by Sandra Hill
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my granddaughter Jaden, who recently started her first year of college. Like my heroine, in this, the second book of my Bell Sound series, Jaden is launching a new beginning, in a different place, far from everything that is familiar to her. A little bit scary, but an adventure, to be sure. And, oh, so many exciting possibilities! I wish you all the best in your journey, sweet girl. Life, love, and the pursuit of happiness.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Author’s Note
A Hero Comes Home
About the Author
Also by Sandra Hill
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
The bigger they are, the harder they fall . . .
The first time he saw her, she was wearing a tool belt.
The second time he saw her, she was wearing leather and riding a Harley, her ice-blonde hair blowing in the wind.
The third time he saw her, she wore nothing at all.
Hoo-yah!
Merrill “Geek” Good didn’t stand a chance. He was in love. Or lust. Or both.
Didn’t matter that the ex–Navy SEAL, soon-to-be treasure hunter had been around the world a dozen times, seen amazing things, done amazing things, been wounded five times, almost died once, screwed so many women he should be called DeWalt, could bench-press two hundred and thirty pounds easy-peasy, measured 150-plus on the I.Q. meter, and had a million or two in stocks due to an erotic invention he sold on the Internet. Don’t ask!
Nothing in his colorful life had prepared him for this woman. Love at first sight didn’t begin to describe the wallop she packed.
Unfortunately, Delilah Jones didn’t reciprocate his feelings.
Prison makes good women horny . . .
The first time she saw him, she was blasting the rust off an old metal diner with a power tool—and was so disconcerted she almost bored a hole straight through. Holy-frickin’-moly!
His light brown hair was cut short, military style.
He wore a uniform of some kind, probably Navy.
Whiskey-colored eyes smoldered as he watched her work.
The second time, he was standing on a street corner in a ratty Metallica T-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops as she passed by on Uncle Clyde’s motorcycle.
He lowered his sunglasses halfway down his nose and peered over them to watch her almost hit the car in front of her.
The third time she saw him, it was by moonlight. She’d been skinny-dipping in Bell Sound, the bay behind her property, and he was standing on the rocky shore, which she’d thought was private.
It was a devilish situation. She was new in town and needed to make friends, not enemies, for business and other reasons.
Even so, that’s when Delilah decided to put on the brakes, slam the door, raise the wall, amp up her usual snark factor a notch or two, do everything in her power to keep the man away. Merrill Good might be sizzling, bone-melting, pure temptation on his size twelve hoof to most women, but that was the one thing a female ex-con couldn’t afford now that she was finally free.
Still . . .
Chapter 1
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and he chose . . . the bay . . .
“No regrets?” Navy SEALs Lt. Commander Jacob Alvarez Mendozo, aka JAM, asked Merrill as they sat with their buddies at a round table in the ballroom of a mansion called Chimes in Bell Cove, a small town on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. The room was festooned with Fourth of July decorations. They were inhaling beers and raising an occasional champagne toast to the newly married couple, Christmas tree farmer Ethan Rutledge and ex–female SEAL Wendy Patterson. A lethal combination! The alcohol mix, not the happy couple or the overabundance of odd-for-a-wedding red, white, and blue paraphernalia.
“Not so far,” Merrill answered, knowing that JAM referred to the abrupt turning point he was taking in his life, leaving the exciting life of the teams a month ago and moving here to Bell Cove. He would soon be starting a shipwreck salvaging and treasure hunting company, a different kind of exciting, he hoped. Even so, he admitted, “I am feeling a little disoriented, though. It’ll pass, eventually, but for the moment, I’m not sure who I am, or where I fit in, neither fish nor fowl, if you know what I mean. Hell, I’m like a dickhead addict going cold turkey after my fifteen-year fix in Special Forces.”
Merrill was surprised at himself, that he could put that many words together, considering the state of his inebriation.
