Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6)

by Anne Marsh

  On the bright side, while she may have just tried to kill and/or blind me, she also brought brownies, and I’m more than willing to be bought off even if half the plate is currently on the ground. We need to get that picked up before one of the dogs has an unauthorized snack followed by the runs. I squat and pick them up. Since I figure the ten-second rule is still in effect here, I put them back on the plate. No point in wasting good food.

  Marlee mumbles something. At least, I think she says something. Her voice is kind of jittery, and now that I look closely? She’s pale beneath the pink sunburn she acquired yesterday. Shit.

  I tuck a hand underneath her elbow and tow her toward our office. “Coffee,” I decide out loud. “You need coffee.”

  She shrugs, but she lets me lead. Fucking sexy the way Marlee lets me take care of her. Makes me wonder how she’d feel about taking orders elsewhere. More than a few places come to mind, too. I’m starting a list and bed, the back of my truck, and right here on the fucking beach are right on top.

  Not getting any today, however, even if Marlee wasn’t off-limits, because when I approach our “office” bungalow I realize we’ve got more company. Couple of months ago, Em Turner showed up with a baby. She claimed Roger was Finn’s, and although the dibs on paternity turned out to be untrue, she stuck around. She’s helping out part-time in the office and interviewing for other jobs.

  Today must be an interview day because Roger’s flying solo, with just us guys for company.

  “Tag,” Ro barks as soon as I’m within hailing distance and passes off the baby in the car seat like the kid’s a football and I’m the end zone.

  “Who’s a good boy?” I croon at my new sidekick, hefting the seat up so I’m face-to-face with my new charge. Roger grins and spits. Babies and dogs love that silly, high intonation—and I’ve got it down. I’m also shameless, so I don’t care who hears me. Plus? You really don’t want to piss Roger off. The kiddo has lungs.

  Beside me, Marlee melts the way ice cream on a hot sidewalk goes from a mouth-numbing solid to a liquid puddle of sticky goo. Her fingers twitch, and I know she’s imagining holding Roger.

  “You got kids?” My social skills must be rusty, because she promptly tears up. Fuck. Not like I know what to say, but I don’t even have a Kleenex or shit to offer. I go with the next best thing—I free Roger from his cage and stick him gingerly in Marlee’s arms.

  Her focus narrows to the baby, and although her mix of tears and smiles doesn’t make me feel any better, it seems to work for Roger. Little soldier flirts with her outrageously, smiling and running through his repertoire of noises. From the way Marlee responds, the kiddo must be ad-libbing Plato. We sit there for what seems like ages while she rocks and sings something off-key and cute.

  “You’re good with him.” Complete understatement. I sit there like military surplus, while she gets him to settle down and go to sleep. Usually he keeps us running. Ro says he’ll be a drill sergeant when he grows up. He doesn’t give Marlee any trouble. Kinda looks angelic, too.

  “No kids,” she says eventually. Guess that answers my earlier question.

  “Why not?” It’s none of my business, but it’s easy to imagine Marlee surrounded by a bunch of mini-mes. I’m not a family guy myself, but she’s got Mother of the Year stamped all over her pretty face. That should be a turn off, so I have no idea why it makes me hot. Maybe because being part of Marlee’s family would be like stepping into a fucking fantasy. Marlee cares with everything she’s got—she’s a hundred-and-ten-percenter.

  She doesn’t stop her motion-in-the-ocean rocking. “It just never happened. My husband wasn’t pro-baby, and we never had any interesting accidents, not even when we skipped the condom.”

  My brain tunes out for the rest of the explanation, because thinking about condom and Marlee in the same sentence results in an immediate and epic hard-on. Apparently, she has no idea just how gorgeous she is, because after she drops that little conversational bombshell, she goes straight back to staring at Roger like he’s a demi-god. She hums something under her breath, smoothing the blue blanket over the small body. Sex is clearly the furthest thing from her mind at the moment.

  This is one of those fundamental male-female differences.

  “He didn’t get his swimmers checked out?” Not like any guy wants to go and slap his dick on the table for a doctor to poke at, but you man up. You do what you gotta do to keep your woman happy.

