Ruined by the SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 2)

by Zoe York

  Contents

  Title

  About This Book

  Dedication

  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

  Assignment: Caribbean Nights

  Join My Facebook Reader Group

  What to Read Next

  About the Author

  Copyright

  RUINED

  BY THE

  SEAL

  ZOE YORK

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  The Navy SEAL’s fresh start lies on the far side of her defeat…

  Mick Frasier owes his life to his fellow Navy SEALs. Now that he’s discharged, one of them offers him another lifeline: a new future on the Caribbean island of Miralinda.

  But when he arrives at the abandoned sugar plantation he’s supposed to whip into shape as an executive training facility, he finds it already under renovations—overseen by the beautiful director of the island’s Historical Society.

  Cara Levasseur is too young for her job. Too pretty. Too…unorthodox. She’s heard it all, and now that she’s finally secured Villa Sucre, she’s not going to let anything get in the way of her first big professional coup.

  Not even a sexy, strapping ex-Navy SEAL who isn’t afraid to turn on the charm—or when that doesn’t work, declare all-out war. When she sets up camp in the ballroom, because there’s not a chance in hell she’s giving up her claim on the estate, Mick stakes out his own territory around the only working bathroom on the property.

  With tempers flaring and passions running hot, Cara’s intent on not letting Mick ruin this opportunity for her—and she doesn’t want him to ruin anything, either. Her life plan, for example. Or her heart…

  ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights

  Duchess Island by Kat Cantrell

  Claiming Her SEAL

  Revealing Her SEAL

  Miralinda Island by Zoe York

  Ruined by the SEAL

  Bound by the SEAL

  Bought by the SEAL

  Angel Cay by Anne Marsh

  Sweet for a SEAL

  Her One Best SEAL

  Visit us at Navy SEAL Romance and never miss a story in the ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights series!

  Want to be notified when new books by Zoe York are released? Sign up here: Newsletter

  DEDICATION

  For Kat and Anne. A year’s worth of planning, plotting, laughing and hoping has come together and I couldn’t be happier with how Assignment: Caribbean Nights has turned out.

  ONE

  MICK FRASIER HAD A THREE-STEP PLAN FOR HIS NEW LIFE.

  Beach, beer, sleep.

  After months of rehab and fighting his discharge from the Navy SEAL teams, he needed all three badly. And at his first deep inhale of the salty Caribbean air, he’d been surprised to discover that deep down, this crazy plan his SEAL buddy Will Parry had sent him on felt right.

  He could smell the sunscreen and feel the ice-cold beer in his hand already.

  Hello, Sugar Island. He’d bought the beer at the airport, from two smiling men selling them from a cooler next to the customs hut. A hut. At an international airport.

  But any place that handed out beer to new arrivals sounded about right to the tired and grumpy toddler trapped inside Mick’s grown-man body.

  Sugar Island wasn’t the Caribbean nation’s real name, of course. Miralinda just had that nickname because of the historical sugar plantations that had been so valuable to the French colonists that settled here in the early seventeenth century.

  One of those plantations—and the titanium rod in Mick’s leg—had forced a change of plans. He couldn’t play beach bum forever, but he had enough savings to spend the rest of the winter under the Caribbean sun, and thanks to Will’s grandmother, maybe by the time the summer arrived, he’d have a new career.

  Villa Sucre—Will’s inheritance—was going to get a new lease on life. They were going to turn the tired, no-longer-functional plantation into an executive training facility. Give wealthy business owners a legitimate, tax-write off reason to visit the island, and maybe teach them a few survival and team-building skills while they were at it.

  Mick had the easy job. Show up, secure some construction permits, and lie on the beach until Brayden Lucas, the third Musketeer in their crazy plan, arrived on the island. A fellow SEAL, Lucas had two more months of active duty, and then he’d join Mick to begin construction.

  They’d have three months to get the place operational, and then Will would join them and hit the ground running with the first flight of training groups.

  It was a crazy plan.

  It was a good plan.

  And best of all, it allowed Mick to chill the fuck out for a while, first—if he could remember how.

  His taxi stopped smack in the middle of the circular drive, right in front of the entrance to the faded white colonial two-story mansion. Three chickens lazily pecking their way across the drive added a certain ambience Mick wasn’t expecting as well.

  As soon as Mick stepped out of the cab, he could hear the music.

  Pulsing R&B, the good kind that would make him want to dance if he wasn’t like an oversized elephant in a club. Someone had decent taste in music. He paid the driver and added a generous tip, refusing his offer to stick around. “I’m not heading out again today, no matter what. Thank you very much for the ride.”

  The driver handed over a business card. “I live in Petite Ciotat, so if you need anything—a ride somewhere, or an emergency rescue—just call.”

  All he needed at the moment was a nap.