“Same as me. Sixteen damn years! Which is like a hundred in frog years,” JAM quipped, “not to be confused with dog years.”
They grinned at each other. SEALs had been known as frogmen from way back when most of their work had been done on boats or in the water. Ribbitting was a joke among the guys when someone called them animals.
Yeah, sometimes the only thing that would do was a good ribbit. It was as popular as the traditional “Hoo-yah!” in some instances. Or if you asked a SEAL who’d been out on a mission too long if he was feeling “froggie,” as in lascivious, the answer would be a loud and bodacious ribbit.
“I still say you should join me in treasure hunting,” Merrill said. “The first meeting of my crew will be held on Monday. You could stick around an extra day or two and see what we’re about. I could use you, man.”
“I’m tempted, but no, I’m not ready to leave the teams.” JAM shook his head for emphasis. “I know it’s crazy, but I feel as if there’s something important I’m destined to do yet, as a SEAL.”
“You mean like a God-ordained thing?” Merrill asked, and he wasn’t kidding. JAM had studied to be a priest at one time.
“Maybe.” JAM shrugged.
“You’re full of shit.”
“Probably.” JAM paused. “Don’t shut the door on me, though, buddy. I might change my mind down the road a ways.”
“Anytime,” Merrill assured him.
When JAM went to the men’s room, Merrill glanced around and realized that another reason he was feeling so off balance today was that he sat at a table with a handful of his SEAL buddies in full white dress uniforms, while he was in civilian attire. Yeah, it was a tux, since he was a groomsman at this hokey-ass, Independence Day–themed wedding, but it was a white tux, which was not the same thing as white formal military duds. Not at all! He knew from vast experience that women went gaga over men in uniforms. Not so much men in tacky white tuxes with pink ruffled shirts and pink boutonnieres to match the bridesmaids’ attire. Ethan’s preteen daughter by an earlier marriage apparently had a thing about pink.
The whole town of Bell Cove had shown up to support Ethan and Wendy, their native son and daughter, who’d finally gotten their acts together, a celebration of what they called “a forever kind of love.” Did I mention hokey? The event was being held at the mansion owned by architect Gabriel Conti, descendant of the Conti Brothers who founded Bell Forge, for whom the town was named, more than a century ago.
Even though the Fourth of July was a few days past, the theme of the nupti
als was a red, white, and blue extravaganza, complete with flags and rockets and sparklers—the whole patriotic stars-and-stripes works, thanks to local do-gooders who’d taken over the festivities, making it as much a town event as a personal celebration of love. In fact, a marching band had led the wedding party from Our Lady by the Sea Church to the mansion on the bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean on one side and Bell Sound on the other. Some couples have a wedding march, these dodo bird townies insisted on “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
The reception was being held both indoors, via the open French doors, and under a massive tent outside with panoramic views of the water for the overflow crowd. The caterer’s serving staff wore Uncle Sam and Betsy Ross outfits. I kid you not! Not to mention punch with red, white, and blue vodka ice cubes. There would be a fireworks show later over Bell Sound.
When Ethan and Wendy had protested the extent of the patriotic decorations and themed activities surrounding their event—How much was this stuff costing anyhow?—the mayor and town council had told them not to worry, that lots of the decorations were left over from the Fourth of July celebration and, in fact, could be saved and reused for the newly planned Labor Day Lolly, or Lollypalooza, not to be confused with the music festival by that similar name, although it was a town known for its bells and bell music. So why not? Also, maybe some of these decorations could even be incorporated into their second annual Christmas Grinch celebration come December, the mayor had mused. “Grinch what?” you may ask. Hah! Suffice it to say, you do not want to be “grinched” in Bell Cove.
All of this was cornball to the max, but kind of nice, in an innocent Aunt Bee/Sheriff Taylor/Opie/Barney/Goober kind of way. Yeah, I’m an Andy Griffith Show fan. So shoot me! Which was probably why Merrill had decided to settle here in small town, USA. Being estranged from his own family for so many years, he was probably looking for family in this community. That was more important at this stage in his life than leaving the adventurous life of the teams. How pathetic was that?
