by Dawson, Zoe
She breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God she didn’t have to see him again.
4
Two days later, Hollywood rang the doorbell of the old Victorian, bright with flowers. It was well kept up from its fish scale shingles to the cool rounded tower. He loved old architecture, especially historical places like this. Looked like a princess lived here. Speaking of princesses, he had tried to get the pretty blonde out of his mind ever since she’d left the All In parking lot like her tail was on fire. And it was a spectacular tail.
He’d known there was going to be trouble the moment those guys had eyed her as they’d left. It was a sixth sense. She’d looked like a little cream puff confection. But when he’d opened the door and slipped around the back to the parking lot, she had already gone on the offensive. She had surprised the hell out of him. That hadn’t happened in a long time.
Where was this photographer? He looked at his diver’s watch, noted he was precisely on time and checked the piece of paper Ruckus had given him to make sure this was the right address. They’d had to postpone this shoot several times as he was called to duty three times in the last four weeks. They’d been hunting those elusive bastards—Bill and Ted—for a freaking month. They weren’t any closer to that f-ing warhead.
He rang the doorbell again then knocked loudly. He didn’t have time for this shit, and the window of opportunity could close at any moment. But it was for a good cause, and he could wait a little longer.
Still no one came to the door.
It was a gorgeous day in Southern California as usual. He wished he had time to go down to the beach for a run and some surfing. Maybe she was listening to music or was out back.
He decided to give that a shot when the sound of a vehicle coming down the street caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder at a blue SUV pulling in the driveway.
In a whirlwind of movement, the woman was out of the car and hustling toward the front porch talking up a storm. “I’m so sorry. Time got away from me. I hope you haven’t been waiting long. It’s warm out today.”
When she came up on the porch, she headed straight for the front door and took care of unlocking and pushing the door open. She rushed inside without glancing at him at all.
It was the cream puff from the bar. Was she the photographer?
Dammit, he didn’t need the temptation.
She looked a bit worse for wear. Her hair was messy beneath her baseball cap, a tangled length of blond silk he wanted to touch. She had well-worn jeans that molded to her rocking ass and a simple white pullover with long sleeves, the cuffs soiled.
She dug around in a bag bandoliered across her chest and back, frantically searching for something. He was a man and he let his gaze roam over her solid, curvy body, more of a swimmer or yoga practitioner rather than a jogger. He wondered if she surfed. He wondered how she would feel all slippery and wet.
“Oh, my God. I just had my phone.”
He zoomed in on her gorgeous heart-shaped ass, those jeans molded around each delicious curve, and smiled. Walking inside, he reached out and snagged the cell phone out of her back pocket.
She immediately whirled, glancing at his face, covering her backside.
“What the hell—” She then focused on her phone in his hand. “Oh, I’m not usually this unorganized,” she said, her voice wobbly.
He knew that tone. He had a sister. She was not only stressed but upset-stressed, emotionally pushed to the end of her endurance. “Are you all right?”
Her head whipped up, and her eyes widened. She had recognized his voice, and he remembered those were the exact words he’d asked her two days ago.
“What are you doing here? Did you follow me? Don’t make me bloody your nose too.” She set her hand in the middle of his chest and shoved him toward the door. “I don’t have time for stalkers. I have someone arriving any minute.”
He dug in his heels, and she abruptly plowed into him so hard she hit her chin on his collarbone with a sharp crack. His arms went around her automatically, feet bracing them both so they wouldn’t fall.
“Ow.” She rubbed her chin and glared up at him. “Why did you do that?” she snarled in her princessy voice. God, she was cute when she was mad.
“Easy there, slugger. I’m not a stalker.”
“Slugger? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You coldcocked that guy the other night, and I thoroughly expected you to be a damsel in distress. So I think it fits. You have a mean right hook…Princess Slugger.” His mouth curved in a teasing grin.
With her face tipped up to him so close, it gave him a chance to study her features in detail. She was stressed, all right. He recognized the paleness of her skin, the lines bracketing her mouth and the pain in her eyes that couldn’t be masked by either her anger or her fatigue. This was prolonged worry. He knew what that looked like because he’d seen it so many times on numerous vets and active duty.
Her eyes, the color of fog over the bay, were red-rimmed and haggard. Even with all that weariness, she was pretty in a quirky way, not elegant but cute, her eyebrows as honey colored as her hair, telling him she was a true blonde. Her chin was delicate but had a stubborn, determined look to it. Her mouth was pure sex, full, plump lips in contrast to her California Girl looks layered with a soft shade of peach lipstick, fresh and juicy.
“Who are you?”
“Petty Officer Jude ‘Hollywood’ Lock. The Navy SEAL you’re supposed to be photographing.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered like he only added to her stress. Her forehead clunked against his chest, and dammit if he didn’t want to just gather her up and cuddle her.
Where the hell had that thought come from? Cuddling? He didn’t do that. No way. No how. That led to wanting more than sex. Cuddling was akin to naming a stray dog you thought you had no intention of keeping when you’d already fallen for the poor, bedraggled little thing.