  “I’ll be fine.” He grinned as they shook hands, then he stepped out of the way and stretched, easing the ache in his leg and his back.

  Inside he found dust.

  Everywhere.

  The wide plank floor was covered in it, and as he walked down the central corridor in the direction of the thumping bass-beat, he left a trail of footprints.

  Not a problem. He wasn’t the trespasser, although he had the sinking suspicion that the owner of the music wouldn’t see it that way.

  He glanced into each room as he passed. A living room up front, although it probably had a fancier name than that. A dining room. On the other side, a massive room that had probably been a ballroom.

  Every room had drop sheets covering the scant amount of remaining furniture. Neatly typed pieces of paper hung next to each entrance way, detailing what work needed to be done. At the bottom of each note was a dire warning. All work must be approved by Cara Levasseur.

  Oh, honey, you’ve got such a rude awakening coming your way in ten, nine, eight…

  He found her in the kitchen, high on a step stool, cleaning the inside of a cupboard. He noticed her legs, first. Long. Curvy. The warmest shade of brown he’d ever seen. Bare. She was wearing shorts, and they were, in fact, short.

  Her legs were spectacular.

  Above that she had some lacy shirt thing, but it was mostly obscured by long, wavy ringlets falling down her back. The wild mix of blonde and brown curls did a strange thing to his insides. Or maybe it was that her hair and her perfect legs both pointed right at her jiggling bottom.

  Someone liked to dance.

  His countdown to a ru
de awakening died inside his chest. This wasn’t going to be fun. He looked for the source of her music—a cell phone plugged into portable speakers—and pulled the plug out of the wall. The music dropped to a tinny whisper.

  The jiggling stopped. She whipped her head around, giving him a totally no big deal that you caught me dancing look. Her face was just as spectacular as her legs. Heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and large, bright eyes surrounded by flawless mocha skin. “Can I help you?”

  “Good afternoon. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Not a problem.” She hopped down, her hair flying off in all directions as she strode across the room and pressed a button on her phone, turning off the now-quiet music. Then she held out her hand. “Cara Levasseur. I wasn’t expecting any tradespeople this afternoon.”

  Her accent was slight. He found himself straining to catch more of it.

  He shook her hand, surprised by how firm her grip was. “Mick Frasier. And I’m not a contractor.”

  He’d never been one to avoid conflict. He had the high ground of surprise here, and he should use it to his advantage. There was a letter in his bag that he should whip out now so he could blithely watch as she scurried out the door.

  Seriously? Second thoughts because she’s pretty?

  She wasn’t just pretty, though. He wanted to think there was a look in her eye, an innocence…

  But that was ridiculous.

  So even though it took him a few beats longer than usual, he squared his shoulders. He was a cold-hearted bastard. Requirement of the last job, and apparently, useful in the new one, too. Besides, he was fucking tired and needed to lie down before he fell over. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Ms. Levasseur. You’re renovating a house that doesn’t belong to you.”

  Her green eyes darkened, like the bottom of the sea churning up as a storm approached. Appropriate. “Excuse me?”

  “This estate. I’ve been sent here by the owner.”

  “What are you playing at? The owner has passed away. I represent the Miralinda Historical Society.”

  “Mrs. Gwendolyn Parry?”

  She gave him a wary look. “Yes.”

  “I represent her grandson.”

  The wary look turned ice-cold. “I think you’d best explain what you mean. Does he mean to establish a claim against Villa Sucre?”

  She pronounced it veeja sucre, the blend of spanish and french snapping through his fatigue and sparking something inside him. Something that hungered to hear her say more. Anything, really. Maybe while he closed his eyes and the ocean crashed nearby. He’d blink up at her every so often to appreciate her mouth, wide and lush. It was gorgeous even as she pinched her dusky pink lips together in disapproval. He wondered what else she said that sounded like sex on the wind.

  He’d never find out. Shoving aside his sleep-deprivation-induced island-girl fantasy, he unzipped the outside pocket on his bag and pulled out the letter Will’s lawyer had drawn up and handed it over.

  She eyed him, and the paper, reluctantly, then snapped it away. She cocked her hip to one side and her head to the other as she slowly read, then glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. Her entire being doubted his veracity.

  “This can’t be true. Why are you here and not this…Will Parry?”

  “I’m acting as his agent in this regard.”

  “A Parry unable to make time for Villa Sucre. No surprise there. And you expect me to believe this is authentic?”

  No matter how seductive a woman’s voice, she didn’t get to suggest his best friend was anything but honorable. “I have no doubt it is.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you and the absentee Will Parry, but his grandmother bequeathed this estate to the Miralinda Historic Society. We received a similar letter from the same law office, months before the date on this letter. We did our due diligence and as you can see, we’ve begun restoration.”