Not that he was giving up adventure. Not with a new shipwreck salvaging/treasure hunting company. Still, his motives for this big move would be fodder for a psychiatrist’s couch.
In any case, Merrill’s mellow mood was helped by the six “dead soldiers,” i.e. empty longneck bottles of beer sitting in front of him, two empty champagne glasses, and the sight of the vision which just appeared in the far doorway. A late arrival.
Even with all the loud music, the town square bells could be heard ringing out the hour. The two churches, the town hall clock tower, and God only knew what else. Everyone and everything here came with bells. Right now, it was as if the bells were announcing a personal alert to him: Hot Babe on the Horizon.
Delilah Jones.
Oh, boy! Ever since the babe had put the deep freeze on him, he’d decided to cut his losses. No more passing idly by the 1950s-style diner and motel she was renovating. No late-night beach visits. No more looking for a sighting of her around town. Nope. Instead, Merrill was devoting all his time to the launch of his new business enterprise. And he’d almost succeeded.
Until now.
“Oh, boy!” someone said aloud, reiterating his thoughts. It was another of his longtime friends, Captain Luke Avenil, who sat on his other side at the circular table. “Slick,” the senior of his old teammates, had to be close to forty now, which was old for a SEAL. But then, Merrill was thirty-five. Not much difference. Slick elbowed him and asked, “She the one?”
Merrill ignored Slick’s question as he watched the blonde bombshell in a white halter sundress edged in red, with a shiny red belt, and white high-heeled sandals walk across the dance floor. She was heading toward the dais, carrying a gift-wrapped package, presumably to greet the newly married couple. The band Nostalgia, a popular Outer Banks classic rock group, was playing that old Springsteen song, “Born in the U.S.A.,” and, without doing anything overtly sexual, Delilah’s stride kept beat to the music.
Boom-chick-a-boom-boom-boom. Born-in-the-U-S-A. Boom-chick-a-boom-boom-boom. Born-in-the-U-S-A. That’s all Merrill’s brain, and eyeballs, registered. But then, he was more than a little bit buzzed, from alcohol and unrequited lust.
The Boss’s rendition marking Independence Day in his own inimitable fashion was not your usual wedding song, but then this wasn’t your usual wedding celebration. And, yeah, it wasn’t really a song about patriotism, but the people of Bell Cove, who’d taken over the planning for this wedding reception, probably didn’t know that—or care.
Belatedly, he responded to Slick, “The one what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Mister Genius. Your one and only,” Slick replied. “In other words, the one you’ve had a hard-on for the past three weeks.”
“How would you know? You just got here yesterday.”
“News travels fast.”
No kidding! The gossip grapevine in Bell Cove was remarkable, but it was nothing compared to the SEALs and WEALS—Women on Earth, Air, Land, and Sea, the female division of SEALs—both of whom made minding each other’s business an art form.
“Is she the one who’s got you dragging your tail and sighing with luuuuve,” added another of his table mates, Navy SEAL Ensign Hamr Magnusson, a former NFL quarterback called “The Hammer.” With mock seriousness, Hamr wagged a forefinger at Merrill. “You’re gonna give SEALs a bad name, buddy, even if you’re not in the teams anymore. Women chase us—we don’t chase them.”
“Bite me,” Merrill offered, and tossed a handful of USA flag–foiled Hershey’s Kisses at Hamr’s grinning face.
Hamr grabbed a few, midair, and lobbed them back at him.
Everyone at the table, including JAM, who was back, turned to assess the subject of Merrill’s affections as she stopped to talk to some big blond guy in a dark suit with a white shirt and blue tie (as compared to a dork in a white tux with pink accessories). It was Karl Gustafson, a local guy who owned a convenience store and gas station. She was chatting with him in a way she never talked to Merrill.
