Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10)

by Anne Marsh

  “I’ve shot two seasons,” I tell him. “And we’re starting season three in two months. The network hasn’t committed to a set number of episodes, so there’s some uncertainty.”

  Hint, hint—that’s code for I’m scared and more than a little desperate. Sorry, if you get caught up in my drama. Since I don’t say that, however, and Ro hasn’t mastered mind-reading skills in the six years we’ve been apart, he just nods. “You’re good at rolling with the punches.”

  I’m not sure why people say that. I mean, who really likes getting punched? For some people—take boxers, for instance—it’s in the job description. Punch, get punched, collect a check and an endorsement deal. For most of us, however, taking hits falls in the category of felony assault. It’s something we try to avoid and think other people should step in to prevent if possible.

  I settle for saying something simple. “I’d like to sew up the contract soon.”

  “Now tell me something personal,” he says, wrapping the remains of his cone up in a napkin and lobbing it into a nearby trashcan for a three-point shot.

  “That’s personal,” I counter. What is it with men never being satisfied?

  He shakes his head. “That’s work. Tell me about where you live or what you do when you have free time.”

  “I’ve been busy,” I admit. “Completely focused on my TV career. There is no free time. That’s why I didn’t notice that I never got the final paperwork on our divorce. I really didn’t mean to leave you hanging like that or screw your life up even more.”

  Yep. I was going for the clean, quick amputation, the kind that’s a neat, sterile slash of a really sharp blade. One swift flick and the hand flies off and it’s all over. Instead, it turns out that I’ve been slowly sawing and sawing and… yeah. You get the idea.

  “It’s okay,” he says to my surprise, and somehow I don’t think he’s just saying that. “We’ll get it figured out.”

  “Were you seeing someone? Did I screw up your personal life?”

  He gives me a look I can’t interpret. “No.”

  Well. That’s a straightforward answer.

  “How about you?” he asks.

  Turnabout’s fair play, I guess. “Been too busy with the show,” I say lightly. “No time for dating. Sometimes the network sends me out on Friday night with a guy, but it’s just for the photo ops. We hit a few clubs, do a few red carpet events, and then we head in separate directions.”

  He nods as if this makes perfect sense, when I know it’s totally screwed up. But I get loaner clothes, loaner shoes, all that shit intended for maximum product placement. The guys work the same way—they’re either someone it helps me to be seen with, or being seen with me gives them a leg up. It’s not romantic. There are no kisses, no genuine touches, and absolutely no sex. No matter how pretty my Friday night companions have been, I haven’t been interested.

  And now that I’m down here in the Florida Keys, I have a bad feeling that I know why. He gets this smile in his eyes sometimes when he looks at me and I feel—special. Like he sees me, Hindi Jane Alvarez, and I’m exactly what he wants and needs. I don’t have to be anyone else. I don’t have to be better.

  I really don’t want to lose him when our divorce is final. “Do you really think we can be friends?”

  I’d like that. I mean, that’s the best of both worlds right there if I can keep my stupid libido in check.

  He leans down and hits my cheek with a kiss. A friendly kiss.

  “We already are.”

  Hindi

  Not sure what it says that I met Rohan when I was competing for Ms. Tiki Hut Tits. Competing—and losing. I hadn’t had much luck, that was true. I was down to a handful of dollars, and my big dinner option that night had involved cleaning the bartender out of pineapples and cherries. Best fruit salad ever since I’d eaten it in Ro’s surly company.

  Yeah.

  I might also have stolen his beloved lucky shirt. On the bright side, he hadn’t brought me up on charges or anything. My police record was clean, although my driving record is as spotty as a snowfield in the path of an active volcano. He repossessed the shirt and the rest was history. We hooked up. I sold him an island. We got married on the beach of said island and I claimed both the shirt and the man.

