SEAL the Deal (3 page)

“No, thank you,” she said, quickly hopping
into her car.

As she pulled away, she glanced out her
window to see his stunned face as he stood in the parking lot alone.

***

Air. Air. I need cold air.

Her body still smoldering, Lacey
frantically pressed the buttons of her car’s AC as if pushing them multiple
times might get the air to cool faster.

She glanced again in the rear view mirror
as the image of the man became nothing more than a speck in the distance. She
could still see him though—as clear in her memory as if his face was
hovering above her dashboard.

His supremely sexy face.

She felt hot. Too hot to drive. Too hot to
do anything but jump into the Severn River as she crossed the Naval Academy
Bridge heading into West Annapolis.

What had just happened? Had she really
been that close to planting her lips on that man? On his lips…or any other body
part he had readily available? No woman would kiss a man she had just met at a
funeral. Especially when she’s there on business.

Of course, few women went to funerals for
business. But that was beside the point.

“There’s no one to check on my bumps?” she
repeated to herself with self-loathing. Just once, she’d love to come up with a
clever reply the way her friend Maeve always did around men.

Glancing at the clock on her dashboard,
she noted that she could make her next funeral. Then she replayed the last few
minutes of the previous funeral in her head, wondering if she should go at all.
Clearly she was off her game.

Lacey changed lanes, narrowly missing a
car in her blind spot. Letting out a breath, she pulled into the parking lot of
the Navy Stadium, deciding to cool down before driving further. Maybe it was
the effects of that fall. Maybe she really should go to the doctor.

Maybe she should just go home and have a
drink.

Resting her head on her steering wheel,
she started to laugh and then surprised herself when tears started to fall. Could
it be PMS? She quickly visualized a calendar in her head. No. She couldn’t even
use that as an excuse.

What a wreck she was. Swept off her
feet—literally—by a man with a bod like the statue of David, and
she completely loses it.

The stress of the real estate business
here in Annapolis was obviously killing her. Or maybe she was breathing in too
much formaldehyde at all these funerals.

Or it was the lack of sex. That’s what
Maeve would tell her. Hell, that’s what every cell in her body was screaming
right now.

Suddenly, she was laughing again, nearly
hysterically at the memory of herself falling flat on the floor in the middle
of a funeral home. She didn’t know if she should feel humiliated, angry, or—remembering
the final thirty seconds in the parking lot—turned on.

Yep, she was definitely turned on.

That, she decided, is exactly the type of
man she had to avoid until this newest career of hers takes shape. Just a
little time off from distractions, she had convinced herself. With a string of
pathetic dates still fresh in her memory at the time, a temporary hiatus from
men hadn’t seemed like much of a sacrifice.

Of course, she hadn’t been counting on
meeting a guy who looked like…
that
. The man radiated sex from his pores.

No, no, no.
Letting out a breath that would have made her yoga
instructor proud, she attempted to mentally purge his delectably yummy image. She
was not going to spend her thirties the same way she had killed time in her
twenties—dabbling in dead-end jobs, distracted by whatever or whomever
crossed her path.

Just once, she wanted a business card with
a boast-worthy tagline:

Lacey Owens: Ranked #1 in Real Estate Sales
in Annapolis.

And finally, she had come up with a
foolproof plan for making it reality. It was a plan even worthy of Vi. She just
had to stay focused.

With a sigh, she pulled an obituary from a
file she had stashed in her back seat, and punched another funeral home address
into her GPS. She might just be able to make it.

Lieutenant Commander Mick Riley played
those minutes in the parking lot with that leggy brunette over in his mind as
he stood in front of his bed, pinning medals to his uniform with precision that
bordered on OCD.

He gave himself a slight nod. Each one was
perfectly straight, perfectly aligned with the next, in exactly the spot
dictated to him by Navy Uniform Regulations.

Something about putting on his khakis made
him feel more in control. It defined him. It gave him direction. If he’d had
his uniform on, he never would have been distracted by some cute real estate
agent in her prim little suit and too-high stilettos.

Getting rejected was not a pleasant
experience, especially when the woman was hot enough to get him half-chubbed at
a funeral. But with hair the color of cinnamon sticks and legs as silky as a
pint of Haagen Daz vanilla as she lay prone on the floor, Mick was instantly
aroused. Not the most appropriate reaction, especially with Doc’s dead body
lying peacefully only twenty feet away.

Women like her shouldn’t be allowed around
men fresh from deployment.

Narrowing his eyes at his reflection, Mick
adjusted the warfare insignia pinned above the coveted Navy Cross awarded to
him just before he shipped off to Annapolis. He couldn’t help the scowl that
passed over his face. He wasn’t in the mood to remember that day in the
mountains outside Kandahar, hauling his near-dead teammate three miles under
heavy fire.

He cursed the quiet around him. He was a
SEAL, not an instructor. He should be heavily armed with an HK416 assault rifle
right now, leaping from a helicopter into enemy territory.

Instead, the Navy expected him to stand in
front of a room of green midshipmen droning on about the basics of leadership
and ethics.

Ethics. What an irony, considering the
unethical backstab dealt by his Commanding Officer that had landed Mick here.

At least he was here for Mrs. B when Doc
died so suddenly. Don and Edith Baker had been his sponsors during his plebe
year at the Academy more than a decade ago. They were like parents to him over
the years. When Doc died, Mick feared he’d never see Mrs. B smile again.

Then along comes that woman at the funeral
and some story about stargazer lilies, and Mick saw the light return to Mrs.
B’s eyes.

That must be why he was so attracted to
her. It was simply gratitude he felt for her.

Satisfied with his reasoning, he gave a
slight nod to his reflection in the mirror. “Gratitude and a nice ass,” he said
to himself as he put on his cap and headed out the door.

