Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10)

by Anne Marsh

  “I don’t know where she lives,” I admit.

  Finn whistles. “We could ask Ava?”

  Vann turns out to be the practical one. “You have Vali take Ava to lunch and we’ll hack her computer and get the address.”

  And while I truly do appreciate my friends’ willingness to commit major felonies on my behalf, I suddenly have a plan. A hope. A small fucking prayer. I may not know where Hindi is right this second—but I know where she’ll be. She’s got that fashion show in Miami any day now. Dr. Google surrenders the information I need and I turn the screen around and slide my phone over to Finn and Vann.

  “I need to go to Miami.”

  Rohan

  So now we’re back where we started. I’m pants-less and I’m headed for the biggest on-stage moment of my life at Miami Fashion Week. And since I’m all in, I’m going to storm that stage like it’s the most important beach I’ve ever taken, the biggest battle I’ve ever fought.

  Because it totally is.

  If there’s any chance at all for me and Hindi, no matter how small, I want it. This is one of those do or die moments and I have plans for living happily ever after. Step one? Showing Hindi that I’m a keeper and that I’m willing to do whatever it takes, up to and including wearing these ridiculous pink sparkly boxers. Just as an FYI? The only diamonds anywhere near my dick should be on Hindi’s body. I pat the waistband of my shorts, making sure I haven’t lost the box. Thank God for duct tape.

  The stage manager looks me over, nods, and points to my mark. “Stand there. When I say go, you go. Walk down the runway. Pose. Walk back here. You got that?”

  He looks bored as shit, but it’s not his life on the line.

  “Crystal clear,” I lie. Once I hit that stage, I’ve got one goal and one goal only: to find Hindi and convince her to give me one more chance. To beg her to be my Mrs. MacCarthy.

  “First time?” The model in line in front of me asks. He’s wearing a pair of blue and white checked boxers. Select white boxes include bright, blinged-out crystals—forming a tic-tac-toe grid ending with a gigantic checkmark over the guy’s dick. My pink shorts suddenly seem a whole lot safer.

  “And last.” Or so I really fucking hope.

  He shrugs. “They all say that. Don’t think about the audience checking out your package and your ass—just strut your shit, bad boy. We’ll pop your show cherry for you.”

  No fucking pressure at all.

  The model steps out onto the stage and disappears. Just like jumping out of a plane. I count to five and follow, ignoring the stage manager’s whispered curse behind me. No more waiting. A ten-thousand-foot free fall has nothing on the bad-ass rush I get as I stride through the door and onto the stage. The model in front of me strolls down the runway with some loose-hipped, come-fuck-me walk. I settle for putting one foot in front of the other and follow him down. The techno music drowns out any reaction from the audience and the lights are hot enough to fry me. At least I won’t freeze and have to fear shrinkage in front of a crowd.

  Yeah. You thought I’d enjoy this? The family jewels aren’t public property, although given the lack of fabric in my outfit, the front row at least can tell if I’ve been cut or not and whether I hang left or right naturally. Hindi and I definitely need to talk about where she gets her ideas from.

  Finn claimed—based on ten minutes and his superlative Google-Fu skills—that Hindi always sits at the front of her runway shows. She’s not one of those designers who haunts the backstage, tweaking and obsessing over each look she sends out. Nope. She prefers to be front and center, best positioned to enjoy the show. So I make straight for the end of the runway, almost running over the model in front of me. Fucker’s way too slow.

  The music throbs and swells like the sound technician is trying to break every eardrum in the place, and the floor vibrates beneath the floor to the beat. I pull the sunglasses out of the waistband of my shorts and drop them on.

  There.

  Hindi’s sitting front and center.

  I hit my mark and stare at her. Fuck, but she’s hot.

  I should have brought flowers. Or hired a skywriter. Something suitably, wonderfully dramatic. Instead all she gets is me, one slightly used SEAL who definitely can’t walk for shit. The other guys on the stage have a bounce to their walk, a way of shaking their asses and flexing their stuff that I don’t. But I’m here. I stand at the end of the runway, hands on my hips, and meet her eyes.

  Her eyes widen.

