of woodsy musk that tapped her hormones on the shoulders and proclaimed, "Boy, does he smell good." She firmly told her hormones to sit down and shut up. Sheesh! She'd taken one look at this guy and lost her marbles. He was probably married with three kids. Or engaged. She glanced down. No ring. But that didn't prove anything.

  Lowering his voice he said, "The problem is, Miss Webster—"

  "Lexie."

  "—yes, ma'am, is that before I learn to sail, I need some more—" he cast another quick look around "—basic type of instructions."

  "In what area?"

  "I'm, uh, well … this is embarrassing to admit, but I'm not a real good swimmer."

  Understanding dawned, and sympathy tugged at her. Had he suffered some childhood water-related trauma? Such was often the case when adults couldn't swim. "I see. Well, that's not a problem, Jos
h, nor should you be embarrassed. I've taught many adults how to swim. We offer classes twice a week—"

  "I need more than twice a week, and to be honest, I'd prefer not to take lessons with other folks around—at least not until I develop some proficiency."

  "So you want private lessons?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I shouldn't need too many. My coordination and strength are good. What I don't have is experience." He laid his hand over his heart and dipped his chin, looking at her with soulful puppy-dog eyes. "Please say you're available to help me. You'd be the answer to my prayers."

  Yikes. Was there a woman currently breathing who could resist that look? That heartfelt plea? If so, God bless her.

  Lexie quickly mulled over his offer, and just as quickly decided to accept. With the extra cash she could earn teaching Mr. Cowboy, especially now that the tourist season was approaching a lull, he could be the answer to her prayers, as well.

  She quoted her hourly rate and he agreed without batting an eye. "When do we start?" he asked, casting an askance glance at the crowded pool.

  "The pool is open twenty-four hours, but it's normally unoccupied in the evenings. Why don't we meet here tonight at nine?"

  "Nine sounds great. Thank you."

  "You're welcome." She glanced down at her watch and realized her lunch break was over. "I have a snorkeling session now, but I'll see you this evening."

  He touched his hat and nodded. "I'm looking forward to it, ma'am."

  * * *

  Josh watched her zigzag expertly around the lounge chairs on her way toward the beach. His gaze traveled down her back, noting the smooth muscles in her golden-tanned thighs and calves. She was fairly small and compact, but very nicely put together. Between her dark sunglasses and baseball cap, he hadn't been able to see much of her face or hair, but she had a beautiful, friendly smile. And great lips.

  A bunch of his buddies were leg men, and some were breast men, some a combination of both, and most possessed an appreciation of the female posterior, as well. While Josh easily admired all those feminine attributes, he was definitely what he'd term a lip man. And Lexie Webster possessed just the sort of well-shaped, full, moist-looking mouth that made him groan.

  And by damn, her legs, breasts and posterior were fine-looking, too. And she smelled like one of those long, cool, tropical drinks. The kind that made you want to take a nice big … lick.

  To top it all off, he especially liked the fact that she had no idea who he was. Yeah, she'd given him the once-over, but clearly his name and face didn't ring any bells with her, which suited him just fine. A lot of the women who followed the rodeo circuit made big plays for him and, while the attention had been flattering at first, he'd eventually reached the point where he didn't know if a woman liked him for himself or because of his championship titles. He hated to be cynical, but there was no denying that the more competitions he'd won, the more attractive he'd become to the ladies.

  But unlike the women from the circuit or from home, Miss Lexie Webster didn't know him from a hole in the ground. And that was perfect. He needed to keep his mind on the task at hand. Learn to swim. Then learn to sail a boat, and then, by damn, sail it, and see something of the world while he did. For himself, and for Dad. After that, he wasn't sure what the future would hold, but for right now, he wasn't looking any further than mastering this water stuff.

  Making his way back toward the lobby, he debated the wisdom of hiring an attractive woman to teach him. He recalled the tornado of images that had whirled through his mind when she'd said So you want private lessons—images that had nothing to do with swimming or sailing. But he forced the worry aside. He could do anything he set his mind to. He'd just pretend Lexie Webster was one of the guys.

  After all, how distracting could one small woman be?

  * * *

  At eight forty-five that evening Josh walked along one of the winding flagstone paths leading toward the pool. Lush vegetation surrounded the meandering walkway. Palms towered overhead, their long curving leaves rustling in the gentle, tropical-scented breeze. A full moon glowed, casting shimmering silver ribbons on the calm ocean, and the soothing splash of one of the grounds' many waterfalls reached his ears.

  He nodded to a hand-holding, strolling couple, then, as he crossed over a small wooden bridge, he spied another couple embracing on the beach, backlit by the moon's glow. He could easily see how this setting, with its potent combination of the ocean, the salt air, the swaying palms and the need for very little clothing could turn one's thoughts to romance.

