Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) Read online

  This is what we SEALs like to call a win-win situation, because now not only is my head safe from further assault, but my dick is wedged between Marlee’s thighs. She kicks instinctively, bucking against my hold, and her legs slide around my hips.

  Marlee’s hair flies over her face, and I fight the urge to smooth it away. I’m pretty sure she just tried to brain me, although her efforts are nothing compared to the last Taliban fighter I went hand-to-hand with. She’s a curvy gal, and her bikini top doesn’t do much to contain her top half even when she’s on her back. For just a second, my brain goes AWOL imagining her sitting on top of me and riding my dick like a cowgirl. Might even pop out of those blue-and-white stripes, because everywhere I look, I see soft skin and generous curves. Best. Sight. Ever. I drag my gaze back up to her face—two inches beneath mine—but there’s no blocking the feeling.

  “You scared me,” she growls.

  Yeah. I’d figured that out on my own.

  “I can go away,” I offer, although honestly she’s not in a position to be choosy. I’m the one on top.

  “You’re heavy,” she counters. “And I’m stuck.”

  She shifts restlessly beneath me, or at least tries to. Honestly, I’m not a small guy. She’s got a better chance of moving the island.

  “You’re late returning to the dive shop.”

  She bites her lip. Inhales. Exhales. It’s like she’s trying to torture me. Her bikini top slips further, and suddenly there’s way too much Marlee pressed against my bare chest. I should have left my T-shirt on.

  “Are you the repo man?” Of course she thinks Charlie’s worried about her returning the equipment—Marlee’s sense of self-esteem is seriously underdeveloped.

  “Apparently I’m your white knight.” I roll off her. There’s just enough room on her mini-island for me to lie next to her, although my feet are still in the water, and my head’s getting wet. We really should get going. She makes a small noise. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed, cheering my rescue plans on, or just clearing her throat. “Unless you want me to leave you here.”

  “No,” she says quickly. I probably should be offended that she thinks I’d actually abandon her, but at least it tells me that she’s unaware of my stalking sideline. If she knew how often I kept an eye on her, she’d know I’d never leave her.

  I give the rip another assessing look. From where I am, swimming through isn’t a good idea. I may be a former SEAL, but Marlee isn’t. Plus, she has to be tired after hours of paddleboarding. I sense her eyes on me as I examine her board. It’s definitely temporarily hosed—I pull out my duct tape and the knife and go to work.

  She sounds less pissed off now—maybe she’ll appreciate the rescue after all. “You carry all that stuff with you?”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Comes in handy.”

  While she starts talking (and talking and talking) about how she ended up here, I tape her board back together. Then I set it in the water.

  “On.” I point to the board. “I’ll tow you to shore.”

  She doesn’t move. See, she’s trying to make herself say that she doesn’t need help. That she’s got this and she doesn’t need to put me out or inconvenience me. Since I’m already soaking wet and I’ve swum out here to get her, that’s bullshit and I’d rather get her back to the shore and safety. She can help me out by following orders.

  “On,” I repeat. “Unless you want to camp out here overnight?”

  She hesitates but does it. Marlee’s smart, and since she’s out of options, she’ll take my help. I adjust her grip on the board, slide into the water, grab the board’s leash, and kick off. We’re gonna have to swim parallel to the rip for about a quarter mile before I can bring us back to shore and my truck. Ten minutes—fifteen minutes tops—and she’ll be safe. By then, the sun will be all the way down, but my night vision is fine.

  “I’ll be shark patrol,” she announces, and I fight the urge to snort. Inhaling water won’t get her to shore any faster. Instead, I set a fast, hard pace, pulling us through the water with steady strokes. Lights from the occasional passing car flash through the palm trees crowding the beach, and it’s dark enough now that I can’t see the bottom anymore. I’ve swum in worse, though, so it’s no BFD.

  Marlee’s words wash over me, a stream of commentary on the water, the sunset, our relative position to shore, and the four hundred different (and unacceptable) reasons for how she ended up stranded on a shrinking island. I’m not one for small talk. If I don’t have anything to say, I’m silent. Marlee clearly takes a different approach to life. Since she also doesn’t seem to need a conversational contribution from me, I swim, she talks, and together we make our way to shore.