  So now that I’ve got her attention, I stick with the script. I turn and show her my ass. My bling-sporting, boxer-wearing, message board of an answer. I count to five—sure as fuck hope she’s a speed reader, and then I turn back around. I rip the little velvet box out of the waistband of my shorts and hope to God that I’m not about to flash what seems like every camera in Miami. Without some kind of aid, most of them are too far away to read my words, but come on—everyone has a cell phone and way too many people start zooming in.

  I blow her a kiss, which has to count in the romance department, although she doesn’t do any of that corny movie stuff. She doesn’t pretend to catch it, press it to her lips, tuck it next to her heart. She just stares at me and the box in my outstretched hand, like she’s wondering what the hell I’m doing here. She’s not the only one. Now that I’m at the end of the runway, I’m all out of plan. I’m winging it.

  Playing it by ear.

  Playing for keeps, for the one goal that really matters.

  So fuck it.

  I’m doing what I want.

  I vault off the stage and make for the woman who owns my heart.

  Hindi

  Never show fear.

  Never show excitement, elation, or any messy emotion other than polite admiration. Clap neatly, smile carefully, and wait for your cue.

  That’s how these fashion shows go. Everything is carefully scripted, the models moving down the runway in time to the music. In a handful of seconds, they need to sell my clothes and my brand. Tonight’s gone well, right up until the moment the model in the pink boxers steps onto the catwalk. He’s not the type of guy we usually cast—he’s taller, bulkier, and missing both a wax job and a spray tan. He’s also wearing pink. Tonight’s collection is ocean-themed, all blues, greens, and whites, with the occasional yellow. Pink is last season. Something old. Something… familiar.

  Ro’s walk is perfect, a loose-limber, sure saunter. Like a panther in the wild, a seductive mix of protective and predatory, he moves toward me. The flush heating my body has nothing to do with the warmth of the stage lights—and everything to do with the man dominating my stage.

  When he hits the end of the runway, he stops, pulls on those stupid sunglasses of his, and finds me with his gaze. You know what? I have no idea what he wants or why he’s here. I do know that our divorce isn’t final yet, but will be soon. That we’re almost done with each other—but not quite.

  He performs a perfect about turn. He pivots 180 degrees on the heel of his bare right foot and the ball of his left in a move that’s textbook perfect.

  I swear I hear half the audience sigh. Yeah, his ass is pretty spectacular. And then he sort of wiggle-jostles it, I look closer, and he’s written on his custom, one-of-a-kind boxers with a Sharpie. He’d probably scrawl a mustache on the Mona Lisa if no one was looking.

  He’s written MARRY ME.

  And while I sit there, mouth open, gaping like an idiot, he jumps down off the catwalk and comes over to me. My stage manager is going to have a fit. The show sort of stumbles to a halt and the buzz of conversation threatens to drown out the music.

  He scoops me up, sits down in my chair, and drops me on his lap. I’m wondering where the box went when his arms come around me and he buries his face against my throat. The gossip sites are going to love these pictures.

  “I feel so naked,” he growls. “How do people do this?”

  Somehow, I don’t think he’s talking about his delicious lack of clothing.

  “One step
at a time,” I whisper back.

  “Got something to tell you.”

  “Okay.” There’s an appalling lack of air reaching my lungs. I might be holding my breath. Because I really, really don’t think he’s stripped to his skivvies just to press our divorce papers into my hands. It doesn’t help that he really is almost completely naked beneath me. Also? Certain parts of him are very happy to see me. If he stood up now, the pictures would be downright pornographic.

  I should totally let him stand up.

  I’ve never been into dirty photos, but Rohan MacCarthy sporting pink boxers and a boner is total desk material. I’d never get anything done again if I had a picture of this in a frame beside my elbow because I’d be too busy drooling. I slide my phone out of my back pocket—which is conveniently parked right over one of my favorite parts of Rohan—and fire off a quick text message.

  The next-to-last wave of models starts down the runway. I need to speed things up.

  “So.” I clear my throat. “You either had a message for me or you’re way too into defacing private property.”

