Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) (2 page)

Marlee Williams rented a stand-up paddleboard from a local dive shop four hours ago. She hasn’t returned, and the sun’s starting to go down. Mr. Dive Shop’s not worried yet (he claims Marlee gets distracted, which isn’t untrue), but I am. In fact, I’m worrying like someone’s ninety-year-old grandma, and that means I need to find Marlee so I can stop.

Marlee went right when she left the dive shop, a direction preferable to straight, as that might make her roommates with Fidel Castro in Cuba, so I head in the same direction. I putt along the narrow shoulder, scanning the ocean for… anything. Something. It’s another gorgeous day in a long string of sunshine-filled, postcard-perfect days. After Iraq, I swore I would visit Alaska or Seattle. Somewhere with some kind of weather besides sun and hot, but I went, I saw, and I missed the beach. The Florida Keys are a string of narrow, shallow islands dotting the ocean off the coast of Florida. We have a handful of year-round residents, a larger number of winter sun-seekers, and the tourists. The tourists come by cruise ship. They drive up the highway. A few come by yacht or private plane. I ignore them all.

Marlee, however, is my new hobby. She’s one of Angel Cay’s newer fulltime residents, I like watching her, and yeah… I’m fully aware that qualifies me for stalker territory. She needs looking after, or at least that’s how I justify my creeper actions to myself. The woman hasn’t met a mechanical device she can’t break. If we could teach her how to infiltrate enemy lines, she’d be a weapon of mass destruction. But Spider Man watched over Mary Jane Watson and nobody called
him
out. Not that I’m a fucking superhero, but the concept’s the same. Kinda.

Okay, not really, but I’m running with it anyhow.

When I finally spot Marlee, I hit the brakes hard and almost slam into a palm tree. This is no coincidence, because she’s way offshore, her sweet ass parked on a miniscule bit of rock and sand that probably passes for an island at low tide, but that is rapidly being eaten alive by high tide. It’s not that the ocean here is immensely dangerous, but underestimating Mother Nature is a good way to die. Where there’s water, there’s a way to drown. Heatstroke, sharks, bad jellyfish stings—these are also all well within the realm of possibility. About the only thing Marlee’s safe from way out there is a car accident or a mugging.

Honestly? This wasn’t how I thought my evening would go. I figured I’d find her, watch her make her way back to Charlie’s, and I’d laugh at myself for worrying over nothing. I whip up my binoculars, assessing the situation. I’m not entirely sure why she’s here, but there’s a wicked current in this area. My best guess is that she got caught and ran aground on the little patch of rock with the baby palm tree. I can’t imagine she’s intentionally hanging out there.

Marlee bends over, fiddling with something on her SUP board. Her island is too small to hold both her and the board—and it’s only gonna get smaller as the tide comes in. The other thing getting smaller is her striped bikini bottom. As Marlee wiggles, doing God knows what, the damp fabric creeps up her ass. I’ve got a fantastic view of her butt and the soft curves of her cheeks. She’s tied her T-shirt beneath her boobs, and if she had a hat, she’s lost it.

Christ. I’m creeping myself out. I toss the binoculars onto the passenger-side seat. I need next steps. Stat. As the dive shop guy pointed out (or more accurately, yelled after me when I tore out of his parking lot, the truck’s wheels spitting gravel), Marlee isn’t my job, isn’t my problem. I don’t usually engage, but it’s not like I can stand on shore and watch her panic—or drown. I mean, eventually someone’s gonna come looking for her, but eventually can take a long time, and Charlie isn’t hauling ass to find her. It will also take him some time to work his way down here, and I’m betting Marlee isn’t hiding a cell phone in her fabulously itty-bitty swimsuit.

Marlee takes care of everyone. She’s happy, she’s more than a little flakey, and I want to take care of
her
. She’s the kind of person who colors her hair and turns it lilac. The drapes definitely don’t always match those curtains, but she’s got curls that go everywhere no matter what color she’s picked this week and the warmest brown eyes. A smile that doesn’t quit. I like that about her—you look at her, you smile, too. And I’m not a guy who does a hell of a lot of smiling. Letting her drown—or freak out on her teeny-fucking-tiny island perch—isn’t an option.

