One Hot SEAL

One

Hot

SEAL

ANNE MARSH

Ex-SEAL Luke Dawson’s new mission in life is fighting fires.
When he rescues local bad girl Deelie Olsen from a summer blaze, lust isn’t
supposed to be part of the equation. Nor is love—but something about the
frank, tough-as-nails woman has him throwing caution to the wind. Getting her
in bed may be easy, but getting to know her will be a whole lot harder… and the
battle for Deelie’s heart is one fight he has every intention of winning.

1

Luke Dawson loved his job. Fire roared on the other side of
the hill. Although the flames weren’t visible yet, the rain shower of embers
dropping everywhere and the choking smoke were Mother Nature’s heads-up that a shitstorm
of destruction was barreling toward the Black Mountain hotshots. Usually, Luke
would have dug his heels and his Pulaski in, literally drawing the line in the
forest floor between what burned and what escaped the flames. It was the best
kind of firefight and a welcome change of pace after two tours of duty as a US
Navy SEAL. He’d loved that job too, but it had been time to come home. Time to
put down a different kind of roots and get on with living his life.

But today had gone to shit, and it
wasn’t Mother Nature’s fault. The campsite was supposed to be clear—and
all the official sites were. The Black Mountain crew had rousted the last occupants
over an hour ago and sent them with a police escort to a safer area. The
problem was there had been nine cars at those campsites—and
ten
cars had checked in with the park
ranger earlier that day. Unless a car had grown wings and flown away, Luke
Dawson had a rogue camper who’d copped an illegal spot somewhere.

A
flambéed
camper if Luke didn’t find him or her.

He was unfortunately reminded of
his last mission as a SEAL, storming a Somali pirate ship to rescue the hostage
crew. Not only had the pirates decided to split up their captives, making a
rescue effort more challenging, but some of the crew members had successfully
hidden from the pirates, putting friendlies in unknown locations. They’d taken
out the pirates, but clearing the vessel had taken hours of painstakingly
sweeping each level.

Luke and Pick Harris were supposed
to be confirming that the campground was empty. Pick ran with a local
motorcycle club in the off-season. Luke had asked him once about the name and
gotten a terse
Pickax
in reply.
Someday Luke planned on getting the story behind the name from him, but that
wouldn’t be tonight.

 
“So we’re definitely missing a camper.
Highway patrol is running the plates to get an ID on the owner and reach out in
case the driver somehow managed to leave the park without checking out with the
rangers.”

Double-checking was the smart move,
but they didn’t have the time to wait. The fire would crest the hill within the
hour, probably sooner, and since the Northern California campground occupied
fairly rugged terrain, that didn’t leave them any time to search.

 
“Roger that. I’ll check this road.” Luke
pointed to a gravel access road.

Pick nodded, looking thoughtful. “How
long until we can get the tankers in the air?”

“Two hours until sunrise. Our boys
can’t fly until they’ve got daylight, but they’re gassed and ready to go.
They’ll be airborne by six.”

Which would be about an hour and a
half too late for Mystery Camper.

Pick cursed again. “Make your road
check quick. We’re burning time.”

And ten thousand acres. Although
the most common cause of wildland fires was the goddamned people who flicked a
Bic, failed to put out a campfire, or did other dumbass, highly illegal shit,
today’s blaze was likely courtesy of a lightning strike from a thunderstorm
last week. One good hit to a dead tree could simmer for days and then explode
into flames, which was probably what had happened here.

He was good to go, so he swung up
into his truck and hit the access road. The deeper he headed into the
campground, the more obvious this Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot became. He’d driven a
Humvee through a firefight in Afghanistan once, hostile rounds landing left and
right. Now blazing embers hit his truck, thudding relentlessly against his hood
when the wind shifted briefly. Good thing he hadn’t been attached to his paint
job.

He guided his truck down the access
road, flooring the gas as much as he dared. It should be fairly easy to spot a
car. He had the make, model, and license plate number, and it was better than
beating the bushes looking for a solo hiker on foot. Leaving anyone out here
wasn’t an option, particularly a civilian who wouldn’t know how to take cover
and maximize his chances of survival. As soon as the fire hopped the hill, the
entire hotshot team would be flat-out sprinting for safety. There simply
weren’t too many good spots here to hole up and hope for the best.

