Touched By Midas (SEALs Going Hot Book 4)
Touched by Midas
by
Brenna Zinn
Book Four, SEALs Going Hot
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Touched By Midas
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Brenna Zinn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com
Publishing History
First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2014
Digital ISBN
978-1-62830-552-4
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To the men and women of the armed forces.
Your service is greatly appreciated and never forgotten.
To the friends I made while my husband was stationed at Naval Station Rota, Spain.
I hope I did you proud and brought back fond memories of Rota with this book.
I miss you all—my military family.
PRAISE FOR AUTHOR
Brenna Zinn
AND HER BOOKS
“Readers beware…your fingers may get blisters.
~
Jacquelyn R. Ward, The Romance Studio
DAGGER’S EDGE
“Of the entire (SEALs On Fire) series, this is my absolute favorite story. I don’t know if it’s the chemestry between Dagger and Mia, the backstory or the author’s presentation of their emotions, but this was a keeper for me.”
~Chris, A Night Owl Erotica“Top Pick”
“
I loved the author's writing style and voice. Dagger's Edge was the perfect blend of heat, humor, and sensuality.
~Nina, Nina’s Literary Xscape
HIS AT LAST
“I truly enjoyed the humor, the fun, and the erotic blend that wouldn’t let me put this book down. Absolutely a delightful read.
~ Rachel Firasek, RachelFirasek.Com
Chapter One
The blades of two Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawks sliced through the night sky on their way to the tiny island nation of Koshmeca. A few hundred miles west off the Syrian coast in the Mediterranean Sea and not much larger than a postage stamp, Koshmeca succeeded at staying well below the world’s radar. Situations like military coups tended to draw attention though, as did the hostile takeover of Koshmeca’s capital building by rebel forces and the shooting of the country’s dictator.
Michael “Midas” Baudine figured the dictator made a serious mistake by showing himself on the balcony of his grand palace. Not a smart thing to do considering an unruly bunch of pissed people armed to the teeth with guns had crowded outside the palace gates. After fifteen years of rule, the dictator’s luck ran out when a bullet found his chest.
Unfortunately for Sabrina Purdy, an archeology student from the University of Minnesota on a dig not far from the Koshmeca capital, her luck hadn’t been good during the coup either. Why the daughter of a United States Senator remained on the island when Americans were advised to leave, Midas couldn’t guess. Now, she was captive of the rebel militia forces who thought she’d make a great bargaining tool with the American government for money and guns.
The Koshmeca militia couldn’t be more wrong.
As the Black Hawks continued their journey over the miles and miles of dark nothingness, Midas leaned over his bulky tactical vest and triple checked his drab khaki kneepads. The blood splats, so dried and rusty they appeared ancient, coated both. Though possibly the most disgusting items he owned, replacing them was simply out of the question. Those ugly ass pads had been on every successful mission he’d lived through. Why tempt fate by not wearing them?
His fingers itched to pull the ends of his battle dress uniform trousers from his combat boots and confirm he had, in fact, worn the lucky socks with the bleach stains. Doing so was stupid, of course. It might ease his mind, but all his gear would make that simple task a huge pain in the ass. Plus, the other members of his team would see and know precisely what he was doing and why. Instead, Midas reclined against the vibrating metal of the big bird’s cabin and idly traced the oval of the Saint Michael medal, his namesake, beneath his shirt.
Including packing and repacking his parachute four times, eating exactly and only six eggs and six pieces of bacon for dinner, and saying one Hail Mary before taking off, every step of his pre-mission ritual had been checked off. Except for tapping his helmet three times—Father, Son, and Holy Ghost—before jumping, he’d done everything needed to ensure his extra protection, as well as the others. Though his team had witnessed his incredible luck many times, they didn’t participate in his
routine
.
Midas glanced around the cavity of the Black Hawk, taking in the three faces of his SEAL team, which were dimly illuminated yellow and green by the nearby cockpit instrument panel. Despite touchdown in less than an hour to extract Ms. Purdy from her captors, the men appeared focused but relaxed. Just another day at the office.
The thoughts about the dictator’s and Ms. Purdy’s bad fortunes caused Midas’ eyes to narrow as he took in the most junior member of the team, Bear.
When would these guys ever learn?
If Midas had warned the rest of the guys in his team once, he’d warned them a thousand times—don’t get attached to females. Sure, women were fun and satisfied a lot of the needs every man had, but falling for one equated to one thing, becoming unlucky. There simply wasn’t much worse than having fortune turn a blind eye on a man, especially for a man who made a living putting his life at risk.
Each SEAL endured months of training to join the ranks of Special Operations, and the training didn’t end there. Some days it seemed like that was all they did. They trained with other SEAL teams, they trained with other branches in the military, and sometimes they trained with military units from other countries like Great Britain and Israel. They trained so much, the moves they made during actual missions came naturally, like breathing or blinking.
One thing a SEAL couldn’t train for though was luck. A guy either had it or he didn’t. As one of the luckiest sons of bitches on any SEAL team, Midas cheated death more times than Steven Spielberg made blockbuster movies. He, according to his friends, possessed the Midas touch. Maintaining that touch, that blessed nod from the powers that be, was third only to performing to the best of his ability as a member of the United States Navy and watching the sixes of the other men on his team.