I don’t know how she feels about me. I mean, she knows my name, and we’ve had more than a few conversations, but only about the superficial stuff. She’s Vali’s girlfiend (Vali’s description, not mine), and Vali and Finn are a pair now so… that makes her part of my unit? Not quite, but I like the idea. She’s not a full-fledged SEAL, but more like a fellow soldier or sailor. If I spotted her across the parade ground, I’d salute, and I’d definitely buy her a beer if I ran into her in the bar. That also means I should definitely rescue her. I can’t leave one of my guys in trouble.

I have to go after her.

I could honk. See if that gets Marlee’s attention and then ask if she needs an assist. That’s not me, though. I’m used to operating in the shadows. Laying on the horn and announcing to the whole world that I’m here just seems wrong. So I get out of the truck, shuck my T-shirt and boots, and empty my pockets onto the front seat. I keep the dive knife and a few other tools, because it never hurts to be prepared. That shit can get wet. I eye the water and the fixed rip blocking my way to Marlee, then grab the fins I keep in the back. Extra firepower won’t hurt.

I sprint over the sand and run into the water. Just like a training exercise, right? I dive, slicing through the water. Marlee’s a quarter-mile offshore, and we’re losing light fast. When I come up, I slide the fins on and kick hard for her. I can cover five hundred yards in eight minutes. I swim parallel to the current for thirty feet and then angle toward Marlee. After Uncle Sam’s training exercises, this is as easy as floating in a bathtub. I close in on my target—who appears to be oblivious to my approach.

“Sharks come out when it gets dark,” she tells her board. I told you that I’ve been watching her way too much, right? Because I totally know that this is normal for her. She talks to everything and everyone. Hell, she even talks to me when she’s out of other options. Right now, she’s babbling nonstop at the board, which naturally enough doesn’t answer. The Florida Keys are home to a wide selection of sharks, but most sharks are scavengers. If you’re a dead body in the water, sure, they think snacks are on you (literally), but they’re not going after you while you’re kicking, screaming, and breathing. Most of them are reef sharks and not a threat.

She smacks the board with the flat of her hand. “Do you see fins?”

Shocker, but since the board doesn’t answer her, I give it a shot as I pull myself out of the water. She’s touching distance from me now. “Only fins are on my feet, sweetheart.”

Marlee shrieks and swings the board at my head. Since I’m only half out of the water, I drop to the sand in the interests of keeping my brains in my head and my skull intact. One quick hard tug knocks the board from her hand and brings her down. I’m careful to drop her onto me—there’s not a whole lot of room to spare on her “island”—because she’s clearly worried about sharks. She lands on my chest hard, the air woofing out of her lungs and cutting off the screech. The funny thing is, though, that I’m the one who can’t breathe. Marlee’s gorgeous and mostly naked—so there’s a whole lot of woman pressed against me, stealing my air. To give my lungs (or my dick) a break, I roll her beneath me, pinning her wrists over her head in a smooth, well-practiced move.

This is what we SEALs like to call a win-win situation, because now not only is my head safe from further assault, but my dick is wedged between Marlee’s thighs. She kicks instinctively, bucking against my hold, and her legs slide around my hips.

Marlee’s hair flies over her face, and I fight the urge to smooth it away. I’m pretty sure she just tried to brain me, although her efforts are nothing compared to the last Taliban fighter I went hand-to-hand with. She’s a curvy gal, and her bikini top doesn’t do much to contain her top half even when she’s on her back. For just a second, my brain goes AWOL imagining her sitting on
top
of me and riding my dick like a cowgirl. Might even pop out of those blue-and-white stripes, because everywhere I look, I see soft skin and generous curves. Best. Sight.
Ever.
I drag my gaze back up to her face—two inches beneath mine—but there’s no blocking the feeling.

“You scared me,” she growls.

Yeah. I’d figured that out on my own.

“I can go away,” I offer, although honestly she’s not in a position to be choosy. I’m the one on top.

“You’re heavy,” she counters. “And I’m stuck.”

She shifts restlessly beneath me, or at least tries to. Honestly, I’m not a small guy. She’s got a better chance of moving the island.

“You’re late returning to the dive shop.”

She bites her lip. Inhales. Exhales. It’s like she’s
trying
to torture me. Her bikini top slips further, and suddenly there’s way too much Marlee pressed against my bare chest. I should have left my T-shirt on.

“Are you the repo man?” Of course she thinks Charlie’s worried about her returning the equipment—Marlee’s sense of self-esteem is seriously underdeveloped.