  Miraculously, the Tiki Hut is still standing six years after our grand meeting when I show up alone for a cocktail or four. Of course, since it’s pretty much a bar, some sand, four stilts, and a palapa roof, it’s equally possible the owner has replaced it a half-dozen times since my last visit. The joint isn’t precisely hurricane-proof. It’s also still hosting its weekly wet T-shirt contest, with the winner earning the aforementioned illustrious title. On the bright side, I don’t have to dance on the bar anymore to earn my grocery cash. On the downside? My tits haven’t grown much since then. I pat my girls. Not their fault they stopped growing after the tenth grade.

  The first girl finishes sashaying down the bar, soaked cotton clinging to her boobs. She’s got amazing tits—as the see-through fabric highlights. She shakes and shimmies, dismounting with a gymnast-worthy twist. Sticks the landing, too. Contestant Number Two supplants her on the bar. Good times.

  The audience is even more fun than the girls. Given tonight’s entertainment, it’s mostly men and the odd girlfriend. The guys range from the barely legal to old enough to be my grandpa. Some of them are pretty fine looking, too. Yeah. Doesn’t matter. These men are the penny candy in those big glass jars, when what I really want are the truffles behind the glass display counter. Or just one sexy truffle in particular. Once upon a time, Ro was my chocolate-champagne truffle and I wanted nothing more than to hand-dip him in sparkly sugar and then lick that sweet goodness off him. I had it bad.

  After we split up, I took a breather, went on a diet and swore off the dating pool. It didn’t help that the guys I met were either Hershey bars—or, worse, not in the chocolate family at all. I got broccoli and melons when I wanted melt-in-my-mouth dark and sweet. Sure, I kissed a few. I was over Rohan MacCarthy and the proof was in my Friday nights out.

  The bartender looks over at me and checks the level in my drink. Yeah. I’m only a marginally better customer than I was six years ago. I’m not stealing his cherries, but the level in my glass hasn’t sunk appreciably. I keep replaying yesterday’s ice cream not-date in my head. Why haven’t I had sex since Ro and I parted ways? I’ve had a few non-network dates in the last two years, but one thing has never led to another and I’ve definitely never gotten to the point of putting out. Too tired, too busy, too Ro’s. He was the first and last time I’d gotten it right.

  See, one of the reasons why I love designing lingerie is that really pretty, sexy underwear makes people feel happy, confident, beautiful in their own skin. The things I create are like the perfect frame for their fantasies about who they are or who they could be if they had the right opportunity or met the right person. I’ve created hundreds of bra and panty sets, all designed to showcase possibilities and yet be guilty secrets at the same time. We’re civilized. We don’t walk around in our underwear. We pretend the stuff underneath is just there to whip our bodies into some kind of socially acceptable state or to hide the fact that our tits get downright perky when they see a certain someone or that childbirth, gravity, and a few too many bags of Cheetos have had a downward effect on the girls. We spend a fortune on underwear and then no one gets to see it.

  All of America’s seen the underwear I made for them, but it’s been years since I had an audience of one watching as I stripped down to my skivvies. After I finish my drink and settle my tab, I walk down the beach. There’s nothing like the feeling of being ankle-deep in the surf, toes curling in wet sand.

  “Forget something, baby girl?” The voice that slides out of the dark is part growl, part dark chocolate goodness. A voice that makes me wet and happy, thrilled and yet desperate to smack the shit out of its owner at the same time. Ro has a gift for frustrating me.

  “You stalking me?” A girl can
hope.

  He falls into step beside me. “You lost your shoes.”

  I stare down at my toes in the dark. As always, he’s right. I’m barefoot. My sandals must be back at the Tiki Hut. Chances are, they’ll still be there tomorrow and the day after that, too. People on Angel Cay are by and large good people and their vices are the small harmless kind, like ogling women in wet T-shirts.

  “I’ll get them back.” And you know what? It’s not the end of the world if I lose a pair of rubber flip-flops. For the first time in my life, I’ve got the money in my checking account to replace them. I’m only barefoot if I want to be barefoot. Fuck, that feels good.