“Holy crap! Is that . . . yep, it’s Goose,” Hamr said.
“What?” several guys asked.
“Goose Gustafson. Remember him? Linebacker for the Cowboys before his knees gave out.”
On those words, Hamr stood and walked over to join Chatty Cathy and the blond god, who apparently pumped more than gas.
“Well, shiiiit!” Merrill muttered, feeling an unfamiliar tug of jealousy. Bad enough that she’d given him the cold shoulder, so far, but did she have to be all nicey-nicey with the Viking stud? Yeah, he’d pretty much given up the fight, so far, and yeah, he had enough on his plate at the moment without wasting time on an affair that would probably go nowhere. Still . . .
“This is the first I’ve heard about you biting the big one, Geek. I don’t recall meeting her when we were here at Christmas,” JAM mentioned. “What’s her name?”
“Delilah Jones,” Merrill answered, reluctantly, knowing what would come next. “She just moved here this spring.”
“Her name is Delilah . . . Delilah Jones?” Slick sputtered. “Sounds like a porn star to me.”
“Me, too,” Merrill said. “And I might have made the mistake of mentioning that the first time we met. Which is probably why she avoids me like crotch itch. One of the reasons, anyhow. I don’t know what else I’ve done that could have pissed her off so much.”
“Did you know there’s a website that tells women, and men, what their porn star names would be?” interjected Master Chief Frank Uxley, aka F.U. He was the rudest, crudest Navy man to ride the waves, and that was saying a lot. “Mine would be Frank Bonier. Get it? Bone Her.”
“Shut up,” Merrill ordered F.U., who sat opposite him.
“Up yours,” F.U. retorted with a smile, not at all insulted.
Merrill ignored F.U. and went on to explain to JAM and Slick his various encounters with Delilah and how not into him she was.
“When I asked her out on a date, she looked at me like I had three heads.”
“Wh
at are you, like fourteen?” Slick asked. “Even I know that people today don’t date. ‘Friends With Benefits,’ my man!”
“You guys are full of it. ‘Friends With Benefits’ is so 2016. The correct term is ‘Netflix and Chill.’ It’s the new ‘Friends With Benefits,’” explained Ensign Marcus Weller, new guy on the teams. And young for a SEAL, too, at only twenty-two. “Stream Ghost and you’re in like Flynn.” He waggled his eyebrows with meaning.
“Oh, that’s just great. I walk up to a woman and say, ‘Wanna watch some flicks and fuck?’”
“Whatever works,” advised JAM, who tended to lose his priestly attitude after a few beers. Never in a million years would JAM approach a female in that way, though, drunk or sober.
“Personally, I haven’t approached a woman in years,” Slick said. “Connections in a bar work for me.”
“That’s because you’ve been burned by your ex-wife so many times, you’re afraid of commitment,” Merrill said.
“Who died and named you Dr. Phil?” Slick countered.
“Flash used to swear by the Gospel According to Hank Williams,” contributed Lt. Cody O’Brien, who still mourned the death of his close friend, Travis “Flash” Gordon, who died in an explosion last year in Baghdad. In their decade-long stint as partners, Flash and Cody had been notorious for their continual arguments over the merits of country over rock, Johnny Cash over Steven Tyler. “Everything you ever wanted to know about love could be learned from a country song, according to Flash. ‘Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off,’ ‘Trashy Women,’ ‘Ain’t Much Fun Since I Quit Drinkin’,’ ‘Girls Lie Too,’ ‘She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,’ ‘She Only Loves Me For My Willie.’ No shit! A Willie referring to Willie Nelson, not a cock, though I prefer the latter.”
They all stared at Cody. Not just for his long spiel about his partner, whom he’d avoided talking about for months, but that he could remember all those song titles in a genre he hated.
Understanding their confusion, Cody shrugged and said, “The asshole bequeathed me his country music collection. Fuck!”
