Scarlett Red: A Billionaire SEAL Story, Part 2 (In the Shadows)

by Michelle, P. T.

  “One-track mind,” I mutter into the phone, then jerk around when my bag’s handle is swept from my hand.

  “Is this all you have?” the guy asks in a deep, raspy voice, the kind that brings to mind highway roadhouses, smoky bars, and dimly lit dance floors. Cass would call it, sex-on-a-stick rough.

  “My God, that’s definitely a panty-dropping voice if I ever heard one. Tell me what he looks like—”

  I hang up and tug on the rim of my Fedora, squinting at the dark-haired guy behind my dark sunglasses. “That’s me, and yes, just the one bag.”

  “Where’s my other passenger?” He glances around, the sun glinting off his aviator sunglasses and highlighting the thick stubble on his chin that looks to be a couple days away from a full beard.

  “Unfortunately my friend isn’t coming.”

  Nodding, he pushes the handle down and picks up my suitcase. I follow and can’t help but notice his nicely shaped butt in tan cargo shorts while he stows my bag in the back of the helicopter. The guy must work out constantly if his muscular calves are any indication. He opens the passenger door for me. “You can be my co-pilot.”

  I glance toward the seat behind his. “I don’t mind sitting in the back.”

  “You get air sick?” he asks, frowning slightly.

  “No,” I answer quickly and try not to stare at how well his black T-shirt accentuates his sculpted body. His general height and coloring are similar enough to Sebastian’s that I feel a pang of regret I never got to see Sebastian’s whole face that night in his dark bedroom. Flashes of lightning blocked by tree foliage outside his window only left me with puzzle pieces of his face—his eyes and forehead, his ear and hairline, his jaw and mouth, and the rare dimple in his cheek when he smiles—but never the complete picture to carry around in my memory.

  “Good. Ready to take off?”

  I nod to clear Sebastian comparisons out of my head. This guy’s voice and general demeanor are very different. He’s more relaxed and less intense. A beer and nachos kind of guy.

  “Then hop in. You’ll get a better view up front,” he says, waiting for me to climb inside.

  Without asking permission, he grabs my seatbelt and leans over me to hook me in. I tear my gaze away from the dark hair flopped across his forehead to focus my attention on the lone scar slashed across the back of his right hand. He didn’t get that playing golf. Yep, he’s definitely rough-around-the-edges, even if he does take care of his body.

  After he buckles me in, he tugs on the belt. “Good and tight?”

  I let out a low laugh at his no-nonsense approach. He might not be the flirty Trevor I was expecting, but my aunt was right about one thing. He’s definitely eye-candy, of the rough-and-tumble sort. Cass would be elbowing me and uttering panty-obliterating comments under her breath right now. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Nodding, he shuts my door then climbs in on his side. Once he’s seated, he pushes a few buttons to start the engine and calls over the noise of the spinning blades above us. “Ever been on a helicopter ride before, Miss Lone?”

  “No, and call me T.”

  He smiles briefly, pushing a hand toward me. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bash.”

  Bash? Everything inside me stutters and my breath halts. Isn’t Bash a nickname for Sebastian? When I quickly pull my hand away, he slides his sunglasses down his nose and squints against the sun.

  “You okay? Are you nervous about flying?”

  Two gorgeous bright blue eyes stare back at me—not Sebastian’s unique dual chocolate brown and brilliant blue one. The sight reboots my stunned brain, which then goes into major comparison mode just to be sure. Even though Bash is obviously ripped, he’s leaner than Sebastian’s thick bulk. His eyes are different, and his hair is longish, brushing his collar, instead of close-cropped. Bash has a beard and his voice is definitely deeper and raspier. He’s not Sebastian. Disappointed yet relieved, I exhale and try to get control of my nerves. I really do need a vacation. “I’m not nervous. So, Bash? As in Bashful? And here I thought you were Trevor, the Not-So-Bashful.”

  Pushing his glasses back up his nose, he chuckles as he double checks his own seatbelt. “Nope, just Bash. I’m filling in for my buddy. Trevor hasn’t taken a vacation in two years.”