  Ro makes a rough noise and lifts his hand. Yeah, of course those are my AWOL shoes dangling from his fingers. Mr. Growly is so good at tying up loose ends and looking after me. If I puked, he’d hold my hair and source ginger ale for me. If Angel Cay flooded and a big bad hurricane came pounding at my door, he’s the guy who’d be on the other side of that door with a life jacket and a boat. These are good things to be, useful things to be. It’s just that there’s a whole other guy there, hiding behind the sunglasses and the Superman cape—and I like that guy way too much.

  “No?” He jiggles my sandals.

  Nope. Footwear’s not what I want tonight.

  When I shake my head and start wading up the beach again, he tucks my rejected footwear into his back pocket and comes after me. When he catches up with me, he holds something out to me. A bar napkin with a selection of fruit cocktail garnishes.

  “I remember you like a good bar picnic,” he says—and holy shit…

  “Are you smiling?” I take the napkin from him. You know, because, yes, I am hungry, and maybe it’s a peace offering. Or something. I’m gonna wait a long time before Rohan brings me roses. If I told him I wanted flowers, he’d clean out the florist, even if I am about to be his ex. He’s just made like that. If someone needs, he provides. He’s just not so good at romance and sharing his feelings. Okay. I’m not even sure he has feelings—he may be a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy, but I have hopes.

  Stupid hopes that have my girl parts doing some very naughty tingling because, yes, that is a smile on his face and it looks amazing.

  “This is strange,” I say softly as I start walking again. Thank God I’ve got my picnic to focus on, because looking at Rohan is just getting me into trouble. We’re getting a divorce just as soon as the lovely Sunshine State can process our paperwork. Our marriage is over, and whatever’s happening right now between us is the epilogue to a really short book.

  “Us being married?” He cups my elbow with his hand. He’s not trying any of that guiding shit that so many well-intentioned guys do. He lets me pick our path, but he’s there in case I need him. His fingers rest on the bare skin of my elbow, gliding back forth just a little as we walk, and I really need to thank a generation of gentleman for teaching him this little move because it’s so fucking sexy.

  “Yeah. It’s like we know each other but we don’t, right? Here we are right back where we started, but now we’re six years older and things have changed. I really am sorry I screwed it up and that you’re not free to go about your business.”

  He stares at me, and nope—still no idea what he’s thinking, although that smile is gone. Now he just looks intent and kind of focused. On me. Guess that’s what happens when you mess with a guy’s life long enough.

  “I don’t mind,” he says eventually. Most people could have fit an entire conversation in that pause. “We were good together. I don’t regret that.”

  “Me neither.” I agree way too quickly, and my big man gives me another fleeting smile. God, he’s gorgeous. I shovel the rest of my pineapple into my mouth. Clearly, I shouldn’t be trusted with talking. I’ve spent the last couple of years working from a script—clearly I shouldn’t be trusted with ad-libbing.

  “Flattering.” His fingertips find the inside of my elbow and move in little circles that drive me crazy. Does he know what he does to me? Part of me is counting down the days until this is over—and part of me wants to touch him back, push him down onto the sand, and reacquaint myself with all of Rohan.

  “It’s just weird, not knowing where we stand. Married, but not.” I shrug. I’m not doing a good job of explaining this, but what else is new? “Maybe you’ve got a plan for this?”

  “Nah,” he says. “No plan.”

  I stop dead. “Should we alert the press? Because that makes this a red-letter day. Rohan MacCarthy, plan-less.”

  He eyes me. “You gonna give me shit about it?”

  “You bet.” I nod enthusiastically. “I mean, we’re still married, and we’re friends, right? It’s my duty to bring it up over and over until you want to kill me.”

  Or until he divorces me—but… details.

  “Maybe we just take it as it comes,” he suggests. “No plans, no timelines. Just one day at a time.”

  “Did you get a brain transplant in some super-secret military hospital?”

  He snorts. “You wish.”

  No. Not really.

  “We’ll be like a come-as-you-are party. No need to dress shit up, right? We can be ourselves.” What I really mean of course is that he can come just as he is. I need some work. Make up, a script, an entire support team. Hindi Alvarez, Internet darling and reality TV star, is a production.