The road split. “You voting left or
right?” Luke asked the bobblehead stuck to his dash. The cheerleader doll
sported the Incident Commander’s face, cut out from a newspaper article and
glued on. The guys on his team loved practical jokes, and that one had been fun.
The doll’s blond hair and supersized tits shimmied as he steered the truck
left.

There were undoubtedly all sorts of
valid and compelling reasons why Rogue Camper wouldn’t have evacuated
voluntarily. Car troubles. Sleeping pill. Heart attack. Wannabe photographer
who thought scoring an up-close-and-personal video of the firestorm would
guarantee YouTube stardom and a thousand bucks from the local news station.
None of these, however, were reasons worth dying for. After two tours in
Afghanistan, Luke had seen all sorts of reasons for dying. Some he’d been on
board with. Others had been flat-out stupid. Fire fell into the second
category.

There.

He caught a flash of metal through
the trees. Someone had parked a beat-up, powder-blue Cadillac by the stream.
Another foot and the car would have been
in
the water, although the six inches of mountain water didn’t pose much of a
danger. It was the principle of the thing. Someone had converted the old
Cadillac into a truck, the low boat of a car now sporting a bona fide truck
bed. He couldn’t see a tent in the clearing, but there was definitely a blanket-covered
mound in the back of the Caddy.

Shit. If the camper was already
dead, the return trip would suck.

Pulling over, he radioed in his
position. “I’ve got our missing vehicle. I’m making contact now.”

“Roger that.” Pick’s voice crackled
over the headset. “Load him up quick because the fire’s gonna crest soon and I
left my fucking crystal ball at home. Maybe the flames jump the road, maybe they
don’t, but I wouldn’t be hanging around to admire the scenery.”

“Ten-four.” He left the truck ready
because a speedy getaway was clearly the order of the day. When he got out, the
air was smoky but still breathable.

“Black Mountain hotshot crew.” He
announced his presence as he strode toward the Caddy. If the guy was still
okay, scaring the camper into a heart attack would only make the situation more
challenging. “The campground’s under a mandatory evacuation.”

He shone his flashlight into the
truck bed, expecting to see movement. And…
 
got nothing. A small white head popped up
from beneath the blanket mound. The dog was small and squat, its sides wider
than it was high. It panted happily, the crystals in its pink collar flashing
in Luke’s light. Okay. If the dog was breathing fine, the camper should be too.
He’d roust the sleeper, get him or her back into the Caddy and onto the road. Reaching
into the truck bed, he grabbed the closest piece of Blanket Mountain and shook.

“Fire department. There’s a
mandatory evacuation.”

Sleeping Beauty sat up, and Luke
had a whole different problem on his hands. Or, rather, in his
palm
, because he was cupping a
stranger’s breast. Granted, it was a mighty fine breast that was completely free-range
beneath a worn T-shirt. Mystery camper had huge tits.

“If you’re not buying me a beer,
that boob’s off-limits. I’ve got a guard dog, and Vicious will kick your ass.” Maybe
the exhaustion and grogginess in her voice explained how she’d slept through a
forest fire creeping up on her. The earplugs she yanked out had to have been a
contributing factor as well. Who the hell wore earplugs way out here in the
forest where the only night noises were a few crickets and marauding raccoons?

They both examined the dog, who was
panting happily. The same dog who couldn’t be bothered to bark when he’d pulled
into her clearing—and that was now licking the back of his hand. Yeah. So
vicious. Then she looked down, a playful smile tugging at her pretty mouth. Even
underneath all the crazy, every-which-way curls, he could see she had what his
older brother had called One of Those Mouths. Pouty and kiss-shaped, her mouth
made a man fantasize about the Victoria’s Secret catalog—or guiding those
lips down his dick. He needed to work on his dating life. He needed to
not
get a hard-on for the damsel in
distress.

“I’m not hearing you offer me a
beer.” And… he was still holding her breast like it was the handle of an ax.

“Sorry.”
Fuck
. He yanked his hand back. “The campground’s under a mandatory
evacuation, ma’am.”

Yeah. Definitely a
ma’am
. At least, he hoped like hell he
hadn’t just felt up a minor, because then he’d have to kick his own ass. She
shoved her hair out of her face and recognition hit him. Nope. He didn’t have
himself an underage, illegal camper, but a whole different kind of trouble.

