by Zoe Dawson
She reached into her bag to pull out her keys and headed for her car parked just outside the door in the parking lot reserved for the building.
“Hold up?” She heard the loud call and turned to find Sinclair jogging toward her, soaking wet and caked with sand.
“You ducking out on me again?”
She gave him the once over. Damn, he still looked good wet, sandy…naked. She mentally slapped herself hard, but she couldn’t keep her thoughts in line. She held her position, watching him come toward her. She’d had a difficult time leaving him. That was until she reminded herself who she was and what she still needed to accomplish…without any relationship baggage, or sharing for that matter. She wanted to keep it all to herself. It was too personal to talk about even to her brother. She should have been able to walk away from him without a backward glance, without saying goodbye. But here he was, walking toward her with that loose-hipped saunter of his, smiling that full-of-hell smile. Determined not to let him see how his arrival had affected her, she said, her tone dry, “You looked like you were pretty busy following orders.”
He grinned showing white teeth and that wicked smile she hadn’t forgotten, tipping his head to one side. What the heck was wrong with her?
She leaned against her car, working hard at not letting him matter at all.
He aligned his body next to hers. “Nothing too taxing. Just a refreshing dip in the ocean and a nice roll on the beach.”
“I once had a dog who enjoyed that. How are you at catching a frisbee?”
He laughed softly, the glint in his eyes turning into a wicked gleam. “Competent. But the burning question is: How are you on belly rubs?”
Amusement flickered through her. He was a tantalizing tease. “Competent,” she said.
He grinned at her and braced his hand on the roof of the car, holding her gaze with the kind of amused familiarity that made her insides churn. “I had a good time before you ditched me. I wouldn’t protest if you wanted to use me again.”
She gave him a long, level look. “You were a good time,” she said, unable to stop the soft grin on her face.
“How good?”
She gave him another look of mild rebuke. “If you want to go fishing, Sinclair, there’s a whole ocean right over there.” She gestured loosely in the direction of the vast Pacific. The waves so close she could hear them crashing against the shore.
His gaze fixed on her, he continued to grin at her, the glint in his dark blue eyes intensifying. There was something different about his face, a little leaner, maybe, the smooth skin around his eyes showing a few fine lines. He held her gaze, the expression in his eyes softening, becoming a little warmer, a little more intimate. The kind of look a man gave a woman he had thoroughly enjoyed and wanted to do again. God help her.
“You are a sassy, beautiful woman, Shea Palmer.”
Something in his tone, something in his eyes, set off a tingling in every nerve ending, fluttering in her chest making her feel like a girl, a woman. It almost hurt how good it felt. He was a game changer, and he didn’t even know the score.
He leaned in, and she leaned back. “No way, sandman.”
He nodded and pushed off the car, and she felt a moment’s disappointment that he hadn’t put up more of a fight. He walked to the edge of the building and picked up a hose. Without hesitation, he turned it on and lifted the end up over his head washing off most of the sand on his face. The white T-shirt molded to his chest and upper arms and she got lost in the memory of how it was to touch all that sleek hard muscle.
He dropped the hose, turned it off and walked back to her. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel the heat from his body, and she braced herself and closed her eyes, sensations washing through her, making her body tighten and hum. He was too close, but she had to admit she couldn’t argue.
He watched her intently, and she had no doubt that he was going to be a formidable warrior. “How about you put me out of my misery then and come to our class-up party on Gator Beach at eighteen hundred? Might be a rare photo op for you. Good time to interview us guys before we get the mother of all beat downs.”
Striving to keep her voice normal, she lifted her chin. “Are you sure you want me to have all that variety to choose from?”
He dropped his head, his voice husky when he spoke. “There wasn’t anyone else in my class you were looking at during that briefing. I’m pretty confident it’ll be me going home with you.”
His tone set off such a reaction in her that she needed the car for support. She closed her eyes, trying to corral her feelings. Her eyes popped open when she felt his fingers against her skin. He turned her face toward him, his expression unsmiling, his eyes dark and intent.