  I smirk. “I heard your buddy has it made at Hawthorne. His reputation precedes him.”

  His attention cuts my way. Dark brows pull down behind his shades as he picks up his headset. “Sometimes we need a vacation from ourselves.”

  The sharpness in his tone surprises me. Apparently there’s more to his friend than my aunt knows. “I can certainly relate to that,” I say, nodding my understanding. Pulling my hat off, I run my fingers through the tangled mass of hair that unravels past my shoulders the second it’s free.

  “Fucking hell,” Bash mutters, drawing my attention. Just as I snap my gaze his way, he turns his sunglasses toward the instrument panel and puts his headset on, then immediately speaks to the airport tower.

  What was that about? There’s nothing wrong with the helicopter, is there? I quickly scan the panel of lights. Like there will be a red flashing light with bold, black letters, saying “Caution, about to die,” Talia. With Bash’s ears covered by the headset and the engine roaring, conversation without yelling is impossible, so I take solace in the fact he isn’t hammering the heel of his hand against the instrument panel to get something working and glance at the hat in my hand.

  I’d worn it to provide a bit of cover, along with my sunglasses. In recent months, I’d gained a pretty strong following with my second book’s release, but last week, after my agent insisted that I do a live interview with a local TV show, a few people actually recognized me around town. That had been both an exhilarating and worrisome feeling. I’d been spoiled with the anonymity my penname had given me since I sold the trilogy. Did I really want to give that up just to gain more exposure for my series?

  As I stare at the hat, it hits me that the TV interview also explains Nathan’s sudden ramped up interest. I’d been so surprised he called the other day that I answered the phone…

  “What do you want, Nathan?”

  “I want you back, Talia. Nothing happened. I swear.”

  The picture of that perky blonde intern in the process of unzipping his pants just as I stepped into his office to bring him a surprise dinner flashed in my mind. The thought of what was about to happen made my stomach churn all over again.

  Sighing, I rolled my eyes, almost numb to the hurt. “Even if nothing did happen like you claim, it never should’ve gotten that far.”

  “She came on to me. I didn’t do anything.”

  I knew he was raking his hand through his dirty-blond hair, its short, bedhead curls flipping around his fingers. He always did that when he was frustrated. I didn’t want to think about him at all. Gripping the phone tight, I snapped, “But you sure as hell didn’t stop her either, did you?”

  “Talia, I miss us. Things aren’t the same without you. At the office. In my apartment. In my bed. You’re missing. I want to see that gorgeous red hair lying across my pillow. You just need to trust me. I want to be there for you. I can even help you get your job back.”

  “I quit.”

  “Not because you wanted to. Listen, let me help. I’d do anything for you, but you never let me. You always kept me at arms length, never letting me close. I realize now that it wasn’t me, and that’s just who you are—”

  “I don’t need your help, Nathan,” I said, then hung up.

  That distant person that Nathan thinks I am, isn’t the real Talia. Sebastian is the only one who has seen a true glimpse of me. But the fact Nathan mentioned my red hair confirms that he must’ve caught my interview on that TV show, because the whole time we were together, he’d only seen blonde hair framing my face.

  The helicopter lifting off pulls me from my thoughts. And when no warning lights flash or sirens blare, I relax and settle into the seat to enjoy the view.

  Forty minu
tes later, Bash lands the helicopter smoothly. He doesn’t speak as he removes his headphones, then hops out of his side.

  While he opens the back door to retrieve my suitcase, I try to unhook my seatbelt, but I can’t seem to find the release button. It doesn’t help that my sunglasses are too dark now that we’re parked in the building’s shadow. Dropping my glasses in my lap, I reach for the latch once more at the same time Bash opens my door.

  “I’m trying to get it,” I say, looking up at him while working to free the latch.

  Bash doesn’t say anything or move to help. It’s like he’s frozen in place, his expression unreadable behind his dark glasses. Sighing, I stop moving. “This belt is more complicated than I realized.”

  He shakes his head, then leans in. Brushing my hands out of the way, he frees me with a flick of his wrist on the latch, his tone gruff. “It’s a quick release.”

