To Seduce a SEAL (Sin City SEALs) (5 page)

Chapter Seven

“Something’s not right with your mic, Ms. Tate.”

Hank, the assistant audio engineer, dropped to his knees and started fiddling with the wireless microphone pack strapped to her back beneath her fitted gingham shirt. She always performed the first two numbers in the same down-home country outfit. Jeans, a button-down red shirt tied at her waist, cowboy boots, and the Stetson her brother had given her for her eighteenth birthday.

“I noticed when the vocals dropped out,” she said with a sigh. She’d completed the opening, upbeat number with a handheld. But for the next one, the song everyone came to hear, she needed her hands for her guitar. She always performed the acoustic version of
How Do I Remember You
? but she also liked to walk around the stage. If she sat on a stool with a handheld mic on a stand, she might lose herself in the words—or worse, the memories.

“I’ll switch out the pack,” Hank said, his forearms brushing her backside while he worked.

She’d grown accustomed to mic repairs and quick changes. But the big bad alpha SEAL standing watch five feet away? U.S. Navy SEAL Dante Raske, the man who’d given her the orgasm to end all orgasms last night and then tucked her into bed, looked ready to introduce his fists to Hank’s jaw if the audio technician got fresh with her.

She met Dante’s gaze and gave her head a subtle shake. Her guard SEAL didn’t need to worry about her married audio tech. Hank had one goal—get the talent, namely her, back onstage.

“You’re all set,” Hank said, rising to his feet.

Great, now it was time to take the stage and bare her heart and soul to her fans. She had to deliver on this number, and every other one. She moved to the stairs, paused, and glanced over at Dante.

She’d been planning to send the SEALs packing this morning. But after last night, after Dante had given her exactly what she wanted without demanding anything in return, she couldn’t fire him or his redheaded partner. She’d told herself one more show. She could end their guard dog routine tomorrow, before her final Vegas performance.

And while he was here…

She looked Dante straight in the eye. “Mr. SEAL,” she called, one foot on the steps leading to the stage. “Pay attention to this next song. This is what country’s all about.”

“Sex?” His lips curved into one of his rare smiles. She’d witnessed that grin last night before he’d devoured her.

She shook her head. “Heart.”

She paused on the stairs and pointed to the blond-haired eight-year-old standing beside the sound board set up to mix the track for her earpiece. “And watch what you say about my music,”
and last night,
“in front of my kid sister, okay?”

His smile vanished as he glanced at Melissa. And, she recalled, he’d had a few choice words for her manager when he’d learned that her mother had dropped off Melissa for the show.

Are you fucking kidding me? You’re worried about her safety, so you’re adding an eight-year-old to the mix?

But Dante didn’t realize that no one had any control over her mother these days.

“And keep an eye out for Melissa, okay? If she gets tired, have someone show her to the greenroom.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said without hesitation.

Back to ma’am now?

She turned and headed for the stage. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw her overprotective SEAL move closer to the sound console and Melissa, the youngest of the Tate brood. The blond-haired little girl was the “oops” baby of the family, born twenty-something years after the accidental pregnancy that had led to her parents’ rushed marriage. And Melissa was one of the main reasons Chrissie fought for her career. She loved singing her songs. But Melissa owned her heart. Just like her seventeen-year-old twin brothers Brandon and Matthew.

She thought about offering another thank-you to the bodyguard she planned to fire in the morning. Instead, she walked onto the stage and picked up her guitar.

She couldn’t see faces in the audience standing under the bright lights. But she could hear the roar of the crowd quiet down as she played the first few notes. They’d come here for this. Her number one hit. She opened her mouth and began to sing.

…

I wear your dog tags… But that’s not the you I knew…

The guitar chords filled the theater, each heartfelt note more out of place than the last against the backdrop of a Sin City stage.

Cold metal against my skin…
But I close my eyes and see the boy who stole my dolls, the friend who held my hand… How do I remember you?

He’d seen war, but he’d never witnessed it through a family member’s eyes. How the hell could she go up there and offer up her heart night after night? How could she bare her soul to a theater full of strangers? In Vegas of all places?