“Come on, Shea,” he said, his voice whiskey soft, “I’ll let you teach me some new tricks.”
Held transfixed by the intimacy of his touch, and his playful attitude, she stared at him, her insides balling up into resistance and resignation.
Feeling as if she was drowning, drugged by sensation, he tipped her face up and slowly lowered his head, and Shea made a helpless sound, her eyes drifting shut. Exerting pressure on her jaw, he opened her mouth, then covered it in a wet, deep, cajoling kiss that drove every ounce of strength out of her body and made her knees weak. She reached for his shoulder, the soggy cloth dampening her palm as she slid her fingers against his soft skin, into his wet hair.
He worked his mouth hungrily against hers as if it had been much too long since he’d done this. Shea couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. All she could do was hang on and ride out the thousand sensations exploding in her. “Damn, babe, you taste so good,” he whispered, breaking the kiss. “I’ll see you tonight?”
Stroking his nape, she had to say no. Every reason that she should nip this in the bud rising up in her like the tide. It would be too much of a distraction, a disaster, they couldn’t make it work, and it could compromise her case, her job, her sanity, her empty heart, her revenge. No. It was too stupid.
“Yes,” she said, like a complete and utter moron. “I’ll come.”
“I’ve got to go,” he murmured and stepped away from her.
“Wait,” she called. “What is your first name?”
“I’ll tell you at the party tonight,” he said that wicked grin and his handsome face disappearing behind the building.
5
Showered, dressed in civvies, and lightly fatigued after all the clean-up required after BO and preparation to move to the new four-man barracks, Hemingway walked onto Gator Beach’s picnic area located a half block from the Special Warfare barracks. The new barracks were located directly on the beach with a clear view of the ocean. Hemingway couldn’t get enough of the view. If this had been a residential area, the prices for any type of dwelling would be up into the millions.
His new room was more spacious than the barracks at BUD/S Prep, where they had forty-eight men in a room and the only personal space was the rack or bed. Four to a room with a shared bathroom between every two rooms was sheer luxury. At least he wouldn’t be doing sit-ups in the middle of the night because some joker he didn’t even know didn’t make his bed.
He’d ended up in a room with previous bunkmates Milo Prescott, William Brown, and unfortunately, Daniel Wilson. Between the first day of BO and now, he’d learned a lot about them. Milo was a funny, smart-as-hell candidate, Brown was awkward and uncoordinated, and Wilson was surly and antisocial. SEAL candidates were chosen not only for their intelligence, but for character, commitment to others and to the common good, and for their potential for leadership in their careers.
Adrian Lane, next door to them, was the class leader, an Ensign, a junior Navy Officer, but here at BUD/S, he was just a tadpole like everyone else. There was only one way to become a SEAL regardless of how you came into the Navy, and BUD/S was it.
Milo had been a Rhodes scholar—a community of outstanding academic achievers—who had studied at Oxford as an international student and majored in internati
onal relations. Hemingway had started calling him Professor, and the name stuck as the other candidates adopted the nickname.
Tonight’s party marked the move from BO to First Phase—one step closer on his journey. It was also a place to unwind and relax just a bit before the real work of BUD/S started. They would have three grueling weeks before the brutality of Hell Week. He wasn’t going to think about it too much other than to mark the time in his head. He would do as he had done in BO—take it one evolution at a time.
The sun was just setting, flooding the sky with a blanket of color, liming the clouds with a purple cast, the huge spiky sun sparking out spears of orange, red and yellow against the rolling beauty of a blue ocean.
The strains of an acoustic guitar strummed through the dusk with a decidedly flamenco cast to the music. Hemingway found that he liked the spicy strains. “That’s probably Lopez. He plays a mean guitar,” Milo said as he pushed a cup of beer into Hemingway’s hands. Several picnic tables were laden with the usual party fare and several kegs were buried in the sand.