And she fit that bill.
That’s about when she froze then pushed away from him with a sheepish and panicked look. “You keep your hands to yourself, Petty Officer.
Hollywood held up his hands. “Sorry, ma’am. It was reflex to keep us from falling.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Sure, it was.”
Her gaze zeroed in on her phone, and she snatched it from his hand. She took a heavy breath.
“I’m obviously not at my best. Could you give me a few minutes?” she said, looking up at him with an annoyed, but pleading gaze.
“Sure. Do you want me to come back?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to lose this time. God knows when you’ll be deployed again, and I’ll have to wait.”
“Sorry about that, ma’am. I’m at the whim of Uncle Sam.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said bitterly.
Fuck, this woman was so intriguing. He wanted to ask her questions, but he thought better of it for now. She was barely hanging on.
“My studio is to the left. Go into the hall, and you’ll see a set of spiral stairs that lead to three rooms. It’s at the top of the tower.”
“Copy that,” he said, heading in the direction she pointed. She moved toward the stairs, and damn if he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He hit the side of the door. She turned to look at him, and he ducked inside. “Yeah, eyes forward, sailor,” he muttered.
He climbed the staircase in a circular pattern, the walls lined with art. All kinds from landscapes to whimsical drawings. The bottom room was filled with an easel, paints and art supplies. As he passed the second one, the door closed. Curious, he opened it to find a photography studio.
Closing the door, he took the remaining stairs to the top room. This door was also closed, but as he entered, he could see computers and photography equipment. A bulletin board lined the wall behind the computers, and there, displayed in living color were…angels. Ten of them. He got closer and saw they were half naked men in angel wings, but that was such a simplistic take on this woma
n’s work.
The men in them were Navy, Coast Guard and Marine personnel, and he was sure a lot of them had seen combat. But what she had done to bring that out in their faces, he had no idea.
There was dark and fierce. Ruthless and broken. Triumphant and radiant. The wings were white, dark shadow and golden, fitting to their backs like they were born with them, the illusion so breathtaking and real he moved in to get a closer look. Some had swords with blood on them, some battled monsters seeking the ruin of souls, and others were on their knees in supplication, one even falling straight to hell to do battle with the devil himself, a savage, determined look on his face. She had created moments of despair, solace, grace and greatness.
Maybe this woman wasn’t as innocent as she looked.
Every single one of the photos/art moved him in some emotional way. He felt a keen kinship with these men, having experienced some of the same situations they had—the fear, the pride, the sense of accomplishment, guardianship, protector, warrior. Anyone looking at these would see all that, and above all that, it was the shining example of courage in each of them that moved him the most.
She understood warriors, and he was damned intrigued as to how.
“What do you think?” she asked, her voice soft.
He turned to find her in the doorway. Her hair was wet and slicked back, her eyes still weary, but she carried a tray with two cups on it with sugar and creamer.
For a moment, he was struck dumb. She was more than quirky beautiful. She was stunning, and his heart flipped over and over in an endless stream while warning bells sounded all over his brain.
“I’m blown away,” he managed after using his combat breathing. He meant both by her presence and the photos.
She came into the room with a winsome smile on her face and set the tray down on the table.
“Coffee?” she offered, and he grabbed a cup, adding in a bit of cream.
“Thank you.”
“I need it.”
“Been rough?”
“Yeah, for a while.”
“I don’t think I caught your name.”
“Oh, God. Sorry. It’s Willow Blackmoon.”
Hollywood froze with the cup halfway to his lips. “Blackmoon? You any relation to Senior Chief William Blackmoon?”
She picked up the cup, wobbling the cream as she poured. She glanced up and nodded, her mouth tight. “He’s my father.”
“Holy crap. You’re kidding me.”
“No.”
“He’s a legendary SEAL. I trained with him during BUD/S. He’s awesome. He’s your dad?”
The tension in her face relaxed, but her eyes went glassy. Oh, fuck, no. He didn’t really do crying women. “Yes, he’s my dad.”
“Wow. I sound like a fan boy. But I’m so in awe of him.”
“Thank you. He is a great guy.” Her voice broke.
His gaze instantly narrowed. Her eyes welled with tears and he set down his coffee. What the hell had he said to make her so upset? She just stood there and disintegrated, and he removed the coffee and cream out of her grasp.
She covered her face with her hand, her shoulders shaking, completely silent, in such a heartbreaking way that he wished he knew what the hell to do. He set down the coffee and creamer, steeling himself and praying.
This woman was fighting, working so hard not to break down and cry, and he was cheering for her. Damn, he was cheering for her.
After a couple of tense seconds, she dragged in a shaky breath, rallying, pulling herself together. And she started talking again, slowly at first, but letting her words pick up speed. “He retired from the Navy six months ago. He misses it very much.”
There was so much more here than just her dad retiring, and it was none of his business…at all, but when had he ever let that stop him? “Willow, what happened to your dad?”
