The Stripper and the SEAL

by Jenna Bennett

  He carried it back to his truck, put it on the floor of the cab, and climbed back onto the seat. And settled in to wait for Bree to leave for the night. At this point, he was even more determined to figure out what was going on.

  2

  Thank God he was gone!

  Gabrielle had noticed the tall Russian the second he came through the door, and her heart had dropped all the way into her shoes.

  How had they found her so soon? It had only been two days since she left DC. She’d thought she’d have a little more time before she had to move on again.

  Yet here he was, and staring right at her, as if she was what he’d been looking for. As if he recognized her.

  But then a couple of other men came in behind him, and he’d turned out to be with them. So maybe she was wrong, and it was just a coincidence.

  They’d all sat at the bar together, and then three of them had gone to play pool—including the Russian—while the fourth, a guy with dark hair and a great smile, had left with a blonde he’d had a hard time keeping his hands off.

  She’d looked familiar. Gabrielle had been almost sure, when the woman walked in, that she was Tansy Leighton, the heiress. But what would Tansy Leighton be doing in a dive bar in Virginia with a Navy SEAL?

  They were all SEALs, or so Jim said. “From SEAL Team Sixteen. Alpha Squad. Chief Lee. Petty Officers Walton and Russell.”

  Chief Lee was clearly the short Asian guy. Walton and Russell must be the other two. Tansy Leighton’s guy—except she probably wasn’t Tansy Leighton, because what would Tansy Leighton be doing here?—and the quiet one with the auburn hair.

  “And Lieutenant Vasiliev,” Jim added.

  That was more like it. Those broad Slavic cheekbones and that shock of almost white-blond hair were dead giveaways. She’d pegged him for Russian the second she saw him. This confirmed it.

  And a lieutenant. In the Navy. And not just that. In the Navy SEALs. He couldn’t be working for Alex.

  Could he?

  “These guys are the best of the best,” Jim added. “When the folks in Washington have a problem, they call in the Navy SEALs.”

  Then yes, maybe he could be working for Alex. Not that Alex was the Washington Jim was talking about. But Trent was.

  “They just came back from a couple days on the Main Line in Pennsylvania,” Jim added. “Did you see that blonde who left with John Walton? That’s Tansy Leighton, the heiress. Alpha Squad took her off a hijacked yacht in the Mediterranean a year ago.”

  Gabrielle nodded. She had a vague memory of that. Something about Tansy Leighton and her then-boyfriend, some Saudi-Arabian sheik, getting hijacked off the coast of Libya. “I didn’t realize the military was involved with that.” Or the Navy.

  “It wasn’t,” Jim said. “Officially.” He winked.

  Ah.

  “A lot of the work they do is secret. Don’t ask them about it.”

  No problem. She had no intention of talking to them—and especially to the Russian—if she could avoid it.

  “Here,” Jim added, and put a bottle of beer on his tray. “Take his over to Max. Make sure he pays you.”

  Max?

  Jim gestured.

  The Russian. Of course.

  Gabrielle had her mouth open to ask him to send Misty instead. But she closed it again. She needed this job. And refusing to do what her boss asked on her second day wasn’t the way to show him that she was serious. It had been years since she’d had to work as a waitress. She was out of practice. Better not give him another reason to fire her.

  So she nodded and headed for the alcove where the pool table was, and where the other two SEALs—the Asian and the redhead—were knocking balls around while Max Vasiliev watched.

  She stopped a couple of feet away, because she couldn’t bring herself to go all the way up to him. Up close, he was even scarier than he’d been at a distance. She wasn’t a short woman, but he towered over her. He had to be six-and-a-half feet tall. And he probably weighted a good two-twenty or two-thirty. All muscle. His arms bulged, the biceps straining the sleeves of the T-shirt he had on, and when he moved, she could see muscles rippling underneath the fabric, too.

  Her tongue got stuck to the roof of her mouth—from fear much more than attraction, although she couldn’t deny he was built like a god—but he must have sensed she was there, because he turned to look at her.

  His eyes were blue. Arctic blue. So pale they were almost colorless.

  His gaze lingered on her mouth for a second, though, and there was nothing cold about it.

  Gabrielle fought back a shiver. And because it annoyed her that she’d responded to it, her voice was impatient. “Jim said you wanted another beer.”

  For a second he didn’t move. Just looked at her.

  Then—when she was seriously thinking about picking up the beer and throwing it at him—he reached for it. Without taking his eyes off her. “Where have you been all my life?”

  His voice was sexy, too. And because she’d gone there, especially over a cheesy line like that, Gabrielle rolled her eyes.

  He might have flushed, although it was hard to see in the semi-dark of the pool room. He dug a bill out of his pocket and dropped it on the tray. “Keep the change.”

  Gabrielle looked at it.

  That was a big bill. A lot bigger than it needed to be. The tip was bigger than the cost of the beer.

  Why?

  She looked up at him, and he must have realized he was scaring her, because he nodded. And turned away.

  Gabrielle forced herself to walk normally back to the bar, although what she wanted was to throw the tray up in the air and run screaming for the door. To get in her car and keep driving until she reached the beach in Key West, and then just swim from there, until she was in international waters, where Alex couldn’t reach her.

