Teasing Her Seal (Uniformly Hot!)

by Anne Marsh

  Before he’d made the SEALs team, he’d had no idea so many different types of palm trees could be crammed into one small island. Mother Nature hadn’t stinted. She’d parked slender fan palms next to spiny palms that stretched fifty, sixty feet up toward the sky. The island also came with a shitload of coconut palms loaded with ripe nuts waiting to brain anyone dumb enough to make camp at the base. What wasn’t palm was Hispaniolan mahogany and muskwood, and there were vines tangled up around positively everything. The place was “lush, pristine jungle” according to the resort’s marketing brochure, but a tropical pain in the ass from where he stood.

  A lizard darted up a trunk as Gray moved deeper. The place was green, sure, but it was also chock-full of tree snakes, the odd boa and a seemingly endless supply of toads and frogs. It was damned hard to hear himself think. Their team had set up a base camp on the other side of the island. It was their space, a place where they could be themselves and relax. In addition to four camouflaged tents, someone had strung up a couple of hammocks, and there were stacks of supplies, weapons and radios. More than an outdoor rec room, it was also their fallback position, the strip of beach below the camp their designated emergency extraction point.

  As he stepped into camp, he was met by the two shooters he had patrolling the perimeter. Sam and Remy were the newbies on the team, so he’d passed on sending them in undercover. He needed to know how they handled a mission first, before he put them on the front lines.

  Sam flashed him a two-fingered salute. Slim and brawny with close-cropped brown hair, he still looked like the Alabama country boy he’d been before he joined the Teams. He was damned good at blowing stuff up, however, and swam faster than any SEAL Gray had ever seen. He also doubled as their unit medic. “Tell me you brought us a cold one.”

  “Gray’s buying as soon as we’re Stateside.” Levi stepped out of the jungle behind him. Gray’s Senior Chief was the first of the infiltrators to arrive, and although his eyes moved from palm to palm as if he expected an army of hostiles to pop out and open fire, the guy sported a big-ass grin on his face. Gray had seen the same grin when they’d been pinned down in Iraq, taking heavy fire. “Waterfront acreage. Very nice choice.”

  As Levi dropped down onto the hammock Sam had strung up between two palms, looking as relaxed as any weekend warrior in his living room, Mason slipped out of the jungle. Mason was Mr. Silent. The big guy flashed a face full of attitude and was the kind of guy you expected to administer a beat-down in an alley. At thirty-four, he was also the oldest operative on the team and the best damned sniper Gray had ever worked with. He was no cowboy, but he’d made it clear he planned on dying in his boots. You didn’t piss him off without having a really good reason. Hell. You didn’t piss off anyone on the team. Gray almost felt bad for Diego Marcos.

  Remy followed. The Cajun seemed right at home on the island, passing as the general maintenance and go-to guy. He’d be the man in the hot seat when it came to bringing Marcos in because he’d be the first to face the guy.

  Ashley was the last to arrive. She’d infiltrated Fantasy Island as a guest and, in keeping with her cover, she entered their bay in a resort kayak, just another guest out for a recreational paddle. Never mind that she’d driven the kayak through the lagoon waters at a brutal pace, taking the craft through the rocks just for shits and giggles. She looked sexy as sin in her skullhead-print bikini and a pair of hot pink shorts that earned plenty of teasing from the guys.

  Levi winked at her. “Now that’s a get-up you won’t catch a SEAL in.”

  She flipped him off and dropped down onto a stack of duffel bags. “My boobs are better than yours. You’d look damned silly in a bikini.”

  “Now there’s truth, sugar.” Levi laughed, unoffended.

  Gray let the teasing wash over him as he broke down his gun. He didn’t need to look at it—any SEAL could break down and rebuild his weapons in the dark—but he didn’t want to watch Levi and Ashley flirting it up, either. He could go back to the resort and find Laney, but he didn’t have Levi’s smooth charm or way with words.

  No. He was empty. Lonely. Itching for the next fight, the next mission. As he watched Levi and Ashley bickering amiably, giving each other a hard time, part of him wanted that. Sure, they drove each other crazy, but they did it together. Lonely wasn’t on their agenda. All he had to offer Laney was a few nights of sex, however, and that was a different kind of crazy.