  She makes a face, scrunching up her nose. “I’ve been told guys aren’t big on going to the doctor and slapping their dicks on the table for inspection. Would you do it?”

  Did she really just say that?

  The beet red color of her face promises she did. Huh. I kinda like the idea of Marlee thinking about my dick. Naked. Out there for her inspection. The doctor part I could do without, although it still doesn’t excuse Idiot Ex.

  I shrug. “If something’s broken, you fix it. You ever think about trying now?”

  She looks up from Roger. “It takes two, genius. I’m flying solo at the moment.”

  If her voice got any drier, it would be a desert. Since I do get out of my cave on occasion, I’m well aware that there are knock-you-up services in this country. She could go to a sperm bank. Find a donor. Adopt a ready-made kid. There are options if she can’t or won’t go the traditional penis-in-vagina route. My own dick decides that all this thinking about procreation isn’t half-bad and gets harder.

  But she’s not done with me. “You ever think about it? Having kids?”

  Absolutely. In fact, I’m pretty focused on the making of part right now. Oh wait. That’s not what she meant.

  “Roger’s awesome,” I tell her, since she can’t possibly want to hear my dick’s thoughts on procreating with her right here on the porch.

  And it’s not like I’m lying. Roger’s not bad at all. In fact, he’s pretty fucking amazing. Pain in the ass, too, but that comes with the territory, and we’re gonna blink and he’ll be old enough to enlist. Moments like this, when he’s asleep with his head pressed against a gorgeous pair of tits? Yeah. I’m okay with being a family guy. Not sure how to tell Marlee all this, though—probably creeper territory, admitting I’m jealous of a baby getting to make a pillow out of her boobs.

  Apparently, that’s the right answer, because she smiles like she’s handing me the Heisman and getting ready to pop the cork on my celebratory champagne. “You’re a good guy, Vann.”

  “Not really,” I tell her. Good thing she can’t see into my head. “Not much interested in it, either.”

  “What do you want?” She settles back, still cradling the baby, and the front of her dress settles lower.

  “Mostly to be left alone,” I admit.

  She grins. “Not a people person?”

  “I go to the grocery store at midnight. I prefer to have the island to myself, so I make up plans to trick Ro and Finn into going out without me. The Internet’s the best fucking thing ever because I can order anything I want and the UPS driver leaves my shit on the porch. He doesn’t even knock.” I tick my examples off on my fingers. Frankly, even adding in toes, I don’t have enough digits to cover the latest instances of my well-documented antisociability.

  Apparently Marlee agrees, because she shifts her gaze from Roger to me. “You need help,” she announces.

  “Pretty sure the Navy doctors covered that,” I assure her. “I’ve been cleared for any and all activities.”

  She reaches out and punches my arm. At least, I think that’s what she means to do. The end result is more like a love tap, really. She has no idea how to deliver a blow. “You rescued me yesterday, and I’ve been doing some thinking. I’m grateful and I’m going to look after you. It’s like Robin Hood.”

  Pretty sure the words coming out of her mouth are in English, but I have no clue what she means. I fall back on my standard grunt-ese, hoping she’ll move on. “Uh-huh.”

  Naturally, she doesn’t take the bait.

  “You rescued me yes
terday. I’ll be here for you when you need rescuing. Then we’ll be even.”

  “Sweetheart, I never need rescuing,” I point out. I’m a fully trained US Navy SEAL and a damned good sniper. You screw with me and I can kill you a half-dozen different ways.

  She huffs, her lips forming the sweetest ring. It says far too much about the kind of man I am that I immediately start thinking about fucking that pretty mouth. Since clearly I’m in need of self-improvement, I try to think about something else. Anything else. Problem is, my dick’s contradicting the big head’s orders. Sex, sex, sex—my dick’s single-minded.

  I’m doomed.

  “I’m older than you,” she says. Once again, I’m clueless. Fortunately, since Marlee never shuts up, the explanations come flooding out of her mouth. Apparently, her advanced age qualifies her to look out for me in approximately a hundred different ways, none of which are happening other than over my dead body.

  I raise a brow. “How old are you?”

