Wanted: Wife 4 Navy Seals: A Sizzling Hot Military Romance (Wanted Series Book 1)

by Dee Palmer

  “Hope?” I stutter, as my mouth drops open in shock.

  “Surprise!”

  Two months ago…

  MY HEELS CLICK-CLACK ALONG THE marble flooring. The crisp sound echoes all along the corridor, from the elevators to the singular desk positioned in front of a sheer glass backdrop overlooking the Thames and the Tower of London. I could probably run a marathon in Louboutins if I had to. The height and precariousness of the narrow heel holds no fear for someone who wears stilettos like slippers. However, the starchy stiff outfit is a new addition to my wardrobe, and I’m not a fan. It’s conservative with a capital C. The pure wool cornflower blue court dress I bought for this occasion hangs just below my knee, and although both the jacket and dress are tailored perfectly to my curves, as far as I’m concerned, I may as well be wearing a nun’s habit for how frumpy I feel. The sales assistant assured me I looked classy, elegant, and very ‘grown up’.

  Sold! If ever I have to be a grown-up, it’s today.

  Casting furtive glances around this ultra modern, clinically sparse, and slightly intimidating reception area, it’s very apparent that this playground is definitely for adults only. Today I’m asking for seventy million pounds of investment to expand the company my mum built from scratch, and one I’ve helped grow into the number one luxury spa and salon chain in London. It’s a great opportunity, but more importantly, this money will save my reckless arse.

  “Miss Williams and Mr. Fisher. We are a little early.” I announce with a smile as fake as the calm lilt in my voice. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, and even Morris’s usual jovial chit-chat on the way over couldn’t penetrate the nerves. The young man at the reception desk holds up his finger to tap his earpiece, finishing his conversation before returning a smile that trumps mine for authenticity.

  “Not a problem.” He swipes at the mirror finish surface of his desk, and an invisible screen lights up beneath his fingertips. “If you would like to take a seat, the team is already in the boardroom. Mr. Jensen is due to arrive in four minutes.” He hesitates, checking the screen for a schedule, I assume. Four minutes, hmm? Not five or in a bit…definitely four minutes, and that does make me smile, for real this time. “May I offer you some coffee, tea?”

  “Wagon wheel.” Morris sing-songs this embarrassing interruption, which clearly startles the man behind the desk.

  “Excuse me?” His perfectly shaped, coal-black eyebrows shoot high and then furrow with confusion.

  “Nothing, just something my mother used to say.” Morris brushes away the comment with a hearty chuckle.

  “I will call catering if you have a specific requirement.” The young man offers.

  “Thank you, we’re fine.” Shaking my head, I’m already surreptitiously ushering Morris over to the seating area. “Morris, no-one ever gets that joke, most people don’t know what a Wagon wheel is.”

  “How could they not? A tasty chocolate treat that used to completely fill my mouth as a young boy, until I got a taste for something more savoury, that is.” His face is momentarily the picture of innocence until a salacious smile pulls at the corners of his mouth as he slowly takes a seat beside me. I’m grateful he’s lowered his commanding voice to just below a deep whisper, still the young man looks over and grins.

  “Well, he definitely wasn’t offering that kind of ‘meat treat’ to go with your coffee. ” I assure him.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” His bushy brows waggle suggestively, and at any other time I would be snort laughing right alongside him; today, I’m a little distracted.

  “How do I look?” Morris straightens his bright orange silk tie that completely clashes with my dark red mane. He uses the tip of his fingers to tame his wild, wavy salt and pepper hair behind his ears. Smoothing the non-existent creases from his Brioni suit, he turns to face me, looking like he always does—immaculate.

  “Like a rich, gay uncle. Why?”

  “And with comments like that I’m just glad I’m not your uncle.” He bristles at my flip remark; he’s not normally such a sensitive flower. It’s why we get on so well. He’s the yin-savage to my yang-sarcastic.

  “Morris, it wasn’t an insult. You are, in fact, rich and gay.” I lean against him, dropping my head to his shoulder. “And I wish you were my uncle. What’s got your silk boxers in a bunch? I have to give the presentation. You’re here more for moral support, and because my mother tends to come across as flaky.”

