Hot SEAL, Rusty Nail (SEALs In Paradise)

by Teresa J. Reasor

  Hot SEAL, Rusty Nail

  A SEALs in Paradise Novel

  TERESA REASOR

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SEALS IN PARADISE

  HOT SEAL, RUSTY NAIL

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Teresa J. Reasor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: teresareasor@msn.com

  Cover Art by Elle James

  Edited by Faith Freewoman

  Teresa J. Reasor

  PO Box 124

  Corbin, KY 40702

  Publishing History: First Edition 2018

  ISBN-13: ISBN 13: 978-1-940047-21-8

  ISBN-10: 1-940047-21-8

  Smashwords Edition

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  More Information and Books by Teresa Reasor

  CHAPTER 1

  HILTON HEAD, SOUTH CAROLINA

  Connor Evans stepped into the dimly lit restaurant, whipped off his sunglasses, and paused to let his eyes adjust. The door swung shut behind him, closing out the humid South Carolina summer heat.

  He took a seat on one of the leather stools and rested his hands on the bar while he waited to be served. When his phone vibrated against his hip, he jerked it free of his belt case and swiped it with a thumb.

  His Dad’s terse text language sent one brow climbing. He’d split for a while to put some distance between them. Without his mother there to act as a buffer, they butted heads over everything. Or so it seemed. If the old man had told him he’d be out for the evening, he’d have stayed at the house.

  Or maybe not. Everywhere he looked there was something his mother had crocheted, painted or arranged. When he was deployed or training, it kept the loss at a distance. But now, just walking into the house empty of her presence slapped him upside the head and the heart. His grief over her death, as well as an experience during his last deployment, had stirred up other wounds.

  The bartender, a tall, lanky guy with an earring and goatee, paused in front of him. “What can I get you?”

  “A rusty nail over rocks with a twist of lemon.” Connor slipped the phone back in its pouch.

  “You got it.” The man turned aside and reached for a bottle of blended scotch and one of Drambuie. In record time he was setting the drink in front of Connor and pushing a lemon slice on the edge of the glass for a garnish. “Haven’t mixed one of those in a long time.”

  “I haven’t had one in a long time.” Six months at least. A beer or two was the strongest thing he’d permitted himself since returning from South America. He reached for his wallet and placed a ten-dollar bill on the counter. The bartender swept it up and handed him back four dollars in change.

  Connor sipped the drink, holding the liquor in his mouth, savoring the smoky, honey-citrus flavor of the cocktail. He looked up and caught the gaze of a woman sitting across from him in the dining area. Dark hair and brows, tawny brown eyes with thick lashes, high, flat cheekbones, slender nose, and a lush mouth that gave a man ideas. Gave him ideas.

  A woman was something else he hadn’t enjoyed in nearly eight months, and right now he wanted one. Wanted her.

  Her gaze dropped away and she leaned forward to listen to something the friend on her right was saying.

  He stared into his glass, willing the reaction away. He was here to visit family, and to make one of the hardest decisions he’d ever make in his life. He only had a month to decide whether or not to reenlist.

  He had no time for a woman. And one-night stands weren’t his thing anymore. He wasn’t eighteen years old, he was thirty-eight. His twenty years in the Navy were up, and he needed to stay focused and figure out what the hell he was going to do if he wasn’t a SEAL anymore.

  He looked up again to see the woman standing next to the table, as were her friends. Two of them had to be sisters. Both had thick, curly, dark hair with warm brown skin, possibly Mexican or Cuban ancestry. He saw their Latin heritage in their rounded chins and wide cheekbones. They were both attractive, but the beauty he had his eyes on had paler skin, and her hair was darker.

  The three were leaving, making the decision for him. If he’d intended to approach her and introduce himself, he should have done it two minutes ago. Too late now.

  As the three women passed him on the way out, he studied her, struggling to find a reason to ignore the urge to rush after her. Why couldn’t she be a skinny little thing? Instead she was a real woman, with lush curves. Her olive skin looked soft. She was beautiful. Regret was already riding him before she ever reached the door.

  He dragged his eyes away. He did not have time for a woman. A woman on vacation from…who knew where? He had to fly back to California. He had to go back to reenlist or file his separation papers and finish out his time. From there he didn’t know where he’d be.

  The door closed behind the ladies and he raised his glass to drain the last of the liquor. He debated about whether to order another and decided one was enough.

  He’d stop on the way back to his dad’s house and pick up the ingredients so he could fix his own.

  A summer shower had fallen while they were in the pub, and puddles of water darkened the street. It would be a steam bath by the time they got back to the condo.

  “You really should have spoken to that guy, Sloane. If looks could start a brush fire, his would have.” Bernie wove the car through the sprawling shopping center parking area to the exit and followed a pickup truck across two lanes of traffic to head west on the William Hilton Parkway. “He looked like he’d been in the desert a month and you’re a Popsicle.”