She picked up her coffee and dolloped in some more cream. She took a few mouthfuls, closed her eyes and savored the caffeine shooting into her bloodstream. When she opened her eyes, she said, “We have a timeline here, and I don’t want to hear your cell phone go off to indicate you’re being deployed, so we’d better get to the task at hand. This calendar is important to me, and I want to make the deadline, okay?”
“Of course. But if after this session is over, and I’m still not deployed, can we talk about your dad? He was a mentor to me, and I’ll never forget the lessons he taught me. They’ve kept me alive.”
She sighed. “You guys…the brotherhood, right?”
“Hoo-yah, lady. All the time.”
“We’ll see. Let’s just get this done. I only need headshots today.”
His mouth curved up. He could show her how he did stress relief, but it would require a much more physical activity. He’d love to give her a head shot—his dick was already semi-hard just from the scent of her.
“I’m talking about your profile, Mr. Lock,” she said sharply, her eyebrow going up. There was steel running through that daisy.
His grin only expanded, but he sobered. Right. Picket fences, commitment. She was out of his hardline zone. No way was he going to bang this sweet tart. But he could fantasize about what that silky skin would feel like, how wet her mouth would be on different parts of his body, and how it would feel to thrust into her and watch her face as he gave her pleasure. That was the sum of his parts—pleasure.
He wasn’t going to say never at this point. Willow—what a gracefully, beautiful name—could change up the game if she agreed to his rules, but women like her didn’t usually have empty, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sex then move on. A woman like Willow always engaged her heart, no matter how much steel there was in her backbone.
With all the evidence to the contrary, Hollywood was going to remain the only bachelor on his squad. His teammates had found love, marriage and fatherhood. He’d also seen disappointment, worry and stress in their partners. Being a SEAL was difficult enough. He didn’t want his focus to be split between something as important as Uncle Sam and love, if that was even real.
She took a few more mouthfuls of her coffee and said, “Let’s go down to the Rapunzel Room to get the shots.
“Rapunzel?”
Willow smiled and it did something really bad and oh-so-good to his insides. “I named these rooms when I was a kid.” She picked up a honking big camera with a honking big lens. “This one we’re in is the Rose, named after Sleeping Beauty, the second room the Rapunzel and the bottom one for Éowyn.”
His face scrunched up at Éowyn, trying to place the name.
“From The Lord of the Rings. She was the shield maiden who confronted and slew the Witch-king of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl. She said, ‘But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.’”
“Ah, I get it. She was in that huge tower in Gondor.”
“You know your Tolkien.” She smiled again, and he wanted to think up ways to get that smile on her face as much as possible.
“I love Tolkien, but I’m a little rusty, case in point, forgetting about brave and undeterred Éowyn.” That got a soft laugh out of her. “That’s clever stuff. That makes you a princess, right? Princess Slugger.”
“No.” She shook her head and walked past him. “You are very charming.”
“Like a prince?”
That got another laugh, and he just wasn’t satisfied. The whiff of her jasmine-and-honeysuckle scent floated in the air as he followed in her wake. He wanted more of that too, wanted to immerse himself in it and her. But would one night be enough. That is a damn slippery slope, pal.
“Incorrigible,” she said, throwing him a glance over her shoulder.
“You have no idea, Ms. Blackmoon.”
They descended the stairs and entered the Rapunzel Room. It had all the standard photography equipment including a chaise lounge, but the room was red. It seemed enclosed, and not even the li
ght from the window brightened the room. A desk had various knickknacks of Rapunzel.
Willow turned on the lights and set her camera on a tripod. There was a screen in the back of the room, and she said, “If you could head back there, we’ll get started. The back of my neck is itching.”
“Back of your neck? What does that mean?”
“It always itched when my dad was about to get deployed.”
Hollywood walked back to the screen and stood in front of it. “How’s this?”
She looked up from the settings on her camera and nodded. “Perfect.”
“That must have been hard on you and your family.”
“My dad’s deployments lasted a long time. For a while there, I almost forgot what he looked like. I was glad to have his pictures. I would look at them a lot when he was gone, to pass the time until he came home.”
“And you pretended you were a princess in a tower?”
“Different princesses. Sometimes.”
He studied her, wanting to know more about her. The questions were tumbling around in his head. “Like what else did you do?”
“You’re quite the Chatty Cathy,” she said, walking toward him with a device in her hand that she’d picked up from the desk. She pointed it at his face, looked at it then adjusted the lights. “Had tea parties with the Mad Hatter, Dumbo, and other wonderfully stuffed animals. Sang in the garden, pretending it was a secret one, danced The Nutcracker with abandon, watching out for the Rat King, swung on swings and slid down slides. Played hopscotch on the front sidewalk and jumped rope in the driveway. Little girl stuff.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she adjusted her camera one more time, looked through the viewfinder for a few seconds, and detached the camera from the tripod.
“That’s quite an imagination, Willow.” He wondered why she had so many fantasies as a child. What went on in her childhood that left her with so much time?
She shrugged, and he realized that she hadn’t been all over him like every woman he’d ever met, melting, talking, giving him all the information he’d ever want to know and some that he didn’t care about. Willow was an enigma, close-mouthed and not at all overt with him. Why did he like that so much?
