by Tawny Weber
Okay, he thought as he changed his heading, sauntering toward the woman. So he’d had a lot of sailor visions as a kid, but he’d bet the sexy side of those visions, the ones with naked mermaids and nubile port warmers, hadn’t hit until he was at least thirteen. Maybe twelve.
As he approached the blonde, it only took a couple of flips through the little black book he kept in his mind to come up with a name. Terri, who worked as a cocktail waitress but wanted to be a movie star. She liked her chardonnay with ice, preferred Froot Loops for breakfast and had a penchant for doing it doggy-style.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted with a warm smile as he leaned in to prop one hand on the bar behind her. “How’ve you been?”
“Lonely.” She batted her heavily lined brown eyes, the slight bloodshot hue cluing him in to the fact that she wasn’t on her first drink of the night. “I’ve missed you.”
“Is that a fact?”
Before he could even begin the mental debate over whether he was going to help her get over missing him tonight or not, another slender hand smoothed up his back, then tickled its way down.
He glanced to the right to see the sultry brunette, her short cap of hair and the little mole above her lip immediately clicking open the file. Stella, flight attendant with a penchant for leather, beer on tap and midnight sushi.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, shifting his body so he was positioned directly and evenly between the two women.
“Hi, Laramie. I’ve been waiting for your phone call.” She tiptoed her fingers up his back, wetting her bottom lip and sliding a dismissive look toward Terri.
Terri, however, wasn’t easily dismissed.
“You’ll just have to keep waiting,” the blonde said, wrapping her arm through Laramie’s and leaning in to his body so her breasts almost engulfed his arm. “He’s with me right now.”
“Why would he be with you when he has me?” Stella countered, her hand now tiptoeing down Laramie’s front, as well.
Laramie tilted his head to one side, loosening the stiffness in his neck, then to the other. As the two women hissed at each other, he debated his options. Option one, pull them both close and suggest the three of them make a night of it. Option two, let them both down easy before either thought they had any rights to claim.
Even as his body suggested option two, because dammit, massage or not he was still sporting a corral full of bruises, he automatically slid into option one. Because, well, hey, two women and hot sex? Why not?
But just as he slid an arm around each slender woman, he heard a call.
“Ride ’em, Cowboy.”
Laramie glanced down at the laughing comment, noting with amusement that three of his teammates were grinning at the show from their perch at the end of the bar.
“Need help?” another asked.
And just like that, the moment of peace between the two women exploded into a catfight. Laramie didn’t know what set them off. Hell, he figured it wouldn’t make sense to him even if he did know. The only thing he understood about women was how to pleasure one and how to walk away. Usually unscathed.
But as the blonde dived across his body, nails extended toward the brunette’s face, he arched backward. Not in time to miss the brunette’s response, which was a lousily aimed fist that missed the blonde and skimmed Laramie’s chin.
“Okay, that’s enough,” he snapped with enough force to stop them both so that they stared, breasts heaving dangerously over the tops of their skimpy outfits and their eyes hot enough to fry rattlesnakes.
“Laramie—”
“But she—”
“Ladies.” He angled a charming smile from one to the other, then despite the pain shuddering through his shoulder from the impact of the angry dive, wrapped his arms around the women again. He looked into brown eyes, then blue, keeping his expression easy and his tone as soothing as he would toward a skittish mare. “Two gorgeous women, both wanting my attention? I’m a lucky man. But as much as I would love to spend the evening with both of you, I’m due to meet my friends. So what d’ya say? How about we all kiss and say good-night for now. I’ll catch up with both of you when I’m back in town.”
It took a little more soothing, and more than a couple of kisses each, but Laramie was soon able to ease himself away. And, he noted as he made his way down the bar, he left the women happily chatting away.
“Impressive,” intoned a Nordic giant most of the team called Ice. Ensign Dag Eckhart was six-five and built like one of the mountains from his homeland.
“Were you coming to save me?” Laramie asked with a grin, noting that the large man was on full alert, something he’d come to recognize from the way Ice’s white-blond hair stood on end.