  “Oh, thank God,” she breathes when my feet hit bottom. I pull off my fins and wade for the beach, still towing the board with Marlee on it. Part of me is kind of disappointed that we’re done so fast. Apparently, a ten-minute swim is a new high in my admittedly pathetic dating life. I grunt noncommittally when she thanks the divine powers a second and then a third time, and I keep walking.

  “I owe you my life,” she says. “It’s like Robin Hood. I have to stick by your side and be your boon companion until I’ve made this up to you.”

  Danger.

  I prefer to work alone. I live alone. Other than interacting with my boys, Ro and Finn, I’m a one-man island and I like it that way. Plus, the mental images that sprint through my sorry head at the words stick by your side are positively pornographic. My Robin Hood lore is limited, but I’m positive Marlee doesn’t mean sex slave. Therefore I say the first socially acceptable thing that comes to mind. “Thank you works for me.”

  Okay. Lots of things work for me, but I’m not an asshole. I can’t tell her that what I’d really like to do is lay her down on the sand and strip off her bikini. Better yet, I’d like to do it slowly. Drag my knuckle down the silky fabric covering her pussy and touch her until she goes up in flames.

  She giggles, and that happy sound makes the corners of my mouth turn up. Marlee’s contagious, which is another reason why she’s dangerous.

  “I was thinking of something more concrete,” she says. She’s still got a death grip on the board, but some of the tension has left her body now that we’ve put the rip current behind us and she’s splashing distance from the beach.

  “Uh-huh.” Grunting’s my safest response. No idea what she means by concrete, but I’ve just discovered that I can, in fact, get a raging hard on while swimming like a mad man for shore. Certainly never had that problem in BUD/S, so I blame Marlee one hundred percent.

  I’ve always liked watching her, tuning in to her life like she’s my favorite TV show and I’ve got the evening free. But that’s all she is—a distraction. She’s cute, but I’m not into casual hook ups. Too much work, too little sex, too many expectations. As a result, I’ve been out of the dating pool and sleeping alone for months now.

  There must be something broken somewhere inside me because I haven’t missed it. Fucking. Banging. Doing a woman. Pick a word, but I’m not doing it and I don’t miss it. I must be rusty if I’ve been reduced to calling sex it. Or at least, that’s what I thought, because right now? I don’t have to look down to know a part of me is ready to practice. To jump back into the dating pool dick first.

  “Off,” I announce. The Vann O’Reilly taxi service has gone as far as it’s going tonight. If I were a gentleman, I’d pick her up and carry her the last three feet, but she’s already wet and I’m not a gentleman.

  “Think about what I could do for you,” she instructs, hopping off the board and almost sprinting to the beach. Maybe she’s worried about sand sharks. Fuck me if I know.

  Forcing my brain to not think about her offer, I slosh to the beach after her, put her in my truck, and drive her home after dropping off the board. She ended up seven miles south of where she started and asking her to walk would be too much. She chatters a little more the first mile, but apparently my silence is either contagious or depr
essing, because she shuts up for the rest of the ride. And then I dump her outside her front door, flick her a quick salute, and fall back.

  I resist checking on Marlee the next morning. And the next afternoon, too. This undoubtedly qualifies me for canonization next time the Church is taking names for potential saints, because I’m itching to go after her. Do a quick recon. I like making sure all of my loose ends are tied up, and it’s entirely possible that Marlee needs something after her close encounter with a rip current. She certainly needs to return her rented SUP board, although Charlie St. Croix won’t send a collection agency or hired goons after her if she keeps his board a little too long. In fact, he’s more likely to go himself, and that probably explains why I’m eager to make sure she’s handed him back his stuff already. If I were a girl, I’d probably think Charlie was hot.

  In addition to being in imminent danger of a visit from not-so-charming Charlie, Marlee might be sore. Stiff. Sunburned. Take your pick. Not that it’s any of my business, but I did rescue her, which prompted her to claim I was the Robin Hood to her Azeem. I looked it up on my phone after I got back last night. The good guy in the green tights saves the life of the Moor when they’re both incarcerated in a Turkish prison. Given my fantasies about her, I’m secretly grateful Marlee didn’t cast herself as the virginal Maid Marian.