  “Well, Miss Caution-to-the-wind, I wouldn’t be so nervous if I didn’t know that you’d already bought that heap of a building in the middle of nowhere. Or that you’re going to lose the salons, your home, and your mother’s, for that matter, if you can’t secure an investor by the end of the month. Who buys something like that at an auction? It’s a great investment, but you’ve given yourself no time, no wiggle room. Lord, did you learn nothing at business school?” I’m sure his list of concerns isn’t nearly finished, but he seems to have distracted himself with his own rant.

  “I fell in love.” I shrug, and he snorts derisively in retort.

  “You don’t do love.”

  “I don’t do love and men. I do, however, do love of my mum, friends, dogs, fresh cream, coffee, fondants, sweets, and beautiful old manor houses in rural England.”

  “You paid the hundred and fifty thousand pounds out of the business account’s cash flow to pay for the deposit, and by buying at auction, you’ve committed to raising the remainder of the purchase price in one month.”

  “I did do that.” I feel the weight of every single word.

  “Fifteen million pounds.”

  “Yes.” I hear every single word.

  “Plus the cost of refurbishing—”

  Still, “Best laid plans, Morris. Besides, I went with my heart and soul on this.” The confident smile I have fixed is practised and flawless. Not even my mother could see the cracks…and she sees everything.

  “You said you didn’t have a soul.”

  “I keep it under wraps, but this place brought it out big time.” I pat his knee and give him a faux carefree, reassuring wink. He looks at me for a second before sparking back to life with the rest of his list. I knew it.

  “Or that you have no other investors lined up after this meeting. Oh, and that everyone else has said no.”

  “Remind me to work on your pep talking skills, Morris, because they suck.” He looks momentarily mortified at my remark.

  “You’ll be fine,” he rallies, assuring me with a broad, positive smile. He brushes away his comments with a wave of his hand, as if the truth of what he’s said isn’t already churning up my insides. “I wouldn’t have brokered this meeting if I didn’t believe in you.”

  “I know Morris, and I’m really grateful. I’m just curious…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

  “It’s not every day you get to meet royalty.”

  “What?” I jolt in my seat and face him just in time to catch the eye roll, and the breath he lets out is laced heavy with judgment.

  “Please tell me you actually read the background documents I sent?”

  “Sort of. Oh, you mean the CEO?” The spike of panic in my tummy plummets when I realise I haven’t actually missed anything pertinent to this deal. This isn’t exactly Prince Charles we’re meeting. “It’s not like he’s ever going to be King, Morris, he’s like a hundredth in line for the throne.”

  “He’s a Count, and in my book that still counts.”

  “And it’s not even our throne. He’s Danish.”

  “It still counts.” He sniffs

  “If you say so, just don’t go taking the knee,” I tease.

  “Sadly my knee-taking days are over.” He sighs and casts a wistful glance over to the receptionist and then winks at me, making me laugh and relax for a nanosecond.

  “I need this money.” My leg bounces, and Morris presses his hand flat on my knee, stopping the tick and squeezing some comfort into me.

  “It’s why we’re here.” He pats my
thigh, and the heat from his meaty hand infuses comfort through the thin woollen fabric of my dress.

  “Actually, I have no idea why we’re here.”

  “Come on, Hope, no time for second thoughts, this is a great investment opportunity.” His pale grey eyes look directly into mine, both kindly and wise, and go some way towards reassuring me.

  “Oh, I know it is, that’s not what I meant. I have no idea why a company like BlueSky wants to invest. They only invest in medical research. I didn’t even bother to send them the initial expression of interest form because of their strict criteria.” I contacted a hundred different banks, investment institutions, and venture capital firms. However, I only sought out those where I thought we, as a company, ‘fit’ or stood a hope in hell’s chance of securing the necessary backing.

  “I told you, they contacted me.”