  “Too old,” she grumbles. “Think of me like your auntie or mother.”

  “Got a problem with that,” I admit. “Seeing as how the good state of Florida frowns on incest. Maybe you could settle for being my fairy godmother or some shit like that?”

  Marlee looks at me suspiciously, clearly not certain whether I’m serious or not. And the thing is, I usually am serious. I’ve spent six of the last eight years doing a job where people die every day. But Marlee makes me smile.

  She frowns as she thinks over what I just said. “You want to sleep with your aunt?”

  “I wouldn’t mind fucking you,” I say, then glance down at the baby. Still sleeping, thank God. Poor kid’s gonna be cursing like a SEAL before he reaches kindergarten.

  “I’m too old for you,” she says firmly. “But you’re sweet to pretend.”

  “Are you Methuselah? Because you don’t look old to me.” At all.

  She laughs and pats me on the arm. “You can’t possibly find me attractive,” she says.

  Shit. We all know there’s no good answer to this one. If I declare she’s an elderly, asexual hag, I’ve just proved her point and underscored what a bastard I am (not to mention a liar). On the other hand, if I jump into the conversational waters with a passionate declaration of why and how I find her attractive, I’m kind of a creeper. Not sure what I’d have to do to get a date with her. Whip my dick out and let her see firsthand how hard she makes me? Bet that would get her off my porch fast. Us dating and/or going at it like sexed-up bunnies isn’t a good idea for many reasons, but her being older doesn’t make the list. I don’t give a fuck if she’s got an eight-year head start on me. I run fast, and I always catch my target.

  Of course, Marlee talks even faster than I run. She’s back to the fairy godmother thing. “I have to save your life. Then we’re even.”

  She grins at me, all thoughts of sexual attraction clearly banished from her head.

  “You’re saying you’re waiting around until I have a near-fatal accident and then you’re gonna jump in and rescue me?”

  “You bet. You’re stuck with me. Glued at the hip. Besties.”

  She sounds fucking gleeful, which is my first clue.

  Nothing is gonna be the same.

  And so that’s how Marlee and I became friends. Although become isn’t the right word to describe the way she barges into my life and drags me out of the shadows. When I’m around Marlee, I don’t watch from the sidelines. She drags me right into the thick of things. She may be trouble, but I’m trouble’s new best friend.

  Being a dumbass, I initially try to go back to lurking in the shadows, keeping an eye on her from a distance. Marlee, however, doesn’t like distance. It takes me less than a day to figure that out after our close encounter at Search and SEALs. In fact, she trains me with the same meticulous, careful prep I give our dogs. It’s just that my reward isn’t a cookie or even a bright pink ball.

  My reward is her.

  Beats a fucking cookie any day.

  Training dogs to protect, defend, and act on command isn’t always as exciting as it sounds. Sure, there are days when you wear more protective gear than a firefighter tackling a burning building and your newest dog comes flying at you, all teeth and lethal intent. Maybe you roll around in the dirt, wrestling and laughing, because something’s finally clicked in the dog’s head and he wants this. This, of course, being a piece of your ass or your throat.

  Most days, though, it’s endless repetitions of obstacle courses. Leading the dog from place to place until you both could run the course in your sleep. It’s a whole lot of same-old-same-old because if the dog can’t do his work in his sleep—or while taking enemy fire, under a mortar attack, or any one of a hundred other high-stress, battleground situations—you’re sending the dog out to die, and he’s gonna take his team with him.

  Since we’re actually not trying to blow up the Florida Keys (although our neighbors have complained more than once about our love of explosives), I take Bravo into the Bunker. It’s not an actual bunker—for one thing, it’s above ground—but once upon a time, it was a warehouse in a grittier part of Miami. We bought it, disassembled it, and moved it here. Four walls and a roof is a requirement when you’re working with explosives, but we didn’t want to sink so much money into it that we would care about a few scorch marks.