He ruffled Hemingway’s hair and said, “Ready to get it all shaved off?”
“Aw, you gotta love tradition,” Hemingway said, running his hand through his blond hair. It would all soon be gone in the time-honored tradition of BUD/S candidates getting it shorn right before First Phase.
Milo knocked his cup against Hemingway’s. “BO down. Cheers.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Brown said. The clumsy kid who had slammed into grumpy Dan Wilson on the first day of BO still had a ways to go to get his sea legs.
“Hoo-yah,” Hemingway said and they each took a gulp. Wilson sauntered up with a scowl on his face. That was no surprise.
“So, we have some eye candy who’s going to be some distracting piece of ass,” Wilson said, and Hemingway’s shoulders tightened.
“That’s no way to talk about a lady,” Hemingway said. His mind hadn’t been far from Shea Palmer, and that kiss at her car had only whet his appetite. Even with what had happened between them, he wasn’t quite sure if she was going to take him home tonight. He had to grin at that, because she shook his confidence and that had never happened to him when it came to the opposite sex. He also realized that he didn’t have to defend her. Shea looked like she could handle anyone, even a bunch of alpha males.
Milo looked at him with raised brows, then said, “Hemingway is right. Women are due respect.”
“Okay, mamas’ boys,” Wilson laughed softly. “If you say so.”
Hemingway grabbed Professor’s arm when he made a move to get physical with Wilson. It wasn’t worth it to get into trouble and shook his head. “Hey, we came here to party, not throw punches. Do you want our asses to end up in a sling? Come on.”
Wilson had only gotten surlier, and Hemingway was wondering if it was because a couple of the guys he hung with had rung out. Wilson seemed to have taken it as a personal affront. He was in thick with seven other trainees, and they were often together at chow and off hours, looking like they had serious business to discuss. That look on his face, maybe. Something. All he knew was that whatever that something was, it had made the hairs prickle along his neck.
Hemingway was here to train to be a SEAL, and these guys could be potential teammates, but they were also the competition. Maybe that was getting in the way of his perception of Wilson, or maybe he just didn’t like the son of a bitch and couldn’t imagine Wilson at his back in any environment—air, land or sea.
But none of that mattered now. Something wasn’t right here. And if there was one thing Hemingway believed in, it was following his gut instinct. Maybe that was what had been nagging at him all along—that despite appearances, something wasn’t what it seemed with Daniel Wilson.
“Speak of the devil,” Wilson intoned as he gestured across the beach to Shea, who was walking down to where they were. Her movements were graceful yet strong and controlled. She handled the men she passed as easily as if they were puppies. She fascinated him when she shouldn’t. Shea Palmer wasn’t his normal type of woman. She wasn’t soft and easy, like he usually liked his women. Who knew demanding and tough were damn sexy?
“She looks like she’d be a solid fuck,” Wilson said, and it was Professor’s turn to hold Hemingway in check. He took a hard breath and wondered where his determination to keep his head down and play by all the rules had gone. He wanted to be a SEAL more than anything. He had a lot of people involved in this dream he’d been working at for years. Blood, sweat and sheer determination to pull out all the stops here at Coronado when it mattered was all that mattered. It had to. Generating attention by having problems between candidates wouldn’t play well with the BUD/S instructors. It had been a knee jerk reaction.
She looked good dressed in a red top and white cropped pants, white sandals on her feet. The colors popped against her tanned skin. She was fit. There was no mistaking the toned arms, the flat stomach and the sculpted thighs and calves. She lifted weights and probably was an amazing runner. He was sure every male eye was on her as she walked toward them. But his heart made a little jump when he saw that she was looking for him.
Not his type by a longshot.
She might wear her clothes to perfection, but it wasn’t lost on him that she wasn’t caught up in the more conventional rituals of being female, something Hemingway couldn’t apologize for in the women he chose to hook up with. Tomboys had their appeal to some men, but he liked a woman who enjoyed her femininity.
