Accidental SEAL (SEAL Brotherhood #1) (2 page)

She arched her chest in defiance, but this gave him a full view of her breasts. The buttons on her sheer ivory blouse popped open. She muttered a curse. The fleeting thought he would now ruin her two hundred dollar bra and be spurred on to ravish her further flashed through her mind.

He immobilized her arms above her head with one forearm and pinned her thighs with his own that were easily twice the size of hers. She had no way to move and no ability to scream for help. But his blood had dripped on the wooden flooring, and it coated the inside of her mouth. Maybe that would be enough to land him a spot in San Quentin. Tired and resigned, she sighed, knowing she could not win the physical tussle, and allowed her body to go limp.

He responded by whispering a question in her ear. “Who
are
you?”

For a second, her ears buzzed. Then she mumbled through his fingers, seeking the soft fleshy part of his palm with her canines again, but failing. She was unable to give him an intelligible answer, but if she could, it would be, “
Who the fuck are
you
?”

“I’m going to take my hand away, and you will tell me who you are and who you work for.” His voice came across calm and steady. Practiced. Measured. She’d have to say commanding.

This surprised her, but she still didn’t trust him. She gave a short nod, but intended to get away at the first opportunity. He removed his hand and brought it between their bodies. She sucked in her breath and straightened her spine, even though it hurt. She prepared for him to grip her breasts and rip her clothing to shreds. She clenched her abdomen and waited for the pain.

But instead, she caught a filtered view through her tresses of one heavily veined hand reaching to his tensed pectoral muscle, removing her Patterson Realty nametag that had speared him there. He sniffed the pin as he thumbed over the embedded letters of her name, and then tossed it. The pin skidded across the floor until it hit a baseboard.

“This gonna make me pass out?” He made it sound like a legitimate question. He touched the pinprick wound on his chest and then yanked back the strands of her hair he still held wrapped in his fist. She couldn’t see much of his face.

“What?”

“You an agent?”

“Yes, I’m…I’m a R-r-r...”

“Business or political?”

Christy furrowed her brow, squinting. “Business!”

He reached under her skirt, pulling down her pantyhose so quickly that he got her lace panties, too. Cold fear snaked in her belly and shivered up her spine. She shrieked, but it did no good. He removed her remaining heel and then ripped her underthings off in one fluid movement. Christy attempted to scream again but was silenced by his hand squeezing her neck, his thumb pressing against her voice box.

“Stop it. I don’t want to hurt you.”

That’s what they say just before they kill you.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe and tried to cough, hoping death would come soon,
before
he raped her. But then he relaxed his grip, allowing spring air to flood her lungs. For a grateful few seconds, everything was right with the world.

With his other hand, he took the now shredded pantyhose and wrapped them around her wrists he held up over her head. The knot he tied cut off circulation to her hands, but at least she could move her torso a little. Her neck had tensed up from the fall and her tailbone hurt.

“Please, I’m j-just…here…for…the open house.”

“What open house?”

“W-Wayne…said…I…should...”

“Who the hell is Wayne? He your handler?”

Now this pissed her off. “God damn it. I’m an independent contractor!” She’d heard it so many times while she was studying for her license that the phrase was the first thing that had popped into her mind. “Wayne is another agent. I’m a Realtor.”

“Sure you are.”

Christy drilled him with a look he wouldn’t be able to mistake, if he could see it. Hair still covered her face.

He chuckled. “This part of your sales training? They teach you how to bite men, break into houses, knock out their knees, and puncture them with poisonous needles?” His subtle mocking fueled something bubbling in her stomach.

She shifted slightly, noticing the still rather large package between her legs that might have been welcome in another time and place. She shook her head to the side, clearing the hair from her face with the aid of her bound hands, then stared into deep blue eyes and at a crooked nose and soft full lips pressed together in a straight line. A tiny scar resided on his high cheekbone just under his left eye.

He swallowed as he looked down on her and watched her follow the trek of his Adam’s apple. When she looked back into his eyes, his body seemed to soften. A few errant strands of hair were caught in her lip gloss. He removed them with two hardened fingers. His eyes explored her face, tracing all her features, as if memorizing every one.

Her heart beat against her chest wall, echoing his, for several long seconds. He didn’t look like a criminal. Or a practical joker type. As she studied him closer, she realized something didn’t add up.