Bear apparently thought he could escape the power of divine providence when he’d gone off the deep end and asked his high school sweetheart to marry him. Dumb motherfucker. Now, Midas would have to work twice as hard to keep the young SEAL from getting himself hurt. Even with all their training, the world seemed to paint a big red target on people with no luck. Bad shit rained down on them all the time.
Bear offered Midas a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders. Long black hair reaching past his shoulders and a beard that hadn’t been touched in months, Bear’s nickname couldn’t fit the man more perfectly. Besides being hairy, he was short and heavily built like an American black bear and just as wild. At least he had been until he’d lost his head and his good kismet over a woman.
“I know what that scowl means, Midas,” Bear said into the microphone attached to his headset. “What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t help myself. I love Charlotte. I want to marry her.”
Amberjack, a good ol’ boy from Port Aransas, Texas, who swam so well he’d practically grown fins and gills, poked a finger in his mouth and pretended to gag. “Where’s the hurl bag on this bird? Y’all are going to make me sick with all this sweet talk.”
“He’s just pussy-whipped,” Ox grunted. By far the largest member of the team, Ox bulldozed through the heart of matters much like he bulldozed his way through fences, small houses, and anything not made of solid steel. “Either that or Charlotte gave him an ultimatum. No more free milk. She closed the dairy until our boy Bear bought the cow.”
“It’s not like that, man,” Bear responded with his usual easygoing affability. “At some point, a man has to settle down. Charlotte’s stuck with me through all the dumb shit I’ve gotten myself into. You all know how she is. She’s a keeper. I can’t expect her to wait for me forever.”
“But you’re not going to be in the service forever,” Amberjack interjected. “Just until you’re too old to walk.”
“Or chase skirts,” Ox agreed.
“Well, if we’re all done with our group therapy, let me just say one last word on the subject.” In spite of the groans and eye rolls of his team members, Midas angled forward to make sure his point was not only made, it achieved the proper emphasis. “I respect your decision to get married. I just don’t agree with it. Women fuck with your mojo.”
“That’s right.” Ox nodded his big bald head. “And here’s my two cents. Remember when we’re out there doing our thing, you keep your head in the game. You’ll have plenty of time to moon over Charlotte and all the cubs she’ll eventually pump out when we’ve got both feet back on the quarterdeck.
Capisce
?”
Bear let out a snort. “Cubs?”
“Big, ugly cubs. Just like their daddy.” Amberjack laughed into his microphone.
“Don’t worry about me.” Bear patted his HK416 assault rifle. “Me and this baby can more than take care of business.” He turned his shaggy dark head and lifted an eyebrow at Midas. “But I understand if you’re a little jealous, Midas. Getting constantly turned down by that hotter than hell school teacher in Rota would be enough to make anyone question his manhood.”
Amberjack and Ox broke out in hoots and howls of laughter, as did the helicopter pilot, then each took a turn at giving Bear a high five.
Midas mentally rolled his eyes. Sure, each SEAL dealt with pre-mission stress in different ways. Some silently waited for the action to begin or reviewed the situation in their heads. Other soldiers checked and double-checked their equipment. But here he sat, stuck with the three who handled their tension by being the most Chatty Pattys in the entire Navy.
Would he have it any other way?
Hell, no.
“He got you there.” Ox nudged Midas with one of his massive shoulders. “You used to kill the ladies with just one look from that pretty face of yours. Could it be your luck with the ladies has run out?”
“Maybe we should change your name to Nolan Ryan,” Amberjack added, slapping Midas on the knee.
Deep valleys formed between Bear’s bushy eyebrows. “Nolan Ryan?”
Amberjack sighed into his microphone. “The Strikeout King, dumb ass. Only the best pitcher in the game of baseball. Who,” he thumped his chest twice and threw a sideways peace sign like some kind of ridiculous gangsta, “is another Texas boy. Holla.”
Midas schooled his features, unwilling to give his buddies any more ammunition than they already had. They didn’t need to know how close to the target their barbs hit. If they did, he’d never hear the end of their ribbing.
The fact Angie Summers refused to give him the time of day whenever he stayed at Naval Station Rota Spain chapped his ass worse than walking through miserable desert heat with sand in his briefs. Never in his thirty-four years had a woman been able to resist him. Never.
Most females melted to their knees when he removed his sunglasses and flashed his baby blues. And on their knees most showed their appreciation. Few escaped his sexual allure, especially after offering one of his best practiced grins. He was a lady’s man, a babe magnet, a modern day Don Juan, for Christ’s sake. Every woman fell under his spell. Every woman except a civilian high school teacher with short black hair and smoky gray eyes.
None of his usual charms even came close to piercing the tight armor the formidable teacher wrapped herself in. She purposely exited through other doors whenever he held one open for her. On the rare occasions he saw her in town at a bar, she gave him the stink eye when he offered to buy her a drink. She even went as far as to fake a hearing loss or worse when he asked her out.
The woman was an absolute ball buster.
Yet, for all her rejections and blatant blow offs, Angie Summers intrigued the hell out of him.
He’d finally found a worthy challenge, and he’d be damned if she’d get the best of him. He would have her. Oh, yes. He would have her even if he had to pull every play in the book to make it happen. Then, after he’d thoroughly satisfied both their carnal needs, preferably several times, he’d add a notch to his bedpost and find the next suitable, though considerably less ornery, target. The faster he conquered her, the better. There were loads of eager women out there and only one of him. Time spent taming the beautiful Ms. Summers meant less time for the next hunt.