So their chemistry and that night kinda blew his mind.
It was the first time he’d ever felt on the edge of…what? Blowing it, getting caught up in something that hadn’t been planned out to the minute?
Professor turned to give him a knowing grin, laughing softly. “Yeah, that’s the way it is. Be careful bro, women like her can be trouble.”
“Shut up,” Hemingway said absently. “She’s not really my type.”
Professor rolled his eyes, but his sigh told Hemingway he accepted he couldn’t talk Hemingway out of his fascination with Shea. Grinning wickedly, he said, “She’s athletic. You worried about her outrunning and outmuscling you, tough guy?”
He shoved Professor.
Just as she reached them, a bus pulled up and women waved out the windows. It looked like someone had hit the college sororities and given out a lot of invites. She turned at the collective male roar as the colorfully clad women filed off the bus. SEALs, even SEAL candidates drew women in an effortless string.
“Go find your own woman,” Hemingway said to his friends. “There’s nothing to see here.” There was plenty, especially his inability to be smart. There was no explanation why he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“Right. I guess I won’t see you until Sunday,” Professor said, his blue eyes gleaming, nodding to Shea as he passed her, walking backward with a knowing expression until a redhead set her hand against his back and he turned, his attention now on her.
“Hey there, sandman,” Shea said, settling on the top part of the picnic table facing him. “You clean up nice.”
“I decided to leave my sugar cookie look for Monday. I’ll be wearing it again very soon.”
“That’s a nice way to downgrade what I am sure is a miserable time.”
“Embrace the suck isn’t just a saying at BUD/S. It’s all part of the becoming an elite warrior package.”
Her eyes twinkled. “All expenses paid?”
He grinned, noticing her beautifully manicured nails with a pretty pink polish. The soft touch was so at odds with her knowing eyes and full-bodied laugh. But then, she was a study in contradictions when it came to his reaction to her. This was just another interesting incongruity. “Yeah, full ride with a beach front view, world travel, meeting interesting people. You gotta love Uncle Sam. He’s my sugar daddy.”
“Oh? Do I have competition?”
“Maybe.” This might have been a fun moment between them, but he couldn’t ignore reality. Training would take him away from home for an exte
nded length of time. Getting involved right now would be folly.
“Where are your manners, slipknot?” Mad Max appeared at his elbow as he offered one of the plastic cups to Shea. “I should drop you for twenty,” he said his expression hard. Hemingway had no doubt that Mad Max was serious. The man had put him through plenty when they’d been training, and he was both a bit worried and a bit pleased that someone from Team Seven was here. His proctor, no less. Didn’t mean he’d go easy on Hemingway, but it was nice to see a recognizable face, albeit maybe not necessarily a friendly one.
“Hmm, I’d say forty,” Shea said with a smile as she accepted the cup.
“Whose side are you on, turncoat?”
“I’m not the one who will be subject to Mad Max’s instruction in the next couple of months. Am I?”
Mad Max chuckled and said, “I think we both are on the same page, lady.”
Hemingway lifted his cup and said, “I’m going to have to watch my back, then.”
She leaned down and whispered as Max turned away, “Your front too. Let’s dance.”
With the visions of what that entailed, he let her pull him to the area near the bonfire, the music ramping up. She slipped her arms loosely around his neck, trapping him and holding him in place with her sexy, disarming gaze.
She ran her hand over his head. “So this is gone tonight? You’re going to look like a real Navy man?”
She tilted her head. Was she wondering what he was going to look like without his blond locks? Her own hair caressed her cheeks in disheveled waves. “You have the bone structure to pull it off. A rugged boy-next-door vibe.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” he said gruffly and placed his hands lightly on her slender waist. For now, it was the safest place for hands that wanted to slide elsewhere.
She swayed closer with the beat of the music, aligning their bodies even more intimately. “I think, in your case, sandman, they are. Very deceiving.” His body responded to the sound of her voice, a bit piqued and thoroughly intrigued.