He righted himself released his hold on her, then sat crouched, covering his exposed groin with the throw rug. He seized her purse and turned it inside out in seconds by pulling apart the lining and dumping the contents on the floor.

“Hey! That’s a Coach bag, you…”

He gave her another glare, reminding her she was physically outmatched. She closed her mouth mid-sentence, choking down renewed anger. He sifted through the contents, opened a lipstick tube and sniffed the pink shaft, then carefully retracted it and replaced the top.

“Sorry.” He directed his apology to the floor and didn’t glance up.

That’s it? Can’t even look at me, you horrible son of a bitch?
She decided it was still unsafe, so kept her thoughts to herself.

He’s a crazy. A psycho. A sociopath. No wonder he has financial issues and has to sell his house.

Christy sat up, her spine ramrod straight, and held out her hands, encumbered by the torn pantyhose that hung like moss from a tree. It was not a beg but a demand to be released of her bonds. To her surprise, he gently leaned over and untied her. She buttoned her blouse, noting before she could finish that his last-minute stolen peek gave him a good view of her lacy beige bra.

She returned a poisonous look she hoped would stop any ideas from forming on his part, then noticed a tiny trickle of blood coming from the pinprick in his chest. A much larger ribbon of blood dripped to a small puddle on the floor where her heel had done damage to his knee. Below that was a tattoo of thorns ringing his bulging calf. As if she had asked, he raised his palm, showing her a nice bloody semicircle of teeth marks.

“You’re lethal.” His voice was soft but measured. He arose, all six-foot something of him, then fisted the throw rug to his groin. He turned, exposing his muscled buttocks, and looked over his shoulder at her. He shook his head and smirked as he watched her stuff the lining back into her purse and replace the spilled contents.

“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” she huffed. “Get someone else to hold your damn open house.”

He didn’t say anything but continued staring down at her as he offered a hand, which she refused. She clamored to stand up, barefoot.

“And if you think this is a good way to meet a girl,” she said as she wedged her bare feet into her heels, “well, I hope the bank takes your house and I hope your wife finds out what kind of sick games you play.”

She headed to the door. She was relieved he was going to actually let her go. Without looking back, she swung the door wide open.

“This isn’t my house, and I’m not married,” she heard him call just before she slammed the door behind her, finally free at last.

Chapter 2

Navy SEAL Kyle Lansdowne threw down the rag rug and stalked naked to the place where the woman’s nametag had landed next to the wall. He traced the letters again and examined the nametag’s construction, looking for
—what?

“Christy Nelson,” he said as he focused on the indentations the letters made in the smooth white plastic tag. He had the funny feeling he’d met this woman before. Or maybe she reminded him of someone he’d known in his past.

He dropped his shoulders and arched backward to give his spine a good crack. Holding the light plastic badge in his fingertips, he was careful not to let it puncture him again. He leaned forward, aimed for the dining table, and tossed the nametag so it landed in one bounce at the center.

He checked the front window, confirming that the car he’d heard leaving had been hers and that he was now alone. He locked and shot the dead bolt on the front door and made his way back to the bedroom.

I’m losing it, man.
He cursed himself for his carelessness. The naked meditation he engaged in usually heightened his senses, but this time he’d fallen asleep. Next thing he knew he was smelling her perfume. Still could smell it. Had she not been a woman, he could have hurt her, or worse. On the other hand, if she’d been hired to neutralize him, she could have taken him out in an instant.

His Team buddy, Armando Guzman, was missing. Gone. Never showed up at ProDev. He’d made it out of Afghanistan with the rest of SEAL Team III, but instead of doing the five days decompression in Hawaii with the rest of the guys, he’d booked a flight to Puerto Rico for some family emergency.

Where the fuck are you?

Mysteriously, Armando had met them at the airport in San Diego when they arrived from Hawaii. Had been strange but talking about seeing everyone at ProDev the next day. And then he didn’t show. Timmons, their chief, was freaked, worried to hell. It just wasn’t like Armando to do this. No way would he disappear voluntarily without alerting Kyle and the chief.

Day before yesterday, when Timmons told him Armando had never checked in, Kyle had thought perhaps he’d just found himself a lady to share a little time with, disappear for a day or two. Something they were trained to do: get lost. Wouldn’t have been the first time Armando had gone to