  When he steps back, I laugh at my ineptness. “Apparently only if you know what you’re doing.”

  “Those without experience shouldn’t be able to free themselves so easily,” he says in a clipped tone, crossing his muscular arms.

  Suddenly, I feel naked, exposed, like he finds me lacking somehow. I slide my sunglasses back on, then set my hat on my head. “Thank you for the ride over. I appreciate it.”

  He holds my gaze a second longer, then steps back to pull my suitcase’s handle forward. “Welcome to Hawthorne, Miss Lone.”

  Why is he acting so stiff and formal now? Is it because we’ve landed on Hawthorne property? I wonder as I climb down from the helicopter. “Thanks.”

  When I move to take my suitcase, he holds fast to the handle. “You here for one last fling before you’re hooked for life?”

  For a second I think he’s hitting on me, until I follow his line of sight to the engagement ring on my outstretched hand, then the tone of his question sinks in. His obvious judgment ticks me off, so instead of answering, “No, I only came for my friend and I wore this ring to keep random single guys from hitting on me down to a minimum,” I say, “Actually, I’m here for some inspiration. I’m an author who writes about asinine pilots.” Then I turn and walk into the main building. Let him wonder what kind of books I write.

  “Miss Lone, we’re thrilled to have you for a visit!” Smiling broadly, the gray-haired man buttons his suit jacket around a middle-aged paunch as he steps out from behind the main desk. Taking my outstretched hand in both of his, he bows slightly. “I’m happy to host you as a special guest to Mrs. Granger once again. I hope your helicopter ride was pleasant?”

  You mean other than my temperamental, judgy pilot? I smile at the resort’s owner. “The trip over was quick and uneventful, Mr. Hawthorne.” I find it amusing that my aunt always books me at the resort, listing me as “her special guest, bestselling author T.A. Lone,” and never as her niece. I’m going to have to tease her about how pretentious she’s become.

  “Wonderful then,” he says, nodding his approval. “We’ve taken the liberty of putting you in the Executive suite in the West wing of the resort. I hope that’ll be conducive to some recharging time for you.” Patting my hand, he grins. “Of course, over the next several days we have planned activities if you care to join in. I believe you have some romance in your books, yes? At least that’s what Patty tells me. There’s a listing of all the social events waiting for you on your desk.”

  Chuckling, I nod. “Yes, romance is a small subplot that runs through my books. Thank you so much. You and your wife are fantastic hosts. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble accommodating Delia Chambers in my place last year?”

  His hand around mine tightens a bit. “Not at all, Miss Lone. It was just so tragic.”

  I release his hand and furrow my brow. “What was tragic?”

  He blinks for a second as if waiting for recognition to filter through. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

  “Know what?” I ask, tension edging into my voice.

  “That Mrs. Chambers had to be rushed to the hospital for anaphylactic shock after returning from an outing in town. When I called to check on her, the doctor told me they couldn’t save her and she’d passed away.”

  My heart jerks. “Oh no. I had no idea. How awful.” I wondered why Delia hadn’t emailed me later to let me know how much she enjoyed Hawthorne’s last year. I’d given away several big prizes as a thank you to those who’d helped support and run a huge on-line social media campaign when my second book was about to release.

  Delia, along with a few others, ran my fan club, and since I had a looming deadline, I drew her name as the winner of my weekend. When I didn’t hear from her after the getaway weekend had passed, I just assumed she’d gotten busy with life and hadn’t had a chance to email me.

  Mr. Hawthorne ushers me away from the desk to stand beside a tall fern, his tone turning to a low hush. “I assure you, Miss Lone, we take every precaution here at the Hawthorne resort for guests with special food requirements, but there’s no way we can control what they eat while out exploring the town.”

  I nod my understanding. “I’m sure you did. No one’s to blame. It’s just so sad. I had no idea.”

  Nodding his obvious relief, he pats my shoulder. “We sent flowers to her family, but please, next time just make sure to let us know in advance whenever you send any more guests our way. We’d like to give them extra special treatment if we can.”

  I tilt my head, confused. “But I did let you know Delia was coming. I spoke to your wife about her.”