She wasn’t afraid.

But he was. He couldn’t open up like that. Not to a room full of strangers or one woman. Not after his ex. Sure, he’d made light of it on the drive yesterday. But sometimes it felt like the woman he’d vowed to love for the rest of his life had carved a hole in his chest and taken a piece of his heart. He hadn’t felt whole since. And he didn’t have a clue how to move on without that part of himself. He gave his all when it came to his country and love. But right now, it didn’t feel like he had his everything to give.

He glanced down at his busted knee. The scar was hidden beneath his jeans. But he knew it was there. A bright red reminder that at this point in time he fell short of Navy SEAL standards.

“She’s amazing, right?” The little girl to his left called as the song ended and the audience erupted. The kid’s blond hair and blue eyes matched her big sister’s.

“Yeah, she’s good,” he said.

“She’s the best,” the kid said, her voice firm.

“Do you attend a lot of her concerts?” he asked.

The child shook her head. “No. But I’m on spring break, so my momma had to bring me. Usually I stay home with my father. But he’s too sad right now.”

After hearing that song, I can understand why.

Chrissie launched into an upbeat number about broken hearts and lost dogs. Yeah, this part of country music wasn’t for him. But he kept his gaze fixed on the star. She danced up and down the stage, shaking her perfect, pop-princess body for the crowd.

No, he didn’t like this version of country music. But the country star? She was damn near close to irresistible.

Hell, I hope she follows through and fires my ass tomorrow.

Because after kissing her until she came, watching her pass out, and then listening to her number one hit, he had a feeling there was a lot more to Chrissie Tate than her looks. And right or wrong, he wanted to explore every part of her.

Dante scanned the crowd. The concert had wrapped up ten minutes ago. But, instead of taking a rest, Chrissie was determined to greet her fans. Why the hell was she wasting energy he was pretty damn sure she didn’t have to spare on worst-case scenarios? One look and Dante knew her fans were pushing the limits of the Vegas hotel security.

“I recommend using another exit,” he said, turning away from the stage door that led to the packed hotel corridor.

Chrissie had traded her country-girl button-down for a red, white, and blue sequined top. Melissa, her Mini-Me, stood at her side and held tight to her big sister’s hand.

Chrissie shook her head. “I need to sign autographs.”

“And then we’re getting ice cream,” her kid sister informed him.

He folded his arms across his chest and faced them, his back to the exit. The adoring fans on the other side chanted “Chrissie Tate!” over and over. But what if someone in the crowd wanted more than her autograph?

“Order room service,” he said.

“I was planning on it.” Chrissie smiled at him. That same fake grin, dammit. “But first I need to sign autographs. Those people have been waiting out there. I owe them.”

“You gave them a great show,” he said evenly.

“You liked it?” Her smile touched her eyes for a brief second. But then the grin she wore like body armor returned.

Hell, he wanted to tell her that wasn’t a guarantee. There were some things it couldn’t protect against. Like an IED or a shot to the head.

Or a crazy-ass country music fan.

“Yeah. I’m not about to go out and buy cowboy boots or anything—”

“But you liked hearing songs about pickups, dead dogs, and the good old U.S.A.,” she teased as she tried to walk around him.

“Not the ones about the trucks and the dogs.” He moved in front of her. “But the rest were about you. I liked them because the lyrics were honest.”

Her smile vanished, but she didn’t look away. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s find another way out of this place.”

She drew a deep breath. “You’re fired.”

“I’ll pass the message on to Ronan. But I’m still not letting you through this door.”

Mason rushed over. He’d traded his suit for ripped jeans that looked as if he bought them that way and a button-down shirt. “What’s the holdup, Chrissie? The crowd is getting restless.”

“The hired muscle needed to share his concerns. I was just explaining that I had faith in his ability to think on his feet and keep me safe.” She turned to Mason, her expression a mask of concern Dante was pretty damn certain she didn’t feel. “Although, if his knee is bothering him, if he isn’t up for it, I suppose we could borrow one of the big guys the hotel hired.”

Not up for it my ass.