“Apparently I’m your white knight.” I roll off her. There’s just enough room on her mini-island for me to lie next to her, although my feet are still in the water, and my head’s getting wet. We really should get going. She makes a small noise. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed, cheering my rescue plans on, or just clearing her throat. “Unless you want me to leave you here.”

“No,” she says quickly. I probably should be offended that she thinks I’d actually abandon her, but at least it tells me that she’s unaware of my stalking sideline. If she knew how often I kept an eye on her, she’d know I’d never leave her.

I give the rip another assessing look. From where I am, swimming through isn’t a good idea. I may be a former SEAL, but Marlee isn’t. Plus, she has to be tired after hours of paddleboarding. I sense her eyes on me as I examine her board. It’s definitely temporarily hosed—I pull out my duct tape and the knife and go to work.

She sounds less pissed off now—maybe she’ll appreciate the rescue after all. “You carry all that stuff with you?”

I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Comes in handy.”

While she starts talking (and talking and talking) about how she ended up here, I tape her board back together. Then I set it in the water.

“On.” I point to the board. “I’ll tow you to shore.”

She doesn’t move. See, she’s trying to make herself say that she doesn’t need help. That she’s got this and she doesn’t need to put me out or inconvenience me. Since I’m already soaking wet and I’ve swum out here to get her, that’s bullshit and I’d rather get her back to the shore and safety. She can help me out by following orders.

“On,” I repeat. “Unless you want to camp out here overnight?”

She hesitates but does it. Marlee’s smart, and since she’s out of options, she’ll take my help. I adjust her grip on the board, slide into the water, grab the board’s leash, and kick off. We’re gonna have to swim parallel to the rip for about a quarter mile before I can bring us back to shore and my truck. Ten minutes—fifteen minutes tops—and she’ll be safe. By then, the sun will be all the way down, but my night vision is fine.

“I’ll be shark patrol,” she announces, and I fight the urge to snort. Inhaling water won’t get her to shore any faster. Instead, I set a fast, hard pace, pulling us through the water with steady strokes. Lights from the occasional passing car flash through the palm trees crowding the beach, and it’s dark enough now that I can’t see the bottom anymore. I’ve swum in worse, though, so it’s no BFD.

Marlee’s words wash over me, a stream of commentary on the water, the sunset, our relative position to shore, and the four hundred different (and unacceptable) reasons for how she ended up stranded on a shrinking island. I’m not one for small talk. If I don’t have anything to say, I’m silent. Marlee clearly takes a different approach to life. Since she also doesn’t seem to need a conversational contribution from me, I swim, she talks, and together we make our way to shore.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes when my feet hit bottom. I pull off my fins and wade for the beach, still towing the board with Marlee on it. Part of me is kind of disappointed that we’re done so fast. Apparently, a ten-minute swim is a new high in my admittedly pathetic dating life. I grunt noncommittally when she thanks the divine powers a second and then a third time, and I keep walking.

“I owe you my life,” she says. “It’s like Robin Hood. I have to stick by your side and be your boon companion until I’ve made this up to you.”

Danger.

I prefer to work alone. I live alone. Other than interacting with my boys, Ro and Finn, I’m a one-man island and I like it that way. Plus, the mental images that sprint through my sorry head at the words
stick by your side
are positively pornographic. My Robin Hood lore is limited, but I’m positive Marlee doesn’t mean
sex slave.
Therefore I say the first socially acceptable thing that comes to mind. “
Thank you
works for me.”

Okay. Lots of things work for me, but I’m not an asshole. I can’t
tell
her that what I’d really like to do is lay her down on the sand and strip off her bikini. Better yet, I’d like to do it slowly. Drag my knuckle down the silky fabric covering her pussy and touch her until she goes up in flames.

She giggles, and that happy sound makes the corners of my mouth turn up. Marlee’s contagious, which is another reason why she’s dangerous.

“I was thinking of something more concrete,” she says. She’s still got a death grip on the board, but some of the tension has left her body now that we’ve put the rip current behind us and she’s splashing distance from the beach.

“Uh-huh.” Grunting’s my safest response. No idea what she means by
concrete
, but I’ve just discovered that I can, in fact, get a raging hard on while swimming like a mad man for shore. Certainly never had that problem in BUD/S, so I blame Marlee one hundred percent.