  “You said that, I know, but how did they even know about us? It’s possible they might’ve been at that that Dragon’s Den fiasco the other day, I suppose. Your name is one of the contacts on the proposals I left there that evening.” I ponder the tenuous links. At the time, I was so excited to get the call from Morris telling me we had a meeting, that after so many rejections, I forgot to ask the niggling questions.

  “It’s probably not some huge conspiracy, Hope, but you can grill them on it if you wish, or you can thank your lucky stars that someone wants to invest and go in there and secure your dream.”

  “Right, yes, sorry. I guess it doesn’t matter.” Morris nods, and we both fall silent. The nerves won’t allow me any quiet time, and barely a second passes before I’m rambling my thoughts out loud. “I wonder what it’s like to be born into royalty? It must be nice to have centuries of wealth and privilege to cushion the sharp edges of everyday life.”

  “He lost his wife to cancer after only one year of marriage, Hope. I hardly think that’s conducive to a soft landing, and BlueSky isn’t family money; it’s his. He’s an inventor.” Morris’s clipped tone is more like a reprimand, and I smart from the sting.

  “I did read that. I didn’t mean anything by it, Morris. I’m sorry.”

  “Judgment doesn’t suit you, Hope.”

  “Really? Because you know we are cut from the same cloth when it comes to that particular talent.” The irony is as thick and flat as my tone.

  He smirks. “True. Still, in this case, I think this book is more than his cover or his provenance.” The elevator pings, and we both look down the corridor to the opening door. Holy crap in a crap-bucket!

  “Please tell me that’s not him?” My mouth is instantly dry. I think it’s the only part of my body that is. I can feel the sheen of perspiration lick my skin, and if two piercing eyes weren’t fixed on me the instant the door revealed this godlike apparition, I would cross my legs. It has to be him and—fuuuck—I really hope it isn’t.

  Why is there something strangely familiar about this man?

  His long strides eat up the corridor, so much so his companion is having to jog to keep up. He has a seriously sexy scowl darkening his features. His strong jawline is currently sporting the ghost of a five o’clock shadow, and a mess of dirty blonde hair moves to hide his eyes with every step he takes. Even so, he’s still looking in our direction, and I find I can’t look anywhere else. I’m staring, and I would probably be drooling, too, if any and all moisture in my body hadn’t headed south the instant I clocked this month’s cover of GQ. No, not GQ. He’s not a pretty boy; he’s a man, sexy, stubbly and smouldering, a threat of roughness clad in a perfectly tailored three-piece navy suit, a smoking hot sex-on-legs Adonis.

  I blink slowly, severing the eye contact, which gives me the precious second I need to remind myself why I’m here. I’m here for money, not a man. Even if the sight of this man is wreaking a little havoc on my senses, or that he is, in fact, a member of the Danish Royal Family, in line for the throne, or that I don’t much care which throne, as it turns out. Or that his company saves lives with its innovations in medical research and that he’s interested in investing in my company.

  He’s just a man.

  So why have my ovaries just sent out a ‘save the date’ card to my brain? I haven’t ever reacted to any man the way I can feel myself reacting to him. Get a fucking grip, Hope!

  The two men stop before they reach the main reception area, so I don’t get a closer look. Not that his effect could be any more of a sucker punch, but I would like to see the colour of his eyes. He hesitates and glances my way, his gaze meeting mine. I suck in a shocked breath at the intensity of the connection and the horror that he might’ve heard my last thought. I didn’t say that out loud did I? He disappears through the boardroom door, and only then does Morris answer the question I’ve already answered.

  “Shh, and you know it’s him; you read the file, remember?”

  “It didn’t have pictures. This is bad.” Pulling at the modest scoop neck of my dress, residual heat quickly escapes, and I try and generate some moisture in my mouth, which is bone-dry, and I feel ridiculous. I remember him now.

  “Why is this bad?”

  “You’ve got eyes right? You did just see the godlike man in the corridor?” My hand waves erratically in the direction of the boardroom, failing to hide the rising hysteria in my hushed mutterings.

  “He does have a Thor: Ragnarok thing going on,” Morris muses with a wistful sigh.