She was baiting him, and he knew it. But he’d spent too many weeks sitting on the sidelines feeling inadequate to take the high road. And option two, the guys who’d beefed up at the gym and applied for a bouncer job? Dante would escort her through the crowd with two broken knees before he let that happen.

“My knee’s fine,” he lied. The repaired ligaments had been giving him hell since the intermission. He should have watched the show from the audience instead of offering to cover the second shift so that Ronan could see his girl perform the opening act from the audience.

“If we go out there,” Dante said. “We do this my way. If I tell you to hit the ground, you lie down. If I tell you to run—”

“I run,” Chrissie said. “You know, I usually like to be the one giving the orders, seeing as I foot the bill, but for you, Mr. SEAL, I’ll make an exception.”

“Mr. SEAL,” her Mini-Me repeated with a giggle.

Dante looked from one sister to the other. Leading them through the crowd promised trouble. But she was right. He didn’t back down from a challenge. And he didn’t admit defeat, especially not in front of a man who paid twice as much for jeans someone else had ripped for him.

Dante lowered his arms, turned, and opened the door. “I’ll go first.”

“Such chivalry,” Chrissie said, her voice light and playful. But then, she didn’t look at the crowd and see a goatfuck waiting to happen.

“When I throw you over my shoulder and run for safety, then you can thank me for serving as your white knight.”

He walked into the wide, carpeted hotel hallway. Metal gates designed to keep the crowd securely on the other side bordered the walkway. Hotel security guards were positioned every ten feet eyeing the packed-in crowd.

Dante’s teeth gnashed together. Whoever had dreamed up this exit scenario worked in the front office and spent her days with her nose buried in spreadsheets. He glanced back at the smiling, waving talent. Yeah, that bottom-line-crazed person might be the star, who didn’t seem the least bit concerned with her personal safety.

Chrissie waved to the crowd with one hand and clenched her sister’s fingers in the other. Her Mini-Me looked as if Christmas had arrived early and Santa had delivered a herd of ponies. But the kid wasn’t looking out at the adoring crowd. She was staring up at the big sister.

“I love you!”

The scream cut through the rumble of “Over here, Chrissie!” and “Sign this, please!” He heard the fierce, yet desperate note in the cry and felt a rush of adrenaline. He scanned the crowd and spotted the man leaping over the metal gate five feet from one guard. The hotel’s hired muscle had his back turned to the guy.

Blond hair.

Military cut.

Wild, blue eyes.

Chrissie Tate T-shirt.

Knife.

“Get back,” Dante shouted, making the split-second decision to stand his ground and fight. He’d rather haul ass. But his goddamn knee might struggle under Chrissie’s weight. Add her sister and he might fall on his butt while running for safety. And he couldn’t leave her little sister behind with the security goons who’d let the man with the knife jump the fence.

Palm flat, Dante zeroed in on the man’s face. He aimed for the nose and thrust his hand to the ceiling. And thank you Jesus! The crazed fan dropped his knife and screamed with pain. Blood flowed down his face, but Dante didn’t wait to inspect the damage. He’d broken the guy’s nose. Years of training in hand-to-hand combat situations all but guaranteed that man’s face would never be the same.

He wrapped one arm around the stunned star. Chrissie’s jaw dropped open as if reaching for the butt-ugly hotel carpet, and her eyes remained wide. With the other arm, he scooped up her little sister and held her against his chest. Tears streamed down the kid’s cheeks, and her breathing was erratic.

“Everything is going to be fine,” he promised the Tate sisters. “You’re safe.”

“He had a knife,” Chrissie murmured, her hoarse tone barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.” He guided them toward the door, moving fast.

“It’s the guy from my trailer,” she continued. “Here.”

Dante mentally added “stalker” to “crazy-ass fan.”

“Call the police,” he barked to the guard nearby. The man nodded, his eyes nearly as wide as Chrissie’s had been a moment ago. But at least the hotel’s hired muscle had the sense to open the door, wait for Dante to rush through with the ladies, and slam it closed behind them.

He headed down the hall for the greenroom, brushing past the remaining crew. Then he closed the door behind him and set Melissa on the brown leather sofa. Gently, he guided Chrissie to the kid’s side.