Bad Boy SEALs

by Scarlett Avery

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I follow his cue and move on to safer ground. “Charlie did nudge me a little bit," I reveal.

  "Charlotte Louise Wentworth? Nudge? Hmph,” he scoffs. “She wouldn’t be able to spell the word and that's with the help of Google and an old-fashioned dictionary,” he laughs.

  "She comes from a good place," I say in her defense.

  He nods. "She comes from the best possible place," my father agrees. "She loves you dearly. She's been a loyal friend and she’s watched over you since Mum can no longer do it. Not to mention that there’s so much womanly wisdom Charlie can dispense. Things your brothers and I would be useless at, and quite frankly, subjects I couldn't bear the thought of tabling because they would be another reminder of you no longer being a child."

  You can pretty much replace womanly wisdom with ‘the talk’. Mum had that conversation with me when I was twelve. It happened on the first day of my period. She also broached the subject in more detail right after my fourteenth birthday when my body started to round out in a way that was impossible to ignore. We had the talk again when I was sixteen. I think she was trying to pry to see if I was still a virgin. Six months after my mother's passing, Charlie decided I needed a refresher course. Needless to say, her version was a lot more R-rated than Mum’s.

  “You're hilarious."

  "I wasn't trying to be," he says with seriousness. “All kidding aside, I'm proud you're my date for tonight. A father couldn’t ask for more.” He kisses my forehead. “All those other men can eat their hearts out. You’re still mine.”

  “Daddy,” I scorn, swatting his arm. I so didn’t see that one coming. I explode in laughter. It doesn't take long for my father to join in.

  There’s a knock at the door that breaks our little tête-à-tête. "Prime Minister, I'm sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to remind you that it's five past seven.” I immediately recognize Pamela Lancaster's voice. She's Daddy's Deputy of Ceremony and she overseas every official function—big or small. “We’re ready for you and Miss Cavendish. Most of the guests are making their way through the main ballroom as we speak."

  "Thank you, Miss Lancaster. We'll be right out," my father shouts. He turns his focus back to me. "I know you've been conquering the world over the past week, but did you have a chance to take a look at the briefing notes Miss Lloyd emailed you?"

  Rosalyn Lloyd is my father’s longtime personal secretary. That woman is so efficient, it's scary.

  "I did receive them. She sent them. Twice. The second time was accompanied by a reminder message, but...” I grimace. "Honestly, it's been on my list of things to do, but the trip to Asia was go, go, go. You know how much the jetlag affects me. On top of that, the delay caused by the storm really played havoc on my day. I scanned quickly through the list. Unfortunately, I can't say that I’m as much on top of things as I usually am. I feel guilty about it," I confess.

  "Don't apologize, ladybug. I'm your number one supporter when it comes to you forging your way and making your mark. It's not part of your duties as the First Daughter to memorize all of these things. I simply ask to know how to present each guest as we make our rounds," he explains.

  "I think for tonight, the more the better."

  "Copy that," he winks. "As usual, Miss Lancaster will make the initial introduction. To make it easy on you, I'll give you a brief outline of our guests’ illustrious accomplishments. I'll just hit the major points. These men and women have contributed so much. If I don't keep it short, I could go on forever," he chuckles.

  "I think we have a plan of attack, Prime Minister."

  CHAPTER 9

  Holden

  We were supposed to be in Ireland just for the weekend, but we ended up in a series of unexpected meetings. Sullivan opened a lot of doors for us. It was a great week for business, but not so much when it comes to finding that brunette since we had to miss the party on Sunday at the Warwick. In the end, Brandon and I only got back to London at three this afternoon. We rushed to the penthouse to change for tonight’s ceremony and an hour and a half later, we arrive at our destination.

  After the required security check and taking note of the ‘no phones allowed’ policy, we make our way into the lavish banquet room. Turns out that the Bromley Pavilion—the palace where the ceremony is taking place—is like a big ass castle. It’s like nothing I’ve seen before. There’s only one way to describe this venue—over the top opulence at its best.

