by Amy Gamet
Forever with the SEAL
HERO Force Book Eight
Amy Gamet
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1
I never should have left her alone.
The damning words pierced Trevor Hawkins’ consciousness like a scalpel, evidence surrounding him as if he were on trial. Her makeup was scattered across the floor. A mirror broken and shattered. Her purse and phone abandoned in a corner.
Olivia wouldn’t leave her purse and phone.
Not in a million years.
He squeezed his head, one hand on either side, as he tried to make sense of the scene in front of him. Her dressing room was in disarray, a mess completely out of character for the woman he loved, and self-recrimination echoed in his mind.
He should have been here with her, damn it. He knew she was scared to death because someone was stalking her. She was his fiancée, for God’s sake, and he’d stayed in Atlanta months longer than necessary instead of rushing to her side to keep her safe.
And now I’m too late.
It was his love for HERO Force that had kept him away, his passion for the job outweighing what should have been of paramount importance, and he cursed himself for it. The Hands-on Engagement and Recognizance Operations team had been his family long before he met Olivia, the high-risk missions like heroin to a junkie’s veins.
He wanted it. Needed it, above all else.
But her film was shooting in France. He couldn’t do his job and be there for her at the same time.
Now look what you’ve done.
Sweat broke out on his forehead.
He was just like his old man.
How many times had he watched his father put the job before his family? Hawk still remembered what it was like to search the stands from one side to the other just to see if his father had shown up for a game. But Frank Hawkins was a detective on the homicide squad and there was nothing young Trevor could do to compare with that.
He’d been keenly aware of how much it hurt his mother, and he’d wished he was bigger and able to do something about it.
Now you’re bigger and just as stupid as he was.
Olivia was going to be his wife, and the role of soon-to-be husband was already conflicting with the man he considered himself to be. He needed to get his shit together. Make a change.
Fuck.
Could he live with that kind of sacrifice?
He shook his head to clear it. He couldn’t live without her. The job paled in comparison to his need to have Olivia by his side.
They’d been inseparable from the moment his car careened into hers on that snowy mountain road until she left for France, the last month and a half without her ranking as some of the longest days of his life. He’d step into the apartment they shared and be struck by the emptiness inside, the lack of energy, of happiness, of love.
But you didn’t notice when you were on a mission, did you?
He could see himself in fatigues, rushing a target, his weapon solid in his hands. The high of adrenaline. The focus. The testing of skill.
But he remembered something else, too. The sultry look in Olivia’s eyes as she stood barefoot in their kitchen, easily convincing him to be late for work just one more time. Or the way she felt against his body, tucked tightly into the crook of his arm as they talked deep into the night.
He’d told her things he never dreamed would cross his lips, wanted her to know pieces of himself he’d never shared with another. When they made love, it was as if those pieces wove together every bit of his being with hers, their souls tethered by the tapestry they were making from one moment to the next.
He was a better man when he was with her, and he’d been a fool to let her out of his sight. He would make the sacrifice he needed to make, that he should have made weeks ago.
He would let his brothers go.
That’s what HERO Force was. His family.
You’ve got to find her first.
He crossed to her dressing table, dropping onto the white fur-covered seat, his eyes unfocused. He saw the fat man standing in the doorway out of the corner of his eye. He’d damn near forgotten the bodyguard was there.
The bodyguard who was supposed to protect her. The bodyguard who made it possible for Hawk to convince himself he wasn’t needed in France. The bodyguard who left Olivia unprotected so he could get a goddamn sandwich.
Hawk’s bicep flinched as he shifted his gaze back to the fat man. “Where is she?” he ground out in a voice he barely recognized as his own.
“I do not know,” the man said, his English heavily accented by his native French. “En décor?”
“What?”
“How you say…en studio?”
Hawk stood, frustration like a pure source of energy capable of catapulting him across the room. “What does that mean?”
The bodyguard pantomimed cranking a movie camera. “En décor. En studio.”
Studio decoration. “The set?”
“Ouí. The set.”
Hawk pointed toward the set he’d cut through on his way to her dressing room. “She’s not there.”
“No, monsieur. The village set.” He gestured in the opposite direction.
Hawk took off at a run.
Would he be so lucky? Was it possible she was shooting a scene close by and all his worry had been for nothing?
All night as his plane flew over the Atlantic, he imagined horrible things that could happen to her. Maybe his imagination had run away with him.
The path he was on led to a wide-open area. In the distance he saw what looked like a village street straight out of a history book. He continued to run, squinting against the sun. He’d had sunglasses at some point. God only knew where they were now.
She came into view, on the street surrounded by cameras and other people, and his galloping heart slowed with his feet as relief washed over him.
She was okay.
Nothing bad had happened to her.
He broke out in a grateful smile and froze, his eyes narrowing.
There was a man on his belly atop a nearby building, his head peeking over the edge.