  But not him. No sirree. His agenda left no time for canoodling. In fact, romancing of any kind was the furthest thing from his mind. Every last ounce of his concentration was firmly focused on the pool and his upcoming swimming lesson.

  He rounded a curve in the path. The pool lay just ahead, its aqua surface glistening under the moonlight, its pale bottom softly lit by underwater lights. During his walk around the grounds after dinner, he'd discovered that this pool was like no other he'd ever seen. It was more part of a series of pools branching off from the main pool, all connected by tunnels. Folks could swim or float in an inner tube from one pool to the next, take a break from the sun in the shade of one of the tunnels, or splash in one of the waterfalls cascading from the rock formations. A swim-up bar was situated along the far side, and steam rose from the trio of hot tubs gurgling from behind another huge rock formation. And here he'd thought pools came in two shapes: rectangle or oval.

  A quick glance around indicated the pool area was deserted. Good. His lesson was scheduled to start in about ten minutes, and he didn't relish the thought of an audience gawking at him while he learned something most five-year-olds already knew how to do.

  He was just about to drop his towel onto a lounge chair when a splash caught his attention. Turning toward the sound, he froze. And stared.

  A feminine figure was emerging from the pool, rising slowly from the shallow end, her curvaceous form revealed inch by tantalizing inch as she seemingly glided toward the wide curved steps leading from the water. She appeared from that aqua-hued water like a slow-motion shimmering sea nymph, and he suddenly knew how Ulysses must have felt when he caught sight of those sirens.

  She climbed the last step, then stood in profile to him at the edge of the pool. Droplets clung to her skin, meandering slowly downward. His gaze followed the path of those drops, and he damn near swallowed his tongue. She had more curves on her than a mountain road. Curves that were put on further heart-stopping display when she stretched, reaching up to smooth her hands over her slicked-back, chin-length hair.

  He shook his head to clear away the lustful fog shrouding his brain and also to redirect his eyeballs, which, thank God, were attached to him or they'd have flopped out onto the cement. A frown yanked down his brows, and he huffed out a disgusted sound. What the hell was wrong with him? She was just a gal in a swimsuit. And a plain ol' one-piece swimsuit at that. He'd seen dozens of women today wearing far less. Maybe he could understand him losing his mind like that if this gal'd been wearing a teeny bikini…

  Instantly he imagined that curvy form in a teeny bikini, and heat shot through him. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose to dispel the image. Hell, he had to get a hold of himself before his instructor arrived—

  "Is that you, Josh?" asked a familiar feminine voice.

  He jumped as if he'd squatted on his spurs. Uh-oh. Unless he missed his mark—and he rarely did—that familiar feminine voice came from the exact location where the water nymph stood. And that could only mean one thing.

  His swimming instructor, Miss Lexie Webster, was none other than the curvaceous pool goddess.

  Forcing his eyes open, he watched her walk toward him. She moved with that same fluid grace he'd noticed this afternoon, only it was easier to see that grace in all its glory now that it wasn't covered up by a baggy T-shirt and shorts.

  In spite of the fact that he gave himself a mental kick in the ass and tried to
move toward her, he simply stood there as if his feet were glued in place.

  When she reached him, she greeted him with a friendly smile. "Ready for your lesson?"

  Most likely he nodded, but he wasn't sure. He certainly meant to, but it seemed all he could do was gawk. No doubt about it, he went from zero to smitten in a nanosecond. He'd thought her attractive this afternoon, but now, without the sunglasses and baseball hat, the word that came to mind was … whew!

  He couldn't tell what color her eyes were in the muted light, but he could tell they were pale. Blue? Green? One or the other. Whatever their color, there was no mistaking how large and expressive they were, or the long, spiky wet lashes surrounding them. His gaze drifted over her pert nose, complete with a dusting of freckles, then settled on her mouth.

  The devil himself must have fashioned that wicked mouth because it had sin written all over it. And those two dimples winking on either side of those pouty lips had to be illegal. She stood in front of him, glistening wet, wearing next to nothing … he swallowed in an effort to moisten his dust-dry throat.

  "Are you all right, Josh?"

  He bobbed his head in a jerky nod.

  "Do you still want to take your lesson?"

  Lesson? Oh, right. Swimming. He cleared his throat then forced his lips to move. "Yes, ma'am."

  "There's no reason to be nervous. I'll be right next to you the entire time." She laid her hand on his arm in what he assumed was meant as a gesture of comfort. Instead it felt as though she'd lit a match to his skin. Had he actually thought he could consider this woman one of the guys? Yup, he sure had, which placed him squarely in the category of "a couple steaks short of a barbecue."

  A dozen flirtatious responses sprang to his lips, and he clenched his teeth to contain them. This was supposed to be strictly business, but he knew it wouldn't be long before he'd give in to temptation. No way he'd be able to resist flirting with her. Not when she had all his nerve endings on red alert.