  From the back seat, Sloane laughed, then bit her lip. She’d never met a man who could make her wet with a glance. She still hadn’t. Because he hadn’t followed through. She knew one too many guys who couldn’t sustain—especially the one she’d been engaged to. The one who’d called her several days in a row recently. She wasn’t interested in anything he wanted to say.

  But she had to admit she was disappointed when the guy at the bar didn’t come over. She didn’t often like facial hair, but his dark brown beard lay against his strong jaw neatly trimmed, and his hair was clipped short.

  And his molten gaze had ignited an instant sexual charge.

  But it wasn’t anything her vibrator couldn’t satisfy.

  She was done with men. They couldn’t be depended on. She was going to concentrate on work and move on with her life. In fact, she’d already started the process, because she knew she’d be happier without one than she’d ever been with one.

  She didn’t need a man to be fulfilled. But she did need something which hovered just out of reach.

  Sheryl glanced over her shoulder from the passenger seat. “You have that look on your face again, Sloane.�
�

  “What look is that?”

  “That frosty, angry look you get when you’re pissed.”

  “I’m not pissed, Sheryl.” She opened the notepad on her phone. “I’m just making a few notes about things to take care of before going back to work.”

  Bernie spoke over her shoulder. “Thoughts about work are not allowed on this trip, Sloane. You promised.”

  “You can’t expect me to go cold turkey after a year of nonstop activity. And if I don’t make notes, I’ll forget.”

  “If you got laid, it would take your mind off of work,” Bernie commented, shooting her a look through the rearview mirror.

  “Bernie, you have a one-track mind.”

  “Mr. Rusty Nail back there could have been the answer to your dry spell.”

  “Bernie—” Sheryl threw up a hand to brace herself as a car rushed up beside them and moved to cut in front of them, scraping the front quarter panel of their rental car. The momentum shoved their vehicle to the left.

  Their tires screamed as Bernie slammed on the brakes and fought to stay in their own lane while the crazy driver dodged across and into the left lane and out of the way. But the back of a pickup already stopped at the light rose up in front of them, and they hit the tailgate with a bang and the screech of crushing metal and clatter and crunch of broken glass.

  A fainter second squeal of brakes filtered through the explosion inside the car as the airbags deployed in a burst of white powder.

  Sloane was thrown forward, her seat belt tightening painfully across her chest and shoulder while white powder floated down to coat the seats, and the smell of something burning hovered on the edges of her awareness.

  Time seemed to stop for one beat…then another.

  “Bernie? Sheryl? Are you all right?” Shaken, Sloane reached for her seat belt and for the handle on the door. It was locked, and for a moment she panicked and shoved against it. She forced herself to stop. Breathe. You have to breathe.

  “I’m okay,” Sheryl said. “Bernie?” She reached for her sister.

  Sloane could see in the rearview mirror that Bernie’s eyes were closed, and she didn’t respond to Sheryl’s touch or voice.

  Sloane gripped the door lock, pulled it up, then threw the door open, but paused long enough to lean over and pull up on the driver’s side lock as well.

  She struggled out of the car and rushed around to open Bernie’s door.

  “Don’t move her,” a deep male voice commanded.

  She turned, and was stunned to see the hot hunk from the restaurant bearing down on her. He was taller than she realized, and his long legs ate up the distance.

  “I’ve dialed 911 and asked for an ambulance.” He stepped in front of her and bent to look into the car. “Don’t shake her,” he cautioned Sheryl. “The airbag might have injured her neck.” He ran cautious fingers over her bleeding nose. “I don’t think her nose is broken.” He placed fingers against Bernie’s throat. “Her pulse is strong and even.” He focused on Sheryl. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. A little skinned up from the airbag, but I’m okay.”

  “I’m going to push on the brake.” He nodded to Sheryl. “You slide the car into park and turn the engine off.” He knelt on the asphalt and pushed the pedal with his hand while Sheryl did as he instructed.

  When the car was finally off. He turned to run his gaze over Sloane.

  “I was in the back. I’m fine.” Her shoulder ached. She ignored it.

  Cars passed slowly, drivers and passengers rubbernecking.

  “Is that your truck?” she asked.

  “My dad’s. I just flew in for a visit and borrowed it.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Accidents happen.”

  Bernie moaned, and he braced a knee on the edge of the door. “What’s her name?”

  “Bernice, Bernie.”

  “Bernie, you need to remain completely still.” He placed a hand against her forehead, pinning her head back against the headrest and keeping her from moving her neck. Blood covered her mouth and chin.

  “There’s a stack of napkins stuffed in the center compartment of the truck between the seats. Can you get it for me?”