  For a long minute, I think he’s not going to answer. “Sounds good,” he says finally. “No bullshit—just the truth.”

  Right. This is probably not the right moment to tell him Lilah’s been documenting our split and that his privacy is an endangered beast. It shouldn’t be too bad. He’ll have a few photographers riding his ass for a handful of days, and a few daytime TV shows may want to fly him to New York for interviews. And since I’m sure he’ll pass on those invitations, it will all die down fairly quickly.

  God, I suck.

  “I should let you get back,” I say finally. “Thanks for the shoe rescue and the snack.”

  “Walk with me,” he says, already shucking his boots. The man needs to lighten up a little, maybe buy a pair of flip-flops—something with open toes, not steel toes. Life doesn’t have to be one big ass-kicking. “We’ll swing by my place, grab my truck. I’ll drive you home. Got any objection to that plan?”

  I bump his shoulder lightly with mine. Man’s built like a rock, and, yes, I’m just looking for an excuse to touch him. “You want me to walk you home? Are you afraid of the dark? Because that’s really cute.”

  He slides me a look. And even though he’s not wearing those damned shades—because he pretends they’re just sunglasses and not a shield against the rest of the world seeing something he’s not ready to share—I can’t read him. Guess that means I’ll have to settle for playing with him.

  Lucky me.

  “Walk with me,” he repeats, and then he adds the cherry on my Rohan-flavored sundae. “Please.”

  Need me? Want me? Yes, please.

  I am so in.

  Screw being just friends—I’d like to be something more. I thread my fingers through his and tug him down the beach.

  Rohan

  We walk up the beach. It’s dark—way past midnight and Angel Cay doesn’t come with much in the way of streetlights. Sure as shit, you don’t get anything but natural light on the beach. The moon’s out, though, and that’s enough for me. I’ve taken beaches in the pitch black, so this is a definite improvement. Hindi doesn’t seem to mind the lack of light, either—she walks along the edge of the ocean, her bare feet kicking up water and sand. One thing I’ve learned about her is that she prefers noise. No empty silence in her life—she fills it all up.

  And I kinda like it.

  I mean, it’s not like this is a real-life mission where the element of surprise matters. If someone hears us coming, he or she can get the fuck off the beach and I don’t care. No one’s shooting, no one’s fighting. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about the lack of action when I retired from active duty, but tonight ev
erything feels all right. I’d thought about going back for one more tour, but there’s a point when you walk away or you don’t. I wanted to go out on the top of my game, when I could still give one hundred percent and then some every time I went out, and I get older each day. Alternative’s being dead, and I’d fought too hard to stay alive to just let go.

  Hindi hums something off-key under her breath. Tune sounds like that wedding march thing chicks like to blast as they head to the altar had mutant music babies with the Star Spangled Banner. She may be a reality TV star, but she’s not gonna make the cut on any of those singing shows. It’s cute. She always did make me smile.

  And other things. Some of those moments are kinda burned on my brain and not all of them involve Hindi naked. Most of them, sure. Fair enough, because she looks fucking spectacular without her clothes. If she’d ever mastered the music and rhythm thing, she could have made a fortune as a stripper. That fantasy’s pretty awesome, until I remember that most strippers have audiences. I hate the idea of some other guy looking at her. Makes me all pissy, and that’s wrong, too. She’s still my wife—but we’re getting divorced.

  I’m no relationship genius, but even I know that means she gets to do whatever the fuck she wants with other guys. Sure, it’d be nice if she waited until all the paperwork was sorted, but when it comes to her feeling anything but friendly toward me? Yeah. That cruise ship has left the pier and I can run after it all I want. It’s not coming back. I still think my plan to get her panties off and my dick inside her will work, especially since she mentioned the golden words friends with benefits, but it’s not enough anymore. Not sure what I want, but getting off isn’t the target.

  Some shit hasn’t changed, though. Hindi still can’t walk a straight line. She meanders right, then changes course and sorta dances forward. Heads left and bumps into me.