Stepping from his historic townhome on the
Academy campus, the “Yard” as midshipmen called it, he glanced warily around
him out of habit, still not used to being able to walk around on a work day
without his SIG Sauer pistol at his side and the weight of body armor on his
back.

It was a beautiful campus, and a hell of a
lot prettier than his surroundings during his constant deployments. Being a
naval history buff, he might enjoy a little time here in Annapolis. But two
years? He vowed to do whatever it took to get his career back on track before
then. Even with his injuries from his last mission barely healed, he wanted to
be back with his team. They were probably back in Afghanistan or maybe off the
Horn of Africa right now.

And here he was, he thought with regret as
he passed a mob of tourists being led by a guide in a colonial era costume. May
as well be stationed at Disneyworld from where he was standing. He wasn’t even
armed.

What is the point of having a job in which
he isn’t armed? Why even bother qualifying as expert on every weapon from
pistol to machine gun, if the most dangerous thing he can carry right now is a
can of Raid?

A brisk ten-minute walk across the parade
fields led Mick to the door of an unimpressive office he shared with a
Lieutenant slated to teach nuclear engineering. The damn kid looked so content
sitting behind his computer, Mick momentarily hated him.

The Lieutenant quickly rose from his seat
at attention when he saw Mick. “Sir.”

“Lieutenant, if we’re going to share an
office all year, let’s forget the formalities.”

The Lieutenant smiled. “That extra stripe
on your shoulder board tells me to stand up, Sir.”

“Yeah, well, this extra stripe reminds me
that I shouldn’t even be teaching. Don’t remind me of that by jumping to
attention every time I come into the room.”

“Done, Sir.”

“Mick,” Mick corrected. “Mick Riley.”

“Got it. Mick. Jack Falcone.” The
Lieutenant offered with a firm handshake. “So what are you doing here, then?”
Jack asked, glancing at the Navy Cross Mick had pinned to his chest. “You
should be writing your own ticket now. In San Diego or out in the field, I’d
think.”

“I pissed off my Commanding Officer after
my last mission. I was up for orders. He made a phone call or two, and here I
am.”

Jack let out a breath. “Hope it was worth
it. Pissing off your CO, I mean.”

“Probably not,” Mick muttered, wanting to
change the subject. Truth was, he couldn’t regret telling off Captain Shey that
day after the Kandahar mission. If the Captain hadn’t ordered the Blackhawk to
change extraction points when it came under fire, Sully would still be in the
SEALs rather than sent home to his wife and kids without a leg. Mick tugged at
his collar. “It’s hot as hell in here. Don’t we have air conditioning?”

“I thought you SEALs were tough,” Jack smirked.

“Yeah, I can kill a man in two seconds
bare-handed. But I can’t take this damn Annapolis heat in the summer.”

“It’s hotter in San Diego.”

“It’s not the heat...”

“…it’s the humidity,” Jack finished for
him. “Yeah, I know. My ass is stuck to this chair.”

Mick leaned back and stared vacantly at
his computer. He didn’t know the first thing about writing lesson plans or
syllabi. “How about you? Big physics brain?”

Jack flashed a smile that made him look
scarily like Brad Pitt in his younger years. “That’s me. I’ll teach here for a
couple years, then back to sea as a department head. If I don’t take your route
and piss off my CO.”

“Just don’t call him a pansy-ass bastard
to his face.”

Jack let out a low whistle.

Mick could tell he wanted to hear the
whole story, but knew better than to ask. SEAL missions were top secret, hidden
behind layers of nondisclosure forms. Black ops, they called it.

Returning to typing, Jack gave a slight
nod at the framed photo on his desk of him surrounded by four women, two
holding infants on their laps. “I’m liking it here because my sisters are all
on the East coast. I’ve been at sea so much, I barely get to see them and their
kids.” He handed the photo to Mick proudly. “I’ve got one more niece and my
first nephew now.”

Mick scowled. “You have four sisters? That
would kill me.”

“Are you kidding? It’s great. I know
everything about women. I have the inside track. I ask all the right questions,
like ‘what are you thinking right now?’ Girls love that shit. Between that and
this uniform, I can’t keep women off me.”

Mick laughed. One look at the young Lieutenant,
and anyone would know it was true. “Well, keep that uniform on, or you’ll have
the same experience I did this afternoon.”

Jack raised his eyebrows, a silent request
for details.

Mick ordinarily wasn’t the type to talk
much. Some guys liked talking about life over a few beers or while shooting
pool. The only male bonding Mick enjoyed was when he was headed into danger
with his fellow SEALs. But, staring at a blank monitor, suddenly socializing
seemed a lot less painful. “I was at the funeral of my Academy sponsor, and I
met this woman. Asked her to dinner and she shot me down.”

“You tried to pick up a woman at a
funeral?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t find that a bit…inappropriate?”

Mick paused. “I just got back from six months
in a war zone. How would I know what’s appropriate?”

“Poor excuse, Slick—I mean,
Sir
.”
Jack shook his head, his smile fading. “Seriously, man. Stay away from my
sisters.”

***

Maeve Fischer rustled the pages of the
newspaper open. She took a lengthy sip from her wine glass and gazed out at the
Chesapeake Bay.

Of all the rooms in her waterfront home,
it was the screened-in back porch that stole her heart the most. She had big
plans for rest of the house, but the porch would remain the same. Too many
perfect memories of her grandparents were on this porch. She could see them
right now, sipping their vodkas and holding hands as the sun set. They still
had held hands after nearly sixty years of marriage.

They’re holding hands today, Maeve
thought, a little comforted by the idea. Her eyes got teary—must have
been allergies—and she raised her wine glass just a touch to the horizon.