  "I need a drink," I announce when we walk into the room packed with elegantly dressed guests.

  "I'm with you," Brandon says, his eyes bouncing all over the place. There's so much to take in.

  We approach the bar, where groups of people are chatting with drinks in hand. And I'm glad we won't have to wait around forever. After ordering a couple bourbons on the rocks we walk around, soaking in the electrifying vibe engulfing the room.

  "This whole palace could fit every single house in the old neighborhood," I say, glancing around me.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Brandon replies.

  Brandon and I grew up in East Liberty, Brooklyn. His grandparents’ tiny rented house was nearly a carbon copy of Grandpa Peter and Nana Alice’s home. There was nothing more than three incredibly small rooms with miniature windows dressed with old lace curtains. The kitchen was so tiny it could barely fit a table. Even with the blatant lack of luxury, it was my favorite place in the whole wide world. The place where I knew I was safe and loved.

  "If you’d told me a few years ago that I’d be stepping inside a fucking British palace where my best friend and I would be honored by a Lord, I would've insisted you pressure your doctor for new prescription drugs, because clearly the ones you're taking aren’t worth shit," I say.

  "That's hilarious," Brandon explodes in laughter balancing the glass he's holding to avoid spilling its content all over the place. “Other than Nikolaj, we don’t know anyone with a drop of royal blood,” he observes.

  "Seriously, Brandon, tonight is another confirmation of how our lives have taken a one-eighty turn for the better."

  “That’s for sure. I never thought we’d ever be rubbing shoulders with royalty.”

  "I know they’re people just like us—they put their pants on one leg at a time, they suffer from bad breath in the morning, they feel like shit after a hangover, and when their bladder is full, they have to relieve themselves," Brandon laughs. “But there's something fascinating about being born to that much privilege."

  "I hear—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention." A man on stage silences the room with his words. "My name is Anthony Whitelaw, Deputy Prime Minister of this great nation. Thank you for being here with us. Before we get started, may I ask our distinguished guests to step forward so you're closer to the stage?” He points in front of him. “It will be much easier for everyone in this room to be able to better acknowledge you. This is your night, after all." A round of applause erupts. "I’ll only ask that you stand shoulder to shoulder facing me," the man behind the microphone instructs.

  "Showtime," I whisper low enough so only Brandon can hear me. He grins back. I drop my unfinished drink on a waiter’s tray and wait for my partner in crime to do the same before we start our walk of honor.

  There's a collective brouhaha as a few of us push our way through the crowd. People nod and smile and I return their welcoming gestures. A few minutes later, six people that were scattered across the room only moments ago are now facing the Deputy Prime Minister.

  "It's quite the honor to welcome you tonight on behalf of Britain's Prime Minister." His comment is addressed to the six of us. The room claps again. "You're too kind, but your accolades belong to the man himself and his daughter.”

  I lean into Brandon and say, “Didn’t Estelle mention that the Prime Minister’s kids lived abroad to manage his businesses?”

  “That’s what I remember reading in her briefing notes, but I could be wrong.”

  “Hmph.” I nod in resp
onse before returning my attention to the man standing on stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming the Prime Minister and Miss Amelia Cavendish." The Deputy Prime Minister barely has time to finish his sentence when the room goes wild again.

  Right on cue, a large ornate set of doors open to our right and a group of four very big men in suits and wearing earpieces emerge. They stop long enough to scour the periphery around them before moving forward. Everything about their body language screams former military. Right on their heels a commanding gentleman with gray hair follows. He's walking forward, but his attention is to his left. I suspect he’s talking to his daughter. I move my head from left to right to catch a glimpse of her, but I’m out of luck. Behind these big guys it's nearly impossible to see her. Once they’re halfway in, the security officers break their formation. That allows the Prime Minister to walk past them. The men stand guard on either side of the Prime Minister in a well-rehearsed drill. That's when I lay eyes on her. She's hanging from her father's arm and gliding across the floor like an angel. That white dress she’s wearing should come with a warning. Her cascade of long wavy brown hair falls seductively over her shoulders. She really looks like she just dropped from Heaven. As I move my gaze up, her piercing green eyes lock onto mine for a fraction of a second. Jesus. I’ve been shot at, I’ve stood mere feet away from landmines and I’ve averted death more times than I can count, but I’ve never felt my breath leave me like it does now. Wow. I'm so hypnotized by this woman’s stunning beauty that it takes me a minute before realization hits me as hard as a freight train. Huh?