  “I’ve met him before.” A slew of tingles ignite at the memory, tearing through my body like a wildfire.

  “Really? When?” Morris smoothly glides around in his seat to fully face me, his expression one of amused interest.

  “Well, not met met, but I’ve seen him before. We had a moment.”

  “A moment?”

  “Yes, a moment. You know when you catch someone’s glance, and it’s so on?”

  “So you’ve glanced at him. Stop the press, I hear wedding bells.” His dramatic gasp and fluttering hand to his chest are savage.

  “You’re funny, Morris. I’m just saying…” You weren’t there.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing.” My tone is a little harsh, and I hate that the memory suddenly has me all riled up. I never let any man effect me like this, no matter how smoking hot they are.

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That might be a first.” He hums low after speaking, and a sly, knowing expression makes him look extremely smug.

  “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t fuck everyone I have a ‘moment’ with, Morris.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. I was, in this instance, however, referring to the look of regret on your face.”

  “Pff! That’s not…oh, shut up.” He falls into a deep chuckle, happy that his irritatingly astute teasing pushed the right ‘piss Hope off’ button.

  “Hope, I think even you can keep it in your pants for a forty minute presentation.” Morris mocks, keeping his tone deadpan.

  “Again with the funny. You’re on fire this morning, Mr. Fisher,” I bite out with a tight smile, tension still gripping my guts and messing with my mind. I have a lot going on in there. “It’s not just forty minutes though, is it? If I’m successful, it will be a business partnership, and I’ve probably got a wet patch the size of Lake Windermere on my backside as we speak.” I roll onto one butt cheek for emphasis, relieved and only partially surprised when my assessment isn’t true.

  “He is a little easy on the eye, but you really don’t need to worry. He’s not very hands-on.”

  “Oh, now, that is a shame.” My U-turn gives me whiplash; however, my playful pout is only for show. Despite the ‘moment’, I have rules—not many—in fact, just one I can think of right now, and that one definitely begins and ends with not shitting where I eat.

  “I mean he is more the money and mind.”

  “And body,” The thought escapes as real words. The inappropriate image I have of that body thankfully stays in my head.

  “Quite.”

  “So
he leaves the actual day-to-day to the rest of us grunts?”

  “Quite.”

  “Oh,” I look over to the closed door, unaware that my soft exhale sounded so forlorn. What am I? A teenage schoolgirl who actually believes in fairy tales, happily ever after, or love at first sight? Get a fucking grip, Hope. You’re a twenty-six-year-old party girl who doesn’t believe in love, period. This isn’t rocket science; it’s a simple case of wanting what you can’t have.

  “And now she’s sad,”

  “No, not sad, relieved. Can’t be screwing the boss, now, can I?” My inner pep talk has me back on track, even if my delivery is a little shaky.

  “In my experience, it’s never a good idea. Besides, despite your ‘moment’, you’re not his”—Morris air quotes—“type.” The thick sarcastic tone renders the air quotes unnecessary. I know he’s only teasing, but I already regret telling him.

  “Please, I have a vagina, I’m most men’s type.”

  “I meant he doesn’t strike me as the type you hump and dump, my dear.”

  “And I only ever hump and dump, right?” My statement sounds less certain than I intended, and Morris is quick to challenge my lifelong mantra.

  “Thinking of changing those spots all of a sudden, my little leopardess?”

  “Never.” I shudder visibly at the thought to add weight to my declaration.

  The receptionist interrupts our banter after ending a brief call. “If you’d like to follow me, Mr. Jensen is ready for you now.”

  “I doubt that,” I whisper conspiratorially under my breath, and it’s my turn to wink at Morris.

  “Never was a truer word spoken, my dear. Now, let’s go get us some royal millions.” Morris stands and straightens his jacket. I do the same, pick up my laptop case, and we both follow the receptionist down the corridor. The only good thing about my lapse into schoolgirl crush territory, it seems, was the momentary reprieve I enjoyed from the nerves knotting up my stomach, which, as the door to the boardroom opens, hit me like a punch from a heavyweight champ.