  He got on the radio for their coded transmission while the rest of the team continued ribbing Ashley. But when Gray signed off, the team suddenly fell silent, looking at him expectantly.

  “We’re getting yanked,” Levi joked. “Or, better yet, instead of camping out here in the jungle, we’ve got a week’s shore leave and a reservation at the resort. I’ve seen the food they’re serving.”

  Levi’s sweet tooth was notorious. The man always packed Snickers bars in his bugout bag.

  “We’ve got movement on our target. He’s under way.”

  Marcos spent the majority of his time holed up in a jungle compound in the Belizean mountains. The place was a fortress. A well-placed sniper might also have stood a chance of getting off a shot, or the team could have mined the road in and detonated a lifetime supply of C4 underneath Marcos’s Humvee, except the man was cautious and rarely moved out in the open. Learning that he intended to come here had been a piece of intel that had taken Ashley’s team eighteen months to acquire.

  Levi cursed. “Define movement.”

  Gray knew how his comrade felt. “Marcos will be here in eight days instead of ten. His advance team hits the ground in four. We need to take them down fast, as soon as they arrive. And since we’re looking to capture Marcos, not kill, we’re going to report back as his guys and make sure he feels safe to land.”

  “A challenge.” Mason didn’t sound as if he minded. Instead, he had a thoughtful look on his face as he pondered the logistics of a quick, nonlethal takedown on an island that was too small for roads or runways. There were nods of understanding from around the circle. The FBI had a long list of questions for Marcos, and a dead man didn’t do any talking. If the mission went according to plan, however, they’d take down Marcos and then have a week to interrogate him before any of his associates realized he’d been compromised.

  “Is the advance party inbound by air or water?” Levi asked.

  Gray didn’t hesitate. “Two helos, both of which are scheduled to be met by the resort’s jeeps. We’ll put SEALs into the driver’s seats. Marcos will be told his advance team is securing the resort. We need to minimize the risk to the island’s civilians. Thoughts?”

  Ashley picked up the ball and ran with it. Gray was fairly certain there wasn’t anything the woman didn’t know. “It’s low season and the resort is running at about thirty percent of capacity. There are twenty bungalows. Six are occupied, but three of us are singletons. Eight guests are currently in house.”

  Good. Fantasy Island would be clear before Marcos made his grand appearance. If Monday’s arrivals vacated in a week, that meant Laney Parker would be okay and not in the line of fire. She hadn’t signed up for this particular battle, and he wouldn’t pitchfork her into the middle of it.

  As the meeting wrapped, Gray did a last inventory of his team. They were ready, but that had never been in doubt. Despite the teasing and good-natured bickering, every man there would lay down his life for the team. They were organized, well trained and efficient as hell. Marcos wouldn’t know what had hit him.

  When Ashley stepped past him, however, he snagged her wrist. “I’ve got a question.”

  “Anytime.” She dropped onto the pile of duffel bags next to him. “Ask away.”

  “You ever heard of a cocktail menu? A special one?” He took a shot in the dark, because Laney’s tone had held a certain something. He needed to know what she’d really meant.

  Ashley laughed. “So you’ve heard about the infamous drinks menu?”

  “Give me details.” The way she was smiling, he w
as in trouble. He definitely didn’t know enough.

  “Well, the next time you boys decide to go undercover at a resort, you might want to pick one that doesn’t specialize in kinky sex.”

  “I’ll give my boss a heads-up,” he said dryly. “I hadn’t planned on having kinky sex on this mission.”

  Absolutely not. Hell, even plain old vanilla sex was pretty much off-limits. While there weren’t hard-and-fast rules about personal activities while undercover, bedding a civilian who could blow his cover was definitely pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable. He couldn’t and wouldn’t jeopardize the mission.

  Or Laney’s life.

  “Maybe you should rethink your position.” She elbowed him, eyes twinkling at the pun. “Because apparently the resort staff can be more than a little adventurous, as can the guests. The names of the drinks are code for various fantasies you might want to act out. It’s all secret and hush-hush, a way for guests to discreetly communicate their desires to each other.”