  Robin Hood watched over Marian, though. He made sure she was safe, and he came charging to the rescue when it looked like she wasn’t. I’m still not entirely sure where Azeem fits in, but I’m sure Marlee will tell me. She talks more than anyone I know.

  When Ro, Finn, and I set up our canine training business on Angel Cay, we purchased what was really a mini-cay kind of stuck to the butt of Angel Cay. Finn claimed it was like a mutant sand growth, but the three acres give us room to run the dogs off-leash without worrying about who might accidentally get in the way. There’s only one road in, and we keep an eye on it. Old habits die hard. In addition to the dog runs and kennels, we have a business office and each of us has a small bungalow.

  Eighteen months after we set up shop, I still don’t have any furniture. I have a mattress on the floor, and that’s good enough for me. Makes the housekeeping easier. In addition to my empty bedroom, I have a living room with grade A sea views, a bathroom, and a kitchen. The fridge is handy for stocking drinks where Finn can’t get his hands on them, but otherwise I just use it for holding take-out leftovers and energy bars.

  Since Finn hooked up with Vali a few months ago, the contents of my fridge have improved significantly. Vali not only loves to cook, but she’s good at it. She also loves Finn, and that translates into even more food for every member of Search and SEALs. Maybe it’s because she’s Cuban-American. Maybe she just wants to fatten him up. Maybe she’s practicing for the dozen kids they’ll probably gestate in the not-so-distant future. Right now, however, I eat well and do my best to ignore any non-cooking sounds I hear coming from Finn’s bungalow. He spends almost as much time at Vali’s place as he does here with us, although both Ro and I expect them to move into the bungalow together before too long.

  Case in point? There’s a Tupperware of pastries sitting on my porch waiting for me when I open my door. I mentally avow my undying devotion to and admiration of Vali. If Finn ever does anything stupid enough to make her kick his ass to the curb, I’ll have to go after her myself because, damn, the woman can bake. I dive in while I walk to our “office” to caffeinate myself.

  It takes ninety seconds to make the monstrous Keurig do its thing (I’ve seen simpler nuclear detonation devices). Two minutes after that, I drain the rest of my coffee in a single gulp and cram the pastry in after. I’m no Prince Charming. I’ll be the first to admit it. Uncle Sam and the SEALs taught me to eat and sleep when I can. I’m efficient and I’m also ready to fight on a moment’s notice, although I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I’m good at keeping people safe.

  When I stroll out, the dogs start barking a canine good morning. We have multiple kennels behind Search and SEALs, plus training facilities, an obstacle course, and what’s probably Florida’s biggest dog run. The obstacle course is a good one, with two-story ladders, space to run, and plenty of jumps, pipes, stairs, and ramps. As an added claim to fame, we own Angel Cay’s only warehouse. We use that space for explosives training.

  We have ten working dogs on-site at the moment. Since some people hear canine training facility and think animal rescue shelter, we usually have an assortment of cats, dogs, and other unwanted pets floating around the place, too. Finn is a soft touch and a regular Doctor Doolittle. Ro and I have a betting pool going on whether the man will ever go a week without finding somebody’s cast off pet in the backseat of his Jeep. It’s definitely an argument for putting doors on his ride—he makes it way too easy for people to gift him with a dozen kittens.

  I open the door to the kennel and step inside. Tail thumping, Bravo shoves his nose into my palm. Bravo’s a gorgeous boy. He’s all golden brown fur except for a velvety black muzzle and ears. Do I sound poetic? Fuck you. Bravo deserves every word. I run my hands over his sides, rub his ears good. This is my baby, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’ve raised him since he was a pup, and it’s gonna kill me to send him off into the world on his own. There’s a reason I grill our potential handlers like they’ve just stepped into a fucking adoption agency. No one gets one of our dogs until he proves he’ll be that dog’s best partner. Ro said once that it was a good thing I hadn’t reproduced, because I’d tear the balls off any guy who wanted to date a daughter of mine. He’s not wrong.