Deelie Jacks.

Her heart-shaped face was downright
unforgettable, as were the hazel eyes with the flecks of green he’d spent days
of his high school career trying to describe in excruciatingly bad rap lyrics.
Deelie had always been the prettiest girl in town, although he suspected that
had hurt more than it had helped her. People didn’t always bother to look past
the pretty package and see who she was inside. They got stuck on the honey-colored
hair tumbling around her face to her shoulders and how she looked—in the
best possible way—like she’d just rolled out of bed. She’d won homecoming
queen and at least two magazine competitions, but then she’d stuck around
Strong when the rest of their high school class was busy leaving.

The pink streaks in her hair were
new, but otherwise, she hadn’t changed a bit in the twelve years since he’d
seen her last. The part running down the center of her head was the only portion
of her that stuck to the straight and narrow, and even then, it wasn’t
perfectly straight. No, there was nothing
perfect
about his Deelie—except that once upon a time he’d looked at her and
thought that she was perfect for him. His friends and family had been happy to
explain just how stupid
that
particular plan of his had been. She’d dumped his sorry ass spectacularly.

From the slow smile on her face,
she remembered him too. Her gaze dropped like she was trying to eyeball his
crotch through the side of her Caddy. Yeah. She definitely remembered him.

“Why, if it isn’t Luke Dawson.”

~*~

The last time Deelie had seen Luke,
she’d had his pants and his boxers down and her mouth on his dick. It had been
a shockingly good look for him, and she’d enjoyed the heck out of herself that
night. That had been just one of the many reasons why she’d cut him loose the
next day. Luke’s parents owned a cattle ranch, and he’d helped out there all
through high school, making him a bona fide part-time cowboy. She’d enjoyed a
good (or bad) cowboy fantasy even then. The younger Luke had been tall and
lean, although not so big that he approached mountain territory. He was still
cut, moving with a confident prowl. She’d bet he still kissed with that same
confidence he’d shown twelve years ago. Mr. In Charge, right up to the moment
she dropped to her knees and gave him his first blow job. A boy didn’t forget
his first.

She could feel her lips curving up
in a smile even as his eyes narrowed briefly, before the edges crinkled up in a
smile. He’d always had a sense of humor.

She waited to see if he recognized
her. She’d learned the hard way a few shifts into her second career at Ma’s
that guys didn’t always remember the cocktail waitress they’d fucked the month
before, the week before, or even the night before. And it had been—she
did a quick mental count—at least twelve years since she’d run into Luke.

“Deelie.” His growly, rough voice
saying her name made her toes curling, even though she knew it wasn’t personal.
He always sounded like such a tough ass, and yet she knew he had a sweet side.

“We have to go.” When he turned
away, she squashed a pang of hurt.

“No good-bye
kiss?” It was like poking the sore spot in a tooth. She knew she
shouldn’t do it, but how could she
not
?
Plus, she was still half-stupid from the sleeping pill she’d downed a few hours
ago, which had to explain why all she could do was stare at him and think
holy hotness
.

He stopped and turned around, hands
propped on his lean hips, thumbs hooked into pockets of the olive pants. She got
up on her knees, because she was shameless and he was worth looking at. Yum.
Steel-toed boots. The sexy on his bottom half made up for the neon yellow shirt
he wore and the hard hat.

“Three words. Mandatory. Campground.
Evacuation.”

Right. He’d barked something at her.
Vicious had
failed
to bark, and then
Deelie had started staring at his dick. Conversation over. He gestured behind
him and up, and she automatically looked. Holy crap. The sky was on fire. The orange
glow was huge and, now that she inhaled consciously, she smelled smoke. It was
just her luck that she’d go camping and end up in the middle of a forest fire.

She shot to her feet, feeling her
brow furrowing. Wrinkles.
Bad
. She
was already looking at the wrong side of thirty, and it wasn’t like working
part-time at Ma’s Bar earned her a paycheck that could afford Botox treatments.
Or even half a treatment. In fact, after losing her other part-time gig, she’d
been reduced to sleeping in her car because at least her car was paid for. Most
of her stuff was parked in a storage unit, where she might also have camped
once. Possibly twice. Somehow she’d thought that sleeping out in the woods
beneath the stars would be an awesome upgrade on her shitty life.