  I whip my head towards my best friend. I read his shocked look. I open my mouth to speak, but Brandon beats me to the punch. "No way."

  CHAPTER 10

  Amelia

  The room is packed as it always is at these types of formal ceremonies. Luckily, for now, I only need to focus on a handful of people. So far, things have been going smoothly. Daddy and I move from one guest of honor to the next, following Pamela Lancaster. My father holds his promise and provides me with just enough background information on each person so that I'm in the loop. Pamela, an old pro when it comes to this, has already introduced us to four of the six men and women being acknowledged tonight. Daddy is still thanking and shaking hands with Captain Ian Underwood congratulating him on his unparalleled courage. The Captain served in the British Army with distinction. I stand to the side as I replay his story in my head, still moved to the core by such bravery. Captain Underwood lost part of his leg when his truck ran over a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. What a tragedy considering everything that he's accomplished. I understand that there’s no justice in war, but stories like his leave me feeling completely gutted.

  “I'm lucky I only lost one leg. Some of my guys lost both. Some never made it home. I can't lose sight of that.” He said those humbling words even after sustaining multiple traumatic injuries. Incredible. His strength is truly an inspiration.

  When Daddy honors service men and women, I'm always reminded that at some point in time he too was in the line of fire. I can't imagine how it must have been for his family. Mum never had to live through that kind of agony since they met after he had left the army.

  "And here are our last two honorees of the evening." Pamela Lancaster's words pull me out of my reverie and I follow her and my father, quickening my step to catch up with them. I was definitely in my own little world there because it's impossible to miss these two guys. Unlike the other veterans we’re honoring, these two aren't wearing uniforms decorated with medals and ribbons. Their tall and well-built frames are adorned with impeccably well-cut tuxedos. They’re men of service?

  “Prime Minister and Miss Cavendish, please allow me to introduce Chief Petty Officer Barclay and Petty Officer Buckingham.”

  “What an honor,” my father says, extending a hand to the tall blond.

  “No, sir, the honor is mine. Since we’ve been discharged with honor, we’re simply Barclay and Buckingham,” the man I now know as Chief Petty Officer Barclay says.

  "Nonsense. Once a SEAL always a SEAL.” My father laughs and the two men join him. I’m too fascinated to crack a smile.

  My father turns his attention to the other man. “Petty Officer Buckingham, it's good to finally meet you. I've heard so much about your contribution to our MOD. The defence department can’t stop talking about you." He enthusiastically shakes the hand of the man standing next to the blond who looks more like a gladiator than a soldier. Instinctively, my eyes are drawn up as I fixate my attention on his perfect head of thick wavy brown hair. Nice.

  “Gentlemen, I’d like to present my daughter, Amelia,” my father says, placing a hand behind my back and forcing me several steps forward. “I feel like I’m the luckiest man in this room. Between you and I, I think she’s the most beautiful woman here tonight, but then again, I might be slightly bias," he jokes. I blush furiously.

  A twinkle of amusement flirts on Petty Officer Buckingham’s lips. "Miss Cavendish, what a pleasure to meet you," he says. I extend my hand and he grips it in his large one. He gives me a politician’s handshake, which means his left hand covers mine. The way he lingers forces my inquisitive eyes to meet his. This man is gorgeous. Not even his facial scar can taint his good looks. “Your father's right, you’re incredibly beautiful."