  “Oh, yes.” He nods. “I wasn’t referring to Mrs. Chambers. I’m referring to Mr. Sheehan.”

  The name Sheehan only sounds slightly familiar. Was he new to my fan club? I didn’t have another weekend at the Hawthorne to give away, so I’m not sure what exactly the owner is talking about. Is he mixing me up with some other author? “Mr. Sheehan? When was this?”

  “Yes, Bradley Sheehan. He was here five months ago. He brought in a voucher for a one-night stay, saying you’d sent him. That night he ate dinner here, but the maid said his room looked like it’d never been slept in. That’s why I remember. It was so odd that he didn’t take advantage of our wonderful beds.”

  Worry clouds my thoughts, but I don’t want to alarm the owner. Not yet at least. Maybe the guy used the name Sheehan once, then switched to an on-line persona later. I have a picture of a fan club meet up that Delia sent me last year in my email. Maybe he’s in it. “Do you remember what Mr. Sheehan looked like? Maybe his description will ring a bell. I’ve given out several prizes this year, so it’s hard to keep track.” None of the prizes I gave was another trip to Hawthorne. That was a one-time, unusual circumstance.

  “Donald might remember. He was helping out behind the desk that night.” As soon as Mr. Hawthorne waves to a young, floppy-haired bellhop, calling him over, his phone rings. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he says to me, “He’ll be right over. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course. Thank you. And I promise to always keep you in the loop in the future.”

  “Wonderful!” Smiling, he walks away, putting his phone to his ear.

  While I wait for the bellhop to finish helping three women, each with two pieces of luggage, I check my phone for a text message from Cass. Sure enough, she’d sent one.

  Cass: Mr. Sexy-Voiced Pilot must be hot as hell for you to hang up on me like you did.

  Me: You’ll never know since you’re NOT here. Traitor! You’re the only reason I came.

  Once I hit send, someone lifts the handle on my suitcase. Turning to address the bellhop, I stiffen. “Where’s Donald?”

  Bash tilts his chin toward the closing elevator doors with Donald and six pieces of luggage squished inside. “He’s going to be busy for a bit. I’ll help you with your luggage. You’re in the Executive suite, right?”

  I push my shoulders back. “Thanks, but I’ll just wait for him.”

  He acts like I haven’t spoken, walking across the lobby with my suitcase in tow as he heads toward a long hallway leading
to the West wing.

  “Hey!” I call out, striding after him when it becomes obvious he’s not stopping. “I can take my luggage to my room myself.”

  “Then why did you need Donald?” he says over his shoulder without breaking his stride.

  The hall is too narrow for me to pull up beside him and the suitcase, so I just follow behind, fuming. “Because I want to talk to him about a guest who stayed here before.”

  He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes flashing at me before he opens a door at the end of the hall. “Who was it? I might know the answer.”

  What floor is the Executive suite on? I wonder, following him into the stairwell. “You said you’re only here to fill in for Trevor while he’s on vacation, so no, you won’t know since this pre-dates your time here.”

  Shrugging his agreement, he lifts my suitcase and starts up the stairs. I climb behind him, silently counting to a hundred to keep my temper in check as we clear several flights. So far we’ve climbed past the forth floor. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but I’m in heels and I’m pretty sure he’s taken the stairs on purpose to pay me back for calling him an ass.

  Finally he stops at the fifth floor door. I bite my tongue to keep from making a snarky remark about bypassing a whole bank of elevators earlier.

  We emerge in a quiet alcove and then walk all the way to the end of the plush, carpeted hall.

  “I need to check if your room’s ready, Miss Lone.”

  When he holds his hand out for my keycard, I hesitate. “Isn’t that the maid’s job?” I say, but hand him my key anyway.

  “Stay here.”

  After he shuts the door in my face, I stand outside, getting more annoyed by the second.

  A minute later, he opens the door wide and pulls my suitcase inside, handing me the card back. “You’re all good.”

  “Okaaaaay then.” When he doesn’t say anything, it hits me why he’s still standing there. “Oh, sorry. Just a sec.” I lift my purse and pull out my wallet to give him a tip.