  Fantasies about sex. That sounded pretty damn erotic, but he’d seen how other people’s kinks played out when he’d worked undercover as a biker. M-Breed’s members had engaged in frequent sex, often public, and never nice. On the pool table, up against the wall, in a bathroom stall. Take your pick, do whatever the hell you wanted to do. Gray had managed to avoid the gang’s groupies, because no way he wanted a woman who was into him only for the drugs or position she thought accompanied sleeping with him. His fantasies were different.

  He frowned. “How did she know about the menu?”

  Ashley raised a brow. “Which she on this island propositioned you? And did you turn her down flat or take her up on it and she shocked your delicate sensibilities?”

  “I gave one of the guests a massage,” he said gruffly. “She said something to me at the end.”

  Ashley whistled. “You must give a really good massage. Give me a name.”

  “Laney Parker.” Why was he so reluctant to give up her name?

  “She was your client? In that case, I may have told her about it.”

  “And how come I wasn’t informed?”

  Ashley winked at him. “I didn’t think you’d be interested. Not your kind of scene.”

  He wondered when he’d started coming across as uninterested in sex.

  “I don’t like surprises,” he said. Although he’d definitely liked Laney. If he’d known what she was asking him, he would have followed up. He definitely wouldn’t have let her run off on him.

  Ashley’s eyes flashed. “You’re not exactly vanilla.”

  Neither were most fantasies.

  She poked him in the chest. “Do you even know how to flirt?”

  Shit. Did he? “I know how to play games,” he grumbled.

  Levi smacked him on the shoulder. “Ashley’s the best. You can take notes.”

  “This from you.” Disapproval radiated from Ashley’s voice. “You’re the team man whore.”

  “And you’re not on the prowl? I’ve watched you hanging out by the pool.”

  “I’m undercover.” She jabbed a finger into Levi’s chest. “I’m playing a part. Someone has to get in there and keep an ear to the ground.”

  “Duly noted,” Gray growled. “Don’t make me put the two of you in time-out. Break it up, move it along.”

  Ashley blew Levi a kiss and headed back to the beach and her kayak.

  “That girl is trouble.” Levi shook his head. “Maybe that’s why we don’t let women join the SEALs.”

  Gray grinned. “They’d kick our asses, and we like being in charge.”

  “True.” Levi made a face at Ashley’s departing figure. “She’s damned good at it.”

  * * *

  SLIPPING INTO THE water was like coming home. Diving had been one of Gray’s favorite parts of BUD/S training. The world seemed different beneath the surface, everything more buoyant and streamlined. The bay was mostly sandy-bottomed and dotted with coral heads. Butterfly fish swarmed him as he dove toward the bottom, bright yellow and black sides flashing. Any closer and the fish needed to buy him dinner first, one particularly bold specimen bumping against first his mask and then his dive gloves.

  He’d grabbed the tank ostensibly because someone needed to map the bay’s bottom. He could do it, so why not? He was restless. That was all. He preferred to be on the move, to be doing something, and the riskier and faster that something was, the better. Not that checking out the bay scored high in the adrenaline category. The entry was shallow and the water almost currentless. That would change, of course, as he pushed around the promontory and into open ocean, but for now it was easy money.

  Swimming out of the bay and around the island’s coastline produced no surprises. As he swam, he checked the ocean floor for obstructions, booby traps, anything that would hinder a Zodiac or a landing party. Fantasy Island, however, was as pretty below the surface as it was above, all white sand and the occasional coral head. He was all clear if the second team infiltrated by water.

  The last time he’d done this hadn’t gone as well. He’d led an amphibious operation to select possible beach landing sites. The aerial pics had shown mangrove, swamp and jungle, none of which made their potential targets vacation destinations. Worse, the nautical charts were one hundred fifty years old and missing major terrain features. Swimming through the surf and the reef to make the inner lagoon had been like diving in a washing machine with blades. Fantasy Island definitely won in the looks department.