  His compliment brings a flush of redness to my cheeks. There’s that cocky glee again. What I read in his blue eyes is unsettling. That sexy as hell side-grin doesn’t help one bit. Down, girl. I blink, snapping myself back to the moment.

  I clear my throat a few times before speaking. “Petty Officer Buckingham, the pleasure is mine,” I say in a calm voice that doesn’t remotely match the flutter in my stomach. That response is usually a polite line I offer when we do our rounds like this. Not today. I mean every single word.

  “Darling, this gentleman over here has led so many of his men to crushing victories over the enemy. Just like his friend, he's done America proud.” I force myself out of this trance I find myself in and I shift my gaze to the blond smiling warmly at me.

  "Miss Cavendish." Chief Petty Officer Barclay pulls the hand I extend to him in a commanding way. It's just enough of a tug to force me to take a step forward. I’m now standing inches away from his body. I look up and up and up. The man is so tall that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are as fervent and as mesmerizing as his friend’s. “This is an unspeakable honor.” His voice is low, almost intimate. Holy smokes. Just like the other officer, his face is also marked by facial scars. I have no doubt they were hurt in battle.

  Our eyes hold for a beat before my brain kickstarts again. "Chief Petty Officer...” I stagger all over my words and completely lose my train of thought.

  My jaw drops rendering me speechless when Officer Barclay brings my hand up to his lips. He sears me with his smoldering gaze before lowering his head to drop a soft kiss against the back of my hand. If lips could burn, this is exactly what it would feel like.

  This isn't the first time a gallant man has bestowed upon me a touch of old-world charm, but there's something more here. I just can't put my finger on it.

  “Did you just arrive recently or have you been in London for a few days?” My father asks the two gentlemen.

  “We’ve been here for a week and a half. We’ll be in London for a while.” Petty Officer Buckingham answers my father’s question. I guess Chief Petty Officer Barclay is too busy doing a smashingly phenomenal job at leaving me weak in the knees. As engulfed as I am right now by the heat emanating from this guy’s burning gaze, I’m not deaf to what I just heard. They’re remaining on British soil. Interesting.

  “Amelia, these men are ex-Navy SEALs who fought in Iraq, Baghdad, Afghanistan and the Balkans.”

  When my father continues talking with an even tone, it dawns on me that he's completely oblivious to this unbelievably intense moment. Thank God because I'm not sure what's happening.

  "That’s very impressiv
e," I mutter breaking out of my all-consuming daze.

  “Thank you, sir,” Chief Petty Officer Barclay’s eyes leave mine to meet my father’s. "The SEALs have been good to me. I'm not sure what or who I’d be had I not enrolled. It's the least I could do." He nods slightly like a salute.

  God, this man is far too self-effacing. One thing I knew about my father is that this guy wouldn't be standing here unless he had proven himself in a way that most men would never be able to understand, let alone achieve.

  “Don’t be coy, Chief Petty Officer Barclay," my father scorns gently. "You and your friend have an impressive list of medals and ribbons because of your unparalleled bravery.”

  Chief Petty Officer Barclay lets go of my hand and I immediately mourn the loss of contact. He places his hands behind his back and pumps his chest out the way you'd expect a man who’s served his country would do.

  “We kept ourselves busy, sir.” Petty Officer Buckingham jumps back into the conversation.

  My father arches an eyebrow. “Is that what you call the Bronze Star, the Legion of Merit, the Defense Superior Medal and the Purple Heart?” he asks.

  “It was my duty, sir,” Petty Officer Buckingham responds, pride beaming off of him.

  “And Amelia, don’t think this gentleman over here was playing cards while his friend was collecting Navy Awards. Chief Petty Officer Barclay has a Silver Star, a Marine Corps Commendation, a Marine Corps medal—for heroic performance—and the Purple Heart to his name. To say these two men are heroes is an understatement.”

  I'm not privy to what all of these mean because I'm not very versed in the American defense Military and Navy world, but it goes back to what I was saying earlier—these two are far too modest.