  And then she wondered whether she had lost her mind.

  All Max Vasiliev had done, was give her a few dollars more than he should have as a tip. A few dollars she could definitely use. That nod... it could have been simply the acknowledgement that yes, he’d intended to give her a little extra. He knew she was scared, and he was trying to reassure her. It didn’t mean, “Yes, I know what you’re thinking, and I am indeed here to kill you.”

  It didn’t even mean, “I’m giving you an extra-big tip, and I’m going to collect on it later.” It wasn’t like three extra dollars were insurance that she’d put out when he wanted her, after all. That was ridiculous, and he had to know it.

  No, it probably didn’t mean anything at all.

  But try as she might to convince herself of that, the longer he stayed at the bar nursing a last beer, the more worried she became. His buddy Walton was long gone, with the blonde who, it seemed, had indeed been Tansy Leighton.

  Then the other two SEALs, Lee and the redhead, drifted out, one after the other.

  And Lieutenant Vasiliev kept sitting there holding up the bar, until there was just him and a couple of drunk Marines left in the place.

  Was he waiting for her to leave, so he could kill her in the parking lot?

  Was she crazy to think so, or crazy to ignore the possibility?

  Jim called for a ride for the two Marines, then went over to talk to Vasiliev. Gabrielle kept an eye on them while she cleaned table after table with a wet rag, and tossed used napkins and cardboard coasters into the trash bag she was carrying. The soda cans and glass bottles got recycled, but the used paper waste just went into the dumpster in the parking lot.

  Whatever Jim said to Vasiliev must have been effective, because he finally—finally!—got up and walked out. Not without throwing her a final “Good night!” on his way out the door, though.

  Warning? Or just a simple good night?

  He was lingering by the door, waiting for a response, and probably wouldn’t leave unless she gave him one, so Gabrielle forced a smile. “Good night.”

  He left.

  Finally.

  It was a little easier to breathe wi
th him gone. That weight of fear on her chest lifted. She finished cleaning the tables, and then dropped the rag and called to Jim and Misty that she was taking the trash bag out to the dumpster.

  The air outside was a lot fresher than inside the bar, and she stopped for a second outside the door to fill her lungs. And also, truth be told, to scan the lot before she ventured out.

  Everything looked peaceful. The two Marines were gone. They’d either staggered off, or the car Jim had called had picked them up. Either way, they weren’t in sight.

  The lot was mostly empty. The big truck parked nose in halfway down the row might belong to one of them. Neither had been in any condition to drive when they left, so she figured the owner would have to come back tomorrow, or whenever he was sober, to pick it up.

  She’d been thinking she might borrow Misty’s license plate for a couple of days, just to get rid of her own, but this was even better. A nice truck, left unattended in a bar parking lot overnight... was it any wonder if the license plate went missing?

  By the time the drunk Marine came back for his car, he’d probably just chalk it up to misadventure. He certainly wouldn’t think there was any connection to her, or anyone else at the FUBAR.

  She’d kept a butter knife in her pocket all night for just this purpose, and it was quick work to unscrew the license plate from the truck. Whoever the Marine was, he kept his vehicle in good shape. The screws were neat and clean, and responded well to the pressure of the dull blade of the knife. She had the plate off in less than a minute.

  The coast was still clear when she hurried across the lot to her own car. She’d parked rear in, just so no one would notice the DC plates, and perhaps wonder what a woman from DC, who could afford a late-model Mercedes, was doing serving beer in a dive in Little Creek, Virginia.

  Her own plate came off almost as easily—the car was so new the screws hadn’t had time to get gummed up with dirt—and then she screwed the truck plate to her own car and stood back for a second to admire her handiwork.

  That would help, for now. At least no one would be able to track her by her plate.

  She slipped the butter knife back into her apron and threw her old license plate into the dumpster. It scraped along the metal side as it slid down, all the way to the bottom. Safely out of sight.

  That done, she dusted off her hands, and hurried back inside the FUBAR to finish up work for the night, her heart a little lighter.

  * * *

  It was another thirty minutes before she was ready to leave. By then, their cook was already gone. Gabrielle, Misty, and Jim walked out together. Misty had gushed over Gabrielle’s Mercedes the night before, so tonight she just gave it another envious look and a sigh before she climbed into her own serviceable Honda and waved on her way out of the lot.

  “Go on home,” Jim told Gabrielle, with his hand on the door of his own truck.

  Gabrielle nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She held her breath. Part of her was worried that he’d tell her things weren’t working out, and maybe it would be best if she didn’t come back tomorrow. Her waitressing skills were a little rusty. She’d accidentally broken a glass earlier, and she was pretty sure he’d been able to tell how freaked out she’d been over Lieutenant Vasiliev. If Jim thought she’d be more trouble than she was worth, he might just give her the boot.

  But apparently she was still safe. He nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

  He waited as she walked to her car, his gaze moving over the parking lot. When he got to the lone pickup truck still parked there, she could see a wrinkle between his brows.

  Had he noticed the missing license plate?