Ice was relatively new to the team, having only joined before their last mission. They’d just come off a two-month deployment that’d involved training foreign counterparts in strategic defense in a country that didn’t believe in hamburgers, beer or fraternizing with women.
So he knew the man wasn’t trying to be insulting. But the idea that there was any situation that involved the fairer sex that Laramie couldn’t handle?
He’d thought his reputation was stronger than that.
Laramie tilted his Stetson back a little farther on his forehead and sighed.
Damn, he wanted a beer.
He didn’t get two feet before he was surrounded by laughing teammates.
“Dude, why’d you stop them? They hadn’t got to the hair-pulling and clothes-shredding part of the fight.” Mick Samuels, aka Blackjack, looked as if he was going to cry in his beer. “You know that’s the part I like best.”
“You’re a sad little man,” Ice deemed, shaking his head in dismayed judgment.
“Everyone’s little to you.” Blackjack shrugged. “I’ll bet you have plenty of dirty little thoughts, there, Dag.”
Looking as offended as if Mick had just suggested his mama did dirty times with polar bears, Dag shifted his stance, looming over the smaller man.
Laramie just kept moving toward the room at the back of the bar reserved for the SEAL team. There, he lifted a finger to the roving waitress, then angled it toward Castillo’s table. She responded with a wink and a look of interest that he debated while he took his seat.
“Looks like you might have plans for tonight,” Castillo said by way of a greeting.
“Nah,” Laramie decided. That didn’t stop him from giving the leggy brunette a slow smile of thanks when she leaned close to bring him his order. He did a quick inventory, noting the bare ring finger, easy smile and hot appreciation in her eyes, then slid his hand over hers on the glass of beer. “I’ve got plans tonight.”
The brunette looked disappointed, but slipped a folded napkin into his hand before sauntering away. He took a second to enjoy the swing of her hips, then tucked the paper into his pocket. He didn’t have to glance at it. He knew it’d be her phone number.
“Nice of you to put Murdock on his ass,” Castillo said. “Nothing like a little welcoming humiliation to cement his hard-on to outdo the SEALs.”
“You’re welcome.” Laramie grinned, twisting the chair around to straddle it. “I’m only sorry I didn’t put him on it a lot faster.”
Castillo chuckled as he reached for his own beer.
“Guaranteed, that guy is gonna be a pain in our asses for the next four weeks.”
“If you’re lucky.” At Castillo’s questioning look, Laramie reminded him, “He reported for duty four days early. What d’ya wanna bet he’ll try to extend training a week or three longer than scheduled?”
“Damn.” Castillo’s scowl only lasted a second before his grin busted it up. “We’re due for predeployment as soon as Donovan and Thorne get back the first of the month. Murdock can stick around if he wants, but that’s his expiration date.”
“I ran into Murdock on my way off the island,” Blackjack said, referring to the location of the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, as he joined them. He knocked a chair back with one foot, th
en slid into it in one smooth move. “Crazy bastard was going on about how he was going to put us in our place. He’s aiming hard for you, Cowboy.”
“That’s just fine. I’ll be happy to kick his ass again when I get back,” Laramie said in a slow drawl. “Guys like Murdock, they’ve always got things to prove.”
“He keeps calling us girls, we might want to make it our business,” Blackjack muttered into his beer.
Poor guy, he was still so green. Laramie shared a look with Castillo. They were gonna have to rub some of that shine off Samuels, PDQ.
“He keeps calling you girls, then as soon as I get back, we’ll all just drop our drawers and crush his ego once and for all,” Laramie told the new SEAL, downing the last of his beer as the others burst out laughing.
“My wife will vouch for mine,” Castillo said with a smile. Laramie figured Genna would vouch for anything when it came to Castillo. Poor girl was crazy in love.
“What’re your plans for the next three weeks?” Castillo asked, propping his size thirteen boots on the opposite chair. “You heading back to Texas?”
“First flight out.”
“What d’you do there?” Blackjack grinned. “You working your way through a harem or two?”
As if.