  Bravo is more than ready to play. Since it’s not like he’s got a flat screen hiding in his dog run, his tail thumps again when I ask him if he’s ready to play. I’d be bored, too. I’m not big on staying inside or staying put. I take him over to the fenced in area we use for wrestling. While Bravo sits, watching my every move, I suit up in a jacket with padded sleeves. When I give the command to attack, he launches himself through the air. It’s beautiful, all that instinct working as he sinks his teeth into my forearm. I wrestle him, and he gives it back to me one hundred and ten percent, growling and biting. Best. Fucking. Time. Ever.

  Brakes squeal and a very feminine squeal shrills out. Focused on Bravo, I don’t look up. A flurry of slap-slap-slap grows louder as a flip-flop-wearing someone rushes the dog run. Fuck. It’s Finn’s day to watch the office and keep an eye out for visitors.

  The female chants ohmygodohmygod in an ever-louder crescendo as she nears the enclosure where I’m playing with Bravo. She’s practically faking an orgasm, which guarantees she’s also got my attention. I grunt Finn’s name and then bellow it louder. The exclamations just escalate though, so Finn must have decided on a coffee break. Or he’s hung me out to dry because he’s enjoying the show.

  I roll onto my back and snap out the command for Bravo to stand down. Our uninvited guest rattles the door to the enclosure, and Bravo growls. Of course it’s Marlee. I groan and let my head hit the ground a little harder than necessary.

  Marlee’s a petite woman. Kinda tiny really, when you stop and think about it, but she has this presence about her that makes a guy stop and stare, and it’s only partly due to a really banging outfit. She’s wearing one of those little dress things with thin straps that beg to be nudged down. A white kimono with fringe slides down her arms, fortunately hampering her attempts to yank open the door to the enclosure (she’s too busy freaking out to notice the flip-up latch, and I’m not about to point it out). When I look at her, I see a SEAL-sized treat.

  She also needs an intervention, because, fuck me, she’s worked up.

  “Marlee.” I growl her name, sitting up. Bravo whines hesitantly. He’s not entirely sure that Marlee’s safe, and he’s not wrong. Or maybe it’s the plate she’s clutching in her right hand. Marlee’s packing baked goods.

  She gives up on the door and fumbles in her monstrous purse (I’ve had smaller weapons duffels). Another stream of words flies out of her mouth help you blah blah blah man-
eating dog blah blah blah. I get it. She thinks her Azeem has finally gotten his (her?) moment to rescue my Robin. Jesus.

  Whipping out a canister, she raises it. “Close your eyes!”

  Shit. She’s gonna pepper spray us. I leap to my feet, getting between her and Bravo. It’s not the dog’s fault he was doing his job.

  “No need,” I bark, but she’s already pressing the trigger. A sharp mist shoots out and splatters against the trunk of a nearby palm tree. Fortunately, her aim is really, really bad. Since BUD/S regularly sprayed us all, I’m well aware that it sucks to be on the receiving end.

  “Hey,” I bark, striding toward the door.

  She hesitates. Looks down at the canister. Looks back up at me. Now the expression on her face is pissed off rather than alarmed. “You’re fine,” she accuses.

  I train military and guard dogs for a living. I’m pretty sure she realizes that means they attack. Or maybe not, because she backs up a step and glares. At me, and not poor Bravo.

  “It’s practice,” I say carefully and point to my padded sleeve.

  Behind her, I spot Finn. Finn’s lounging against her beat-up car, unrepentantly laughing his ass off. Marlee launches into another volley of words, talking and talking and talking. There has to a better use for that cute mouth of hers. Like wrapping around my dick. That would keep her busy—and make me real happy.

  I send Bravo back over to Finn and step out of the training run. Another blast from the pepper spray canister hits my foot. Good thing I’ve gone through pepper spray training in the military. I learned to fight through the pain—and how to keep my eyes shut when possible.

  “Oops,” she says. “My hands are shaking.”

  I almost believe her. To be on the safe side, I pry the can out of her fingers. “You need to work on your aim, sweetheart.”

  I’d volunteer Finn as the target, but then Vali might try to kill me next. She’s attached to his sorry ass. Not like Marlee and I have got a future together anyhow. She’s Vali’s friend—and Vali is Finn’s girl. Screwing girlfriends is something no smart man does. We all know girls talk, but when they’re already friends? TMI. Plus Marlee’s not a sit-on-the-sidelines gal. She’s an extrovert. She loves people. Me? I want to kill them half the time.