  He frowned. None of this made sense. “There’s gotta be a mistake.”

  “I’m afraid if there has been, it is in your visit to this island.”

  “Hey!” He was fuming like a bull now, his nostrils flaring and steam practically coming out his ears, but she was just so damn sure of herself. “What if the error lies in your understanding of the situation?”

  “That seems unlikely, given that we’ve known for the better part of a decade that the late Mrs. Parry would donate the estate to avoid a substantial death tax on the property.”

  “Death tax?” Jesus Christ, this was getting better and better. He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly end of the work day.” And it was Friday to boot. Fuck. “I’ll call Will, and have him follow up with this lawyer, and I’m sure you’ll want to do the same. But that’s probably going to take some time, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…”

  He looked around. He could smell the ocean. He just wanted to put his bag down and then follow it, getting himself into a horizontal position where none of this nonsense mattered for a while.

  A door at the far end of the hall promised sunshine and a back terrace. Surely that led the way to the beach. He started in that direction.

  Cara shot him a look of alarm and scurried into his path. “What are you doing?”

  What did it look like? “Going in search of a flat surface so I can lie down for a while. I’ve been travelling since the middle of the night.”

  It was that or just fall over where he stood, which would feel like shit on his leg. He moved to step around her.

  She matched his step.

  He propped his hands on his hips.

  She crossed her arms under her breasts.

  Not the time to ogle her tits, man. Whatever. His filter had vanished somewhere over the Caribbean Sea.

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “I can, and I will.” He glanced around, smirking. “Who am I bothering by being here?”

  She blinked at him. “Me. You’re bothering me.”

  TWO

  CARA COULDN’T GET OVER THE NERVE OF THIS GUY. Six-plus feet of rudeness. No way was she letting him saunter onto her estate.

  And it was, very much, her estate. She’d been a breath away from being fired as the director of the Historical Society when they’d received notice that they’d been bequeathed Villa Sucre. The property was a feather in the cap of the Society, but more to the point, it had finally given her a chance to show the board of directors just how capable she could be when given real work to do.

  So there was no way that Mr. Chiseled Right Angles was going to saunter in here and blithely blow that all out of the water for her. And there was sure as hell no way she was going to let him then go swimming. The nerve.

  She shook her head, feeling her curls bounce all over the place. Good. Let him think she’s a crazy voodoo chick or something. “You can’t just walk in here, drop this news bomb on me, and then go in search of the beach!”

  He gave her a bland look that said she didn’t scare him. “Why not? I’m exhausted and nothing’s going to get sorted out until after the weekend, so….”

  “You can’t stay here! Go back to town and get a hotel room.”

  “No.”

  The muscles up and down her right leg twitched. She desperately wanted to stomp her foot for emphasis. She clenched her fists instead and took a deep breath. “Mr. Frasier—”

  “Mick is fine.”

  “Mr. Frasier, I must insist that you vacate the property.”

  He gave her a slow, surprised blink, then crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring her stance. “Ms. Levasseur, I in turn must insist that you vacate the property.”

  She glared at his passive expression. He was trying to get her goat. It wasn’t going to work. She was a professional. University-trained, board-of-directors-hazed, island-hardened professional. She didn’t take any crap from contractors, construction workers, or bitter senior citizens, and she wasn’t going to let this man best her either.

  She stepped back and let her arms swing loose at her side. Something about his aura thr
ew her off-balance. Distance would be good. Calming. Reason and logic-restoring. “That is not going to happen.”

  Except it was nearly the end of her workday and she had to meet her friends Daphne and Arielle for dinner.

  As if he could read her mind, he said, “You aren’t planning on going home for the night?”

  “Of course I am.” Her mind started to spin with the beginnings of a plan. “As you say, nothing will happen over the weekend. Good luck finding the beach. It’s terribly rocky and the tide is vicious.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  She smirked and grabbed her phone. “See you on Monday.”

  Her purse was…somewhere. She walked, head held high, toward the hallway, hoping—a-ha. It was hanging on the doorknob. Without a backwards glance, she slung it across her body and headed for the side entrance, where her old hatchback was parked.

  Come Monday, Mr. Chiseled Right Angles would be long gone.

  There was no functional bathroom anywhere on the estate. He’d take a dip in the ocean—if he survived, she hadn’t been kidding about the current—and quickly realize there was no way to rinse off the salt.

  Sucked to be him.

  ~

  “YOU’RE NOT EATING.” Daphne said this a little louder than necessary, making a few people around them in the outdoor cafe turn around and look. She shrugged unapologetically when Arielle shushed her. “What? She’s not and she’s also ignoring us.”

  Cara glanced down at her untouched grilled fish and sighed. Then she gave her friends an apologetic smile. “I know. I’m terrible company tonight.”

  “We don’t mind,” Arielle said softly.