“My plans for leave include three weeks of peace and quiet,” he said, his words a little dreamy. “I’m heading for a small cabin in the Guadalupe Mountains. No traffic, no neighbors, not even a television.”
“Seriously?”
At Laramie’s nod, Blackjack’s face fell like a three-year-old being told that Santa was a big fat myth.
“And the women?” Castillo asked, looking much less disappointed than the other man.
“I said peace. That means no women.” Then, because his reputation demanded it, he added, “Most of these guys, they use leave to get all the women they can. Me? I get them all the time. I use leave to recoup.”
“One of these days, Cowboy, you’re going to find the right woman.” Castillo’s smile was wicked enough to assure Laramie that he wasn’t offering a friendly assurance so much as wishing retribution. “And she’s going to have you hog-tied and branded while you just sit there.”
“I’m a tactical warfare specialist trained in recognizing, analyzing and neutralizing threats.” Laramie shook his head. “In other words, that ain’t never gonna happen.”
No way in hell. He’d seen up close and personal what loving a man who put his career first did to a woman. And sure, some of the team might have found women who could deal with the pressures and demands—or so they thought. But Laramie was his old man’s son. He had the same looks, the same thirst for adventure, the same kick-ass skills. It stood to reason he’d have the same talent for ruining the life of any woman crazy enough to love him.
“No way,” Blackjack echoed, looking as offended as if Murdock had just come in and threw down pictures to prove the entire team was as dickless as he kept implying. “Cowboy is a legend. His reputation is unparalleled. Don’t even jinx it.”
“Don’t worry.” Laramie patted the guy’s shoulder. “I’m completely committed to keeping the legend alive, buddy. Nothing’s gonna jinx me. All things considered, I’m pretty sure I can avoid the trap.”
“Yeah.” Castillo gave a slow nod, his expression supportive. Then he tilted his glass in a salute. “I used to think that, too.”
Laramie had heard about Castillo’s rep. And Romeo’s rep. And, damn, he stopped himself before he went through the mental list of SEALs who’d fallen to the marriage trap.
Nope. He shook his head.
“Believe me, I’ve armed myself too well to tie myself to one woman for the rest of my life. Me and marriage? Never going to happen.”
2
“OH, LOOK AT YOU, Sammi Jo. Aren’t you a vision of the perfect bride? A fairy princess about to start her happy ever after.”
Was that what she was?
The Barclay Inn’s elegant bedroom with its rose and gilt decor, the antique tester bed and rosewood cheval mirror were definitely fit for a princess.
But did that make her one?
Did the dress?
Her eyes narrowed at the mirror, Sammi Jo Wilson—Samuel Joseph on her oft-lamented birth certificate—tilted her head to one side and peered into the mirror. She tilted her head to the other side, trying to see if the dress actually had that kind of power.
Cream-colored, beaded lace hugged her torso from the strapless sweetheart neckline to the dropped waist. One side skimmed low on her hip, layers of organza flowing from the other side like flowers to form a petal that floated, layer after airy layer to the floor.
It was beautiful.
The most elegant thing Sammi had ever worn.
But its message was more along the lines of, hey, scullery maid, go ahead and play princess for a day. See how that works out.
Sammi turned, the heavy fabric swishing as she twisted her neck to look at the back. Corset-styled cream satin laces crisscrossed down her spine to where the organza flowed again in another layer of petals.
Nope.
She wasn’t getting the happy-ever-after vibe the wedding consultant kept talking about. But if they added a pair of luminescent wings and a wreath of flowers to her russet hair, she’d look like a fairy.
Her brow twitched.
Maybe that was the problem.
Fairy or princess, neither suited Sammi Jo Wilson of Jerrick, Texas. She felt like an imposter.
Maybe it was the whispers—most of them behind her back, but not all—wondering how on earth a girl from the trailer park had ended up engaged to the most eligible bachelor in town.
Maybe it was as Sterling had said when she’d confessed to him that she was having doubts; it was simply a case of bridal nerves.
Or maybe she was just an imposter.