Prone position.
Hawk was in motion, his legs once again pumping, propelling him faster than he knew he could go. The figure’s pose was all too familiar to Hawk from his military career, a favorite of snipers the world over.
He was too far away to see if the man had a gun, but his instincts sensed the danger in the air. The weapon came into view. A rifle of some kind.
He scaled a metal ladder that ran up the back of the building just as a shot rang out. It was all happening too quickly, completely out of his reach, out of his control. Another shot.
No!
He climbed the rest of the way and pulled his weapon on the sniper. “Put down the gun, asshole!”
2
Brooke Barrons was a badass who was never frightened by anything, but Olivia Grayson was terrified.
Too bad I’m one messed-up person.
Brooke was her stage name, but it was more than that. It was a complete persona she took with her on the job, though it never extended beyond the surface into who she really was.
She fought to keep herself from biting her lip, not wanting to ruin her makeup and prolong the take. Already they’d been shooting for hours, only breaking for twenty minutes some three hours ago, and that had hardly been relaxing.
She could still see the note shaking in her hand, feel its scratchy paper. The angry slant of the writing was all too familiar, but this time the content was darker—more alarming—and she hadn’t known that was possible.
“Brooke, baby, you need to pay attention.”
She lifted her chin
and focused on Evan Lockheed, the director. She’d admired him before she came here, his reputation and résumé preceding him like a long red carpet. But in person he was difficult to take, needing his hand up the backs of his actors like a puppeteer with a sock. “Sorry.”
He shook his head as if she were a naughty child disappointing him once again, his dark curls shining in the sun. “I want to see the shock on your face when Marty opens fire and hits you in the belly. The fear when he shoots the man you love. I want to take one look at you and know you’ve just lost everything that matters in life. Got it?”
She nodded curtly. Lockheed’s micromanagement was weighing her down and she desperately wanted this film to be over.
Yes, that’s the reason I want to leave.
Not because a crazy person wants to kill me.
She needed to sit down in a quiet place and pull the drapes shut around her, not stand on the set in the bright sunshine and be stared at by a hundred people.
She knew the scene by heart, every word of every character, every bit of blocking, and hell yes, she knew she should look upset when her lover got shot. Evan directed the others on equally obvious points and she let her mind wander again, but instead of thinking about the threats, she focused on the one thing that could stop a panic attack dead in its tracks.
Trevor.
Her breathing instantly deepened, the slightest sigh escaping as she exhaled. She remembered his scent, the brawny maleness of his voice, and the richness of his laugh. It had been too long since she’d seen him and she regretted taking this role that brought her so far away from the man she loved, even if it was good for her career.
The movie wasn’t even out of filming yet and already there was Oscar buzz. Every actress her age in Hollywood had wanted the part, eagerly lining up for auditions like maidens trying on Cinderella’s slipper. But Lockheed wanted her, had all but offered her the part before she even looked through the script.
And what a script it was.
The screenwriter had outdone herself, taking the best-selling novel of the year and turning it into something with the potential to be a visually commanding masterpiece. It was an honor to be here, speaking these words.
So why the hell do I just want to go home?
Her eyes skated around the periphery of the set, searching for her bodyguard. The man was nowhere to be found and her rib cage seemed to shrink with the realization. She was vulnerable, alone in a sea of people.
She wasn’t safe here, the studio failing to provide her with adequate security in the wake of the threatening letters she’d received. She thought back to her most recent conversation with Trevor, desperately trying to keep from asking him to come to France. He had his own responsibilities back in the States. She couldn’t expect him to fly across an ocean on a moment’s notice, no matter how much she wanted him here.
The scene was one of the final ones in the movie, though they were shooting it out of order. The 1859 street scene was accurate down to the smallest detail, a horse-drawn carriage making its way across the cobblestones as villagers bustled by. Olivia played the Marquess de Sage, wife of Sebastian and lover of a poor portrait painter named Dante de Silva—whom her jealous husband was about to shoot, injuring his beloved wife in the process.
As an actress, she did her best to bring the characters to life, but the marquess had come alive in her mind the first time she’d read the script. She was everything Olivia was not—independent, strong-willed, feisty—and the more she played the part, the more she longed to be more like her character.
She thought of Marco, her stomach shriveling like she’d been punched in the solar plexus. Her engagement to him had done some damage to her self-image, the time that had passed between then and now only adding to the contrast. She’d been weak—she could see that now—choosing to marry a man simply because he took care of her.
But now I have Trevor.
And how is that different?
She felt the awkward tug of her heart being pulled in different directions. It had been almost a year they’d been together, times that were easily the best she’d ever experienced. But wasn’t she using Trevor exactly the same way she’d used Marco? A man to hide behind, to latch on to, to lead her through life?
No.
This is different.