  When he finally surfaced, treading water two hundred yards off shore with a quarter tank of air left, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Laney. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who sat still. He watched, transfixed, as she pounded up the quarter-mile stretch of sand, sprinting barefoot. God knows, he should have submerged and gone about his business, but looking away was surprisingly difficult. Ponytail whipping back and forth, the muscles in her thighs flexed as she worked for more speed, and her swimsuit top...yeah. He liked that part of the view best. She was spectacular. When she reached the end of the beach, she flopped down on the sand. He grinned. Good to know she wasn’t Superwoman. Then, when she fished in her beach bag and produced her phone, his grin got even wider. The woman had a serious cell phone addiction.

  Giving in to temptation, he swam in slowly, enjoying the sensual way she dug her fingers into the sand, soaking up the heat as she chatted. Then he counted. Wait for it...by the count of thirty, she’d popped up and was pacing back and forth. He should swim away. Reconning the bay was one thing and an acceptable use of his time. Cozying up with Laney, however, wasn’t really part of his job description. He wasn’t supposed to be here. On the other hand, he was a SEAL. Being somewhere unexpected wasn’t unusual.

  Deflating his BC, he planted his feet on the sandy bottom. Who was he kidding? He was headed straight for shore. Toeing off his fins, he submerged and let the small waves push him toward the beach.

  4

  “CARSON HOSPITAL DOESN’T have your acceptance letter on file. Tell me you signed the letter.”

  What were the ethics of lying to one’s mother? Three thousand miles apart, and Laney still fought the urge to look over her shoulder, because a stellar international calling plan made it sound as if Ellen Parker were standing right behind her. Tossing her cell phone into her beach bag had been her first mistake. Answering at the Jaws ringtone had been her second.

  Unfortunately, her mom was a pro and correctly interpreted the ensuing silence. A top-notch hospital administrator and former oncologist, she excelled at detecting bullshit. “That letter is your second chance, Laney Parker. Do you know how many favors I had to call in to get it?”

  Laney had a lot of experience fielding unhappy phone calls from her mother. And, in this case, her mom actually had a valid point. Thank you seemed too...bland. Unappreciative. Because, in truth, she did appreciate her mother’s attempts to fix the disaster she’d made of her medical career.

  “I’ve signed it.” She just hadn’t mail
ed the letter yet, because that would mean admitting she wasn’t going back to S.F. General.

  She’d been sacked. Let go. Fired out of hand. No, not fired, exactly, because she’d been politely asked to submit her letter of resignation so everybody could pretend she’d simply decided to exchange her dream job covering San Francisco’s busiest trauma bay for the much tamer, less exciting challenges of a small city ER. Her mother exhaled, the sound magnified by a stellar cell phone connection. “Give me the tracking number and I’ll follow up on it.”

  Her mother made no mention of Laney’s vacation-cum-honeymoon. Of course, her mother was also a fixer. As was her father. Realizing Laney was faced with a broken engagement, an AWOL fiancé and the general end of life as Laney knew it, her mother had homed in on Laney’s unemployed status as the problem du jour and, any other time, Laney would have genuinely appreciated the effort. After all, she didn’t want to be unemployed and broke for long, especially given what this trip had cost her.

  She just didn’t want to give up on all of her dreams in the span of the same month. And she definitely didn’t want to be banished to Stockton and its less-than-riveting medical practice.

  You’re an adrenaline junkie.

  Who had voluntarily stranded herself on a hot, tropical, ultra-boring Caribbean island. She flopped back down onto the sand. Was there a twelve-step program for people like her? Working as a trauma surgeon might be exhausting, and it almost entirely negated the possibility of a personal life—as her ex-fiancé could attest—but she missed her ER rotations. She itched to be doing something other than working on her suntan, and laying the groundwork for a future case of skin cancer didn’t cut it.

  Today was another postcard-perfect Caribbean day with blue sky and full sun. She crossed her legs lotus-style at the surf’s edge, searching for ever-more-elusive inner peace while her mother ran through the next steps in the get-Laney-gainfully-employed-again plan. It was a good plan, but the sand was wet and getting places it had no business being in her bikini bottom. The heat prickling her skin also indicated a pressing need on her part for more sunscreen. Maybe the resort gift shop stocked SPF 700. She’d check it out as soon as she hung up on her mother.