No, no, no, Sammi assured herself. It was most likely that this wasn’t her style. She was more suited to simple than elegant. To fun than fancy. To being in the background instead of standing under a spotlight on center stage.
She just had to convince the wedding coordinator of that. So, once again, Sammi took a deep breath and tried to find a compromise.
“Maybe this is a bit too much,” she said as she maneuvered herself and her twenty pounds of dress back around to face the mirror. “I think I’d be better suited to a simpler dress.”
“Oh, no. We won’t be changing a thing.” In an eye-searing-green pantsuit, Mrs. Ross fussed around Sammi. Her hands fluttered from the petal-like skirt to adjust the crafted silver bead rose on Sammi’s hip, then flickered dangerously close to her breasts. “Mr. Barclay approved this dress. He also approved the Asiatic lilies for the bouquet and the string quartet for dancing.”
A string quartet?
Sammi could only sigh.
“I was thinking it’d be sweet to use Sterling roses for the bouquet instead of lilies.” At Mrs. Ross’s blank look, Sammi added, “Sterling roses, for my fiancé, Sterling.”
“Nonsense. The plans are approved. The wedding is in three weeks. This isn’t the time to make sentimental changes.”
“Oh, no. Can’t muck up a wedding with silly things like sentiment,” Sammi muttered on a sigh. The tiny rebellious voice in her head wanted to point out that it wasn’t Mr. Barclay’s wedding. Except that it was, her practical side argued. He was paying for everything, including the dress and jewelry.
And she was marrying his son.
So, really, it was his wedding.
Besides, Sammi owed Mr. Barclay so much.
And it wasn’t as if she’d been dreaming of her wedding since she was a little girl. She’d never actually considered it a possibility until Sterling had mentioned that his father was hoping they’d marry. Next thing she knew, they’d set a date and Mr. Barclay had told Sammi she could use their nuptials as a test run for her suggestions that they host weddings here at the Barclay Inn.
“You do know how to dance properly, don’t you?” Mrs. Ross asked with a doubtful look.
“I don’t need lessons, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Sammi started to shrug, but the dress was so heavy, she was afraid one good shoulder twitch and her breasts would flop out. Before she could ask if Mrs. Ross had changed anything else about the wedding, a whirlwind rushed into the room.
“Sorry I’m late. There was an accident on Old Marsh Road, ER was packed.” Blythe Horton’s words tumbled over each other much the same way her blond curls tumbled out of the bundled knot on top of her head. Her magenta hospital scrubs clashed with the lime-green frames of her glasses and, Sammi glanced down, her red plaid high-tops. “Whoa, Sammi Jo. Check you out.”
“Pretty fancy, huh?” Sammi said, holding out both bare arms and twisting one way and then the other. She didn’t do the full turn, figuring she’d had enough of a workout for one day.
“Fancy schmancy,” Blythe returned with an eye roll. “You look like you should be getting married in El Paso or even Dallas or Houston. Not Jerrick.”
“This dress is entirely appropriate for a wedding of the Barclay stature,” Mrs. Ross interrupted with a harrumph, gesturing for Sammi to turn around.
Sammi sighed with relief. She could feel herself growing lighter as the older woman started unlacing and releasing her from the lacy confinement, so that when she stepped out of it to tug on her simple blue cotton robe, it was as if she were floating on air.
Oh yeah. She’d definitely be much more comfortable in something simpler.
“But isn’t a wedding supposed to be about the bride?” Blythe kicked off her high-tops. “Not about the father of the groom’s stature?”
“The groom is a Barclay, as well.” Mrs. Ross unzipped the protective bag holding Blythe’s bridesmaid dress with a metallic hiss. “Perhaps instead of criticizing things you know little about, you should practice telling time so as not to be late for any wedding-related events during the next three weeks.”
“Sorry. All of those injured people distracted me from watching the clock,” Blythe said with a sad shake of her head. She made a show of looking around the space, the elegant smaller bedroom as lovely as the rest of the Barclay house. “I guess the other bridesmaids were so punctual that they’ve been and gone.”