  Today’s course requires me to set up two hundred paint cans. The cans are galvanized metal, and we set each of them on a 12x12 square of wood. Some of the cans hold your basic bomb-building ingredients—TNT, water gel, the plastic explosives shit your average terrorist uses. The rest are empty. Bravo’s job is to find the lethal stuff and to do it quickly. Dogs have excellent noses from birth. It’s like God Almighty decided to give them a head start in the bomb sniffing business. So the tricky part isn’t teaching them to sniff—it’s teaching them what to sniff for and where. Later, we’ll graduate Bravo to a room full of real stuff—palettes, boxes, luggage… whatever we can throw at him. Dogs don’t smell like people. You and I, we walk along the beach outside and we just smell that briny, warm sea smell. It’s all one big picture, one happy-making smell for us.

  Bravo, however, picks up on each individual component. He smells the salty water, the riper, greener scent of the seaweed washed up on the sand, fish, and a dozen other things. Probably can tell you where the seagull shit is too, and where the Friday night drinker tossed his empties. Bombs work the same way for Bravo. He picks up on the individual chemical components, and my job is to teach him which ones are harmless and which ones he should alert his handler to.

  When I bring him in, he’s practically quivering with excitement. He knows what’s at stake—ten minutes of sheer, unadulterated, tooth-gnawing, tail-shaking pleasure with his favorite red ball. If he finds my explosives, he gets the ball. For Bravo, it’s the simple pleasures in life that get him going. He trots briskly down the first row, sniffing each can in turn. He’s eager, straining slightly at the leash, but he’s thorough.

  When he reaches the third row, he sits, planting his ass on the ground. Bingo.

  “Who’s a good boy?” I croon. “Who knows where all the boomy-bang-bang things are? Yes, you do. Don’t you?”

  Trade secret? Dogs like baby talk. Some guys aren’t willing to put out that way for a dog, but I’ll give mine whatever they want. Bravo’s ears prick forward as he eats up my words. I reward him a handful of Kibble from my pocket too. Stuff’s not half-bad, either—yes, I’ve tried it. Not like I want a bowl full with milk to kick-start my day, but it goes down and stays down.

  Thirty minutes later, Bravo’s back to his kennel, and I’m confronting Mount Paperwork in Search and SEALs’ main office. I have no idea where all this paper comes from, but it breeds faster than the cats and bunnies Finn brings home. I’m tempted to toss the lot into a trashcan and torch it, but some of our clients enclose live checks.

  “Your girlfriend’s here,” Finn drawls. I don’t even have to look out the window to know it’s Marlee—I can hear the
annoying squeak-thunk of her bike coming up our road. The bike’s on its last legs, the gears wheezing down the road like an asthmatic missing an inhaler. Plus, this is the third morning she’s “dropped by,” which makes her being here less “I happened to be in the neighborhood” and more routine. Finn sprawls behind his own desk, pretending to type shit on his laptop. While I scored mailroom duty, Finn won the title of office manager. He’s the lucky bastard who keeps us stocked with toilet paper and other essentials. We call Ro the Emperor, Our Lord and Master, and His Fucking Excellency. Usually to his face.

  “Order some more of those coffee pod things,” I tell Finn, ignoring his announcement. He’s in charge of supplies, so when the Keurig runs dry, he gets to fix it. You don’t want to piss him off, though—last time I did, he ordered chocolate raspberry instead of regular coffee. After my fifth cup of the too-sweet crap, I even apologized.

  “You forgot to say Please, master,” he shoots back. The problem with going into business with long-term friends is that they’re friends. Finn, for example, knows all about my past misdeeds. When I accidentally ended up at a Miami BDSM club with Brayden Lucas, a BUD/S instructor, I made the mistake of texting Finn. The pictures weren’t my smartest move, either, but I blame the tequila shots for that one. And it’s not like Finn’s a saint himself. Until he met Ms. Valentina Fuentes and she tamed his bad boy heart, he had more dates than a calendar.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

  Finn’s grin is downright evil. “Is she or is she not a girl?”

  I’m happy to say that after rescuing Marlee the other day, I’m one hundred percent certain she’s female. That bikini of hers left nothing to the imagination, and I’ve had every inch of her stretched out beneath me. While more in-depth exploration might sound good to my dick, my bigger head (the one that better be doing the thinking) disagrees.