  Rohan has always been talented with his hands. Somehow, he lifts and turns me so that I straddle him. I’m sure our exhibitionism shouldn’t feel so good, but I run my hands up his shoulders and lock them behind his neck. Because, you know, there aren’t too many other places to put them. His chest. His abs. His heart. Anything else is getting me arrested.

  “Marry me,” he says.

  “Are we divorced yet?”

  He shakes his head. “Not quite, but Stay Married to Me didn’t fit on my ass. You didn’t spring for a whole lot of fabric, Hindi.”

  No, I can’t hold back my smile. “What’s the point of designing if I can’t make fun things?”

  He looks at me and then he smiles. A slow, sexy, rock-my-world grin. “You have all the fun you want, Ms. Alvarez.”

  Okay then.

  I might pass out from lack of oxygen.

  “But I want to share the fun with you,” he continues. “I don’t want you to go. When this show is over, I want us to leave and go home together. I think we belong together, so Hindi Alvarez, I’m asking you to marry me. Again.”

  Ro’s taken the first step—or the first 150 to the end of my runway—but these next ones are up to me. And it’s made a little bit easier because the rough, growly way he asks me to marry him makes my panties wet and my heart melt.

  “Ro—”

  I freeze.

  He’s holding a little black velvet bomb of a box out to me. “This is for you.”

  I’m pretty sure no one’s watching the models. There are at least a million cameras pointed our way. I can’t really do this, can I? Marry Rohan for real?

  I open the box. The first time we got married, we did it in a rush. My wedding ring was a teeny-tiny, slightly green, absolutely perfect seashell that Ro had found on our beach. He’d MacGyvered it onto a twist of champagne wire and then onto my finger. I still have it, hiding in my jewelry box back in the loft. This ring is the Picasso of seashell rings. I loved my homemade ring because Ro had made it for me, and yes, I would totally frame my five-year-old’s art and hang it over the fireplace. I looked at the ring and I felt loved.

  An incredible number of teeny-tiny, sparkly diamonds and opals swoop over the band like waves in the ocean. Two pink seashells, just like ours, cup an exotic black pearl.

  “It’s yours if you want it,” Ro says quietly. “Along with all the rest of me.”

  I think I’m crying. The world gets all blurry and there’s something wet on my cheeks. My brain shuts off and my mouth blurts out the first thing I think of. “I can’t hyphenate. My initials would spell HAM.”

  He leans in and kisses me, just a quick, sweet brush of his lips that says I’m here. “Then I’ll take your name.”

  See? This is why I love him.

  The final line of models marches out, and I may possibly have taken things a little too far. The techno hip-hop music cuts out and is replaced by a brass band. The band barely fits on the runway, and every single player is wearing a pair of tight, white, bedazzled boxers. They march out in formation, playing their instruments, then turn and shake their asses at the audience, which goes wild.

  I feel Ro’s smile against my mouth. Yes, I’m already kissing the man. “You’ve one upped me in the Sharpie department.”

  I turn my head to admire my handiwork. Each guy has a letter stamped on his butt in bright pink sequins. MARRY ME RO MACCARTHY. That’s a lot of sequins.

  “I love you,” I tell him, because those are the three words that matter. They don’t begin to do justice to all the feelings in my heart, but they still need to be said. Over and over. “I love you.”

  “Thank God,” he growls and then he kisses me. It’s a rough, tight, absolutely perfect kiss. Our mouths come together like a key and a lock. I hang onto Ro’s shoulders and I’m pretty sure he’s got a death grip on my butt. Sometimes, tongues and mouths are all the words and welcome that you need. We’re saying sorry and I missed you and is this really happening? And this? This is perfect.

  “Show’s over.” I try to wriggle off his lap a long time later. We’re attracting a crowd and I’m pretty sure we can’t actually stay here forever. Plus, there will be champagne and an after party backstage—and I really feel like celebrating.

  “If I get up now, the world’s getting an eyeful,” he says dryly. “Maybe you can start designing suits or full body armor.”

  I nod toward the assistant hovering a few feet away and she hands me a robe that I drape over Ro’s shoulders. Problem. Solved. “I had a plan.”

  He gives me a thoughtful look. “If you’re planning, do I get to be the impulsive one?”