  Sloane rushed to fetch them, and went to the other side to hand them to Sheryl. Pale and shaky, worry for her sister evident in her expression, Sheryl cleaned Bernie’s face.

  The scream of an ambulance, distant and insistent, came closer every moment.

  A police car glided up and a cop got out. He moved immediately to place emergency flares at each end of the accident before approaching them. “The ambulance will be here in just a minute.” He nodded toward Bernie. “I’ll get your information once she’s taken care of.”

  The EMTs were quick and efficient. By the time they stabilized Bernie’s neck, she had regained full consciousness and was cursing the man who had caused the accident with creative zeal. The lower half of her face was pink from the nosebleed, and the rest from the stinging slap of the airbag.

  A deep chuckle drew Sloane’s worried attention away. Now the worst was over, she found herself trembling.

  “I recognize that New York accent. I have a friend who sounds just like her. If she’s aware enough to be that pissed, she’ll be fine.” He rested his hand against the small of Sloane’s back in a gesture of comfort. His brown eyes, espresso dark, snagged on her face, intent and warm. For the second time in ten minutes, time stopped. Was he experiencing the same thing?

  “She probably has a slight concussion, and she’ll have some bruising from being hit by the airbag.”

  “I’m going with her in the ambulance, Sloane,” Sheryl announced from across the car. “I’ve got her purse and mine.”

  “Good, because you need to be checked out, too,” Sloan replied. “I’ll deal with the accident report, get another rental car, and then meet you at the hospital as soon as I can.”

  “Okay.” Sheryl approached one of the EMTs, and they helped her up into the ambulance.

  “I appreciate you being so calm and helpful through all this.” She offered him her hand. “My name’s Sloane Bianchi.”

  He offered her a firm but carefully tempered handshake. “Connor Evans. You kept it together pretty well, too. I hope you paid for the rental insurance.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  Two police officers approached them. One spoke to him. “You can move your truck over to the side of the road now.”

  The other one spoke to her. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

  While Connor answered the officer’s questions, his attention remained on Sloane. He’d missed his first opportunity to talk to her, but karma didn’t need to hit him over the head twice to get his attention. The only up side of this accident was it gave him the chance for a do-over.

  Before wandering back over to Sloane, the cop returned his license and military ID, and told him where he could get a copy of the accident report.

  While talking to the rental company on the phone, Sloan handed him a piece of paper with proof of insurance on it and all the information he needed to file a claim besides the accident report. She covered the phone. “Is your truck drivable?”

  “Yeah. The tailgate took the brunt of it. I can give you a ride to the hospital and they can deliver another car there.”

  She eyed him. “Why are you being so nice?”

  “Because I waited two minutes too long to speak to you back at the restaurant, and I want another shot.”

  At the quick curve of her lips, a small dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth.

  Aw, hell, he was sunk.

  “Why did you wait?”

  “Because I’m only going to be here a month, and you probably have a life to get back to in a few days or weeks, too. You’re too classy for a one-night stand, and I’m too old. So I was debating options, and then you were gone.”

  Her smile blossomed and his blood rushed to regions south.

  “You’re right, I am too classy,
but you’re not too old. And I’d love a ride—to the hospital.”

  He knew he was grinning like a fool at her double entendre, but couldn’t help it.

  She finished her conversation with the rental agency, then hung up. “The police have called a wrecker, and the rental company will deliver another car to the hospital. I’ll be right back.” He watched the graceful sway of her hips as she walked away to discuss something with one of the police officers.

  Connor opened the passenger door for her, and was grateful his father was still the disciplined Marine he’d always been. The interior of the truck was as spit polished as his Boondockers.

  Sloane approached him, a small handbag clutched in one hand and a single shopping bag in the other. “You lucked out.”

  He certainly had.

  “We did all our shopping yesterday, so there weren’t thirty bags to transfer from the trunk, just this one.”

  “There aren’t any stores where you live?” he asked, taking the shopping bag with one hand and offering his other to help her up into the truck.

  She smiled. “Based on our haul yesterday, you wouldn’t think so.” Her smile died, and she whipped out her phone. “I’m going to call and see how things are going at the hospital.”

  He placed the bag at her feet, and caught a whiff of her perfume…something with vanilla or coconut…shut the door, and double-timed it around the front of the truck to the driver’s door.

  The phone conversation was short and positive. “They’ve X-rayed Bernie’s head and neck, and nothing’s broken. She does have a slight concussion, and she’s going to have bruises but no permanent injuries. And her nose isn’t broken. They want to keep her overnight just as a precaution.”

  “That might be a good idea.”

  “And Sheryl just has a few scrapes from the airbag and bruises from the seat belt.”

  “Good. What about you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You’re rubbing your left shoulder.”

  “It’s just a little tender from the seat belt. More like a burn than a bruise.”

  He tossed a searching look her way. “Sure you don’t need to be checked out, too?”