He was good. Her love for him was true. Nothing about that resembled her relationship with Marco at all.
Lockheed marched back to his seat, the stage crew in their places. “Action!” he yelled.
She picked through a vendor’s wares on the busy street, a camera lens just feet from her face, tracking her every move as she haggled with a vendor in French. Anthony Weir, the actor who played her lover, Dante, came up behind her, slipping his hands around her waist and kissing her neck. She liked Anthony, who was recently voted one of the sexiest men alive. He had a great sense of humor and was dedicated to his long-term partner.
The kiss would have been a scandalous move even for a married couple back then, and it was Trevor she imagined as her face and body responded to that kiss. She spun around, dropping what she’d been about to purchase in her haste to be in his arms.
They shared an intense look before he pulled her with him toward the hotel where they’d planned to meet. Her cheeks were hot with excitement, her lips parted in lust. In mere moments they’d be alone together and she’d finally be able to make love to him again after many months apart.
Just like Trevor.
A shot rang out across the square, people scurrying and screaming. Dante looked back at her one last time and froze, his eyes widening with shock as he was hit. “Ma chérie,” he whispered.
“What was that?” she asked in French, panicking as he leaned heavily into her arms. “Dante?” she screamed, touching the fake blood that spilled from his wound, her hand shaking as it came away from his body, red and wet.
What is that smell?
Fake blood looked as good as the real thing, but the metallic scent that hung on the air had her mind locked in confusion. He was leaning on her too heavily, pulling her to the ground.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Brooke.”
Her eyes beseeched the crew off set to explain what was going on as another shot echoed through the street like a cannon. “What’s happening?” she called to Lockheed.
He got to his feet. “Cut!”
Anthony fell to the ground in front of her. A deep voice bellowed across the set. “Put down the gun, asshole!”
The cast and crew looked around. In her confused state, Olivia failed to connect the dots.
“I said put the gun down, motherfucker!”
This time, there was no mistaking that voice. “Trevor?” She moved forward, leaving Anthony behind as she searched for him. She found him high above the set, his weapon trained on the actor playing the Marquis de Sage, whose hands were now high above his head.
She ran toward them. What was he doing here, and why on earth was he holding a gun at that man?
He came for you, after you told him about the letter yesterday. He came for you and now he thinks he’s protecting you.
Oh, God.
She was going as fast as she could now, but not fast enough, as Trevor patted down the other man and put him in handcuffs. Other members of the cast and crew were running too, all trying to reach the mystery man who had interrupted their scene and was throwing their antagonist down.
“Trevor!” She followed the director as he climbed the ladder to the top of the building and reached Trevor just as Lockheed picked the gun off the ground. “It’s just a prop, you idiot. He wasn’t really going to hurt anyone.”
Trevor narrowed his eyes at her and time seemed to stop, the shock of seeing him after so long like an unexpected kiss from the gods. But he looked away, opening the weapon and dumping the rounds into his hands. “This is live ammunition.”
“They’re blanks,” snapped Lockheed.
“No, they’re not.”
“Let me see those.” The man
’s eyes went wide. “That’s not what should be in that gun.” He called down to the crew. “Get the prop master up here, pronto.”
Olivia’s heart stammered in her chest as understanding made its way through her bloodstream. “They’re real bullets?”
“Yes,” he said, standing and coming to her.
“Someone has to help Anthony! I thought he was pretending to be shot. He’s bleeding everywhere,” she said. This couldn’t be happening. “What if he dies? I just left him there—”
“You didn’t know,” said Trevor.
“The next shot was meant for me.” Her whole body was shaking, her arms, her shoulders. A roar rang in her ears like a loud wave, Lockheed’s voice barely audible as he yelled down to the crew to help Anthony.
“You’re safe,” Trevor said.
Her eyes fixated on his familiar features. His dark brows. His strong nose. His full lips. “By how much?”
“I’m here now. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
His arms came around her, his warmth barely touching the frozen shock that surrounded her. She rested her chin on his shoulder. “I was next,” she whispered.
“You’re safe, Livy.”
She didn’t feel safe. She barely felt anything at all, and imagined this was what a hunter on safari suddenly cornered by a lion might feel.
Numb. Weightless. Half-gone.
Trevor squeezed her more tightly, his hand stroking her back. When had he gotten here? How had he known?
“Who are you?” demanded Lockheed.
Trevor leaned back but kept his arms around her. “Trevor Hawkins, Olivia’s—”
“He’s with me,” she interrupted.
Lockheed’s eyes went from him to her and back again. “It looks like we owe you a debt of gratitude. Lucky you happened to be here.”
“Lucky,” Hawk repeated.
Olivia twined her fingers in his, needing his strength. The reality of what she’d narrowly escaped was sinking in, how close she’d come to actually being injured—or worse. She squeezed her eyes shut and said a silent prayer for Anthony.