  I lean in and kiss him. The nice thing about an open robe is that all sorts of other things are possible too.

  “You got it,” I tell him.

  “I have you,” he says and sweeps me up into his arms so we make a truly spectacular exit to tumultuous applause.

  Desperate to find protection for her family, Lily turns to the only man in Miami who can help her: Xander Volkov. She hasn’t seen the billionaire Russian since their unfortunate shotgun marriage six years ago but he now runs one of the most powerful Mafia families in town. Lily hates everything about the Russian mob, but hating Xander gets harder each day… and when they bet the future of their marriage on the outcome of an adventure yacht race, Xander is determined to win once and for all.

  Don’t miss the start of an exciting new bad boy mini-series from New York Times bestselling author Anne Marsh

  Xander

  Someday Lily Petrov will kill me. It is good then that I watch her on the club’s security feed, because I cannot be trusted around her, and not because I want to hurt her back. Hurting her is the last thing I want, particularly when I have so many filthy, wonderful, fucking awesome fantasies from which to choose. I blame the plenteous selection entirely on Lily, of course. Tonight, her four-inch heels star front and center in the dirty scene currently playing in my head. Added fantasy fodder? She is short, curvy, and completely bare between her shoes and the hem of her white cocktail dress. When she moves, I can almost but not quite see the curve of her ass, and while I pretend her bare skin is an invitation to run my hands up the smooth length, I also believe in honesty.

  Lily Petrov hates me.

  We share a history, and it is not a happy one. She dated my stepbrother, he got her into trouble, I exposed her, and then I worked out a deal with her father to take care of the mess. Initially, that appeared to work out poorly for me because, at the time, her father ran one of Miami’s top Russian mob families while I was a junior member of a competing family. In corporate terms, I still worked the mailroom while Lily’s father was CEO. Even then I was hungry. I made Lily’s problem into an opportunity by ratting her out to her dad and then making my case that I could clean up the mess for him. The mailroom guy does not get many chances to negotiate with the CEO and I ran with it. Reader, I fucking married her because h
er daddy could give me a leg up in the mob world.

  If I were a smarter man, I would head in the opposite direction of Lily, because there is one reason only why she is here at the club despite my promotion to Russian mob boss and billionaire. She wants something. Unfortunately for me, I have not learned how to tell her no. Instead of running, I watch her ease into the room like a swimmer not quite sure of the water’s temperature. She looks uneasy and more than slightly uncomfortable, as if she thinks someone might actually try to kick her out of the Billionaire Race’s pre-party.

  The Billionaire Race gets tons of press coverage, and that makes my public relations people happy. We have two criteria for entering. You must be a billionaire, and you must own a racing yacht. Score two out of two? Welcome to the race. We are the Young Boys Club rather than the old guard, and nothing makes us happier than rubbing all our lovely money in your face. A penis is not an actual race requirement, but so far our membership is exclusively male. You ladies should feel free to earn your place with us—I am always happy to have a girl around.

  Racing is straightforward. I go out, I make my ten-million-dollar yacht sail faster than yours, and I score another trophy and front-page coverage of my smiling, handsome face as I either loft the cup over my head or swill champagne out of it. Usually I have a couple of women hanging on me too, because their hot, bikini-clad selves make our photos go viral. People have dirty imaginations. They prefer to believe I keep an enormous list of filthy, erotic things I’ve done or am about to do to those mostly naked women cavorting with me in the photographs. Possibly in public. I did mention that I am a good-looking bastard, da? And this is the racing world where money and power make the boats go round as much as the ocean currents and the wind do.

  Tomorrow’s race is the hottest ticket since the America’s Cup or those round-the-world races where you sail your yacht through some of the most dangerous water in the world. Since we are not actually trying to kill anyone (I have people who handle that if I ask—it comes with the mob-boss job title), we race around the Caribbean. Tomorrow’s race is a grueling, nine-hour haul from Miami to the Bahamas through some truly challenging water. While the trophy is shiny and I like the idea of scoring the million-dollar pot for the charity of my choice, the real action comes in the side bets because every man racing tomorrow is a billionaire and this is one of the ways we do business.