  “It probably belongs to one of the drunk Marines,” Gabrielle said, to draw his attention away from it. “I’m sure it’ll be safe here until tomorrow.”

  Jim looked at her and opened his mouth, and then seemed to think better of it. “If it isn’t gone by the time we get to work tomorrow night, I’ll call and have it towed.”

  Disaster averted, for now. Gabrielle nodded. “Sleep well.”

  She ducked into the Mercedes before he could say anything else. The engine cranked right over, and she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road with Jim’s truck right behind. At the second light, she took a left and headed east toward the ocean.

  When she drove down from Washington three days ago, she’d figured she might as well get a room near the water. The ocean was the reason most people came here to Virginia Beach, and she figured she—and her upscale Mercedes—would attract less attention staying near the beach than in some seedy motel on the wrong side of Norfolk.

  She was trying to conserve money, though—if she used a credit card or accessed any of her accounts, Alex would know where she was—so the place had to be cheap. The Ocean View had provided both. The room was small but clean, with a tiny kitchenette so she could at least brew herself a cup of coffee in the morning, and it had a tiny refrigerator in which to store the six-pack of yogurt she’d bought yesterday. Breakfast was in the bag. And the parking lot was behind the motel, not visible from the street, so someone would have to actually drive into the lot to see the Mercedes parked there. Other than a closed parking garage—and they only had those at the more expensive high-rise hotels on the beach—she figured she was as safe as she could be at the moment.

  After ten minutes, she zipped into the parking lot behind the Ocean View and slotted the Mercedes into the parking spot that had her room number painted on the blacktop.

  She’d use one of the others if she thought she could get away with it, since parking there was like drawing an arrow pointing directly to her room, but the two visitor parking spots were both occupied, and if she took someone else’s designated spot, they’d complain to management. She’d just hope that for the rest of the night, nobody would come looking for the Mercedes. And if they did, that the Virginia license plate she’d ‘borrowed’ would be enough to throw them off.

  She used the fob to lock the car doors and hustled across the walkway and up the stairs to her second story room. Before ducking through the door and inside, she glanced around the parking lot one last time. Everything was quiet. Nothing moved. All the cars were parked, and looked empty.

  She slipped through the door into the darkness, and waited until she’d shut and locked the door before she turned on the light.

  Everything looked fine in here, too. She could see the whole room with a glance, but it wasn’t until she’d checked the attached bath—including behind the shower curtain—the closet, and underneath the bed, that she allowed herself to relax.

  Another day down.

  Now she just had to do it again tomorrow.

  And the day after. And the day after that. And some day, if she survived that long, maybe this kind of cloak and dagger stuff would become normal.

  But for now she was safe. And although she was pretty much dead on her feet, she couldn’t crawl into bed without first rinsing off. She’d spent her night serving beer to drunk Marines. She’d touched all sorts of nasty things tonight.

  So she stripped down right there in the hallway and walked naked into the bathroom and under the spray. Compared to the penthouse apartment she’d left behind in DC, with its marble bathroom and double rain-heads, this dinky plastic shower was laughably basic, but it did the job. She washed with the tiny bar of motel soap and used the rest of the already depleted motel shampoo to wash her hair. It hung, thick and wavy, halfway down her back, so it took a lot, both of shampoo and conditioner, to keep it clean. She’d have to go out tomorrow for something else. One of the grocery store bargain brands, to save money. It wasn’t the Russian Amber Imperial she was used to, but it would do.

  It would have to.

  She dried off as well as she could with the threadbare motel towel, and wrapped it around her head. The penthouse had had some thick, fluffy towels, too. Tomorrow, maybe she’d pick up a new towel along with the bargain brand shampoo. Maybe a nice, big, fluffy beach towel that she could wra
p up in. The towels the motel had provided were barely big enough to go around.

  She lifted a dry one from the hook and wrapped it around her body, securing the end under her arm. And walked out into the living room. Only to stop—dead, and she wished that expression hadn’t come to mind—when she came face to face with Max Vasiliev, sitting on the edge of her bed.

  3

  Max could see the panic that came into her eyes at the sight of him.

  And it was hard to blame her. She was in her safe space, in what he had to assume was her home, at least a temporary one. Her door was locked and the security bar on. She’d felt comfortable enough to strip down to nothing and get in the shower. In his experience, a woman didn’t do that unless she felt safe.

  And then she’d walked out of the shower, still for all intents and purposes naked, and come face to face with him. An intruder. In her space.

  And not just that, but an intruder who had set her teeth on edge all night long.

  So no. He didn’t blame her when her eyes widened and fear flashed. “What are you doing here?”

  She glanced from the front door—with the security bar still on—to the window. It was closed and intact. “How did you get in?”

  “I’d tell you,” Max said, “but...”

  “You’d have to kill me?” Her hands were clutching the towel at the top of her breasts, as if worried that it would fall from the sheer force of his attention.

  That’s how that sentence usually ended, sure, but it was mostly a joke. Max shook his head. “No. I won’t kill you.”

  Strangely, that didn’t seem to make her feel any better. “You followed me from the FUBAR!”

  No point in denying that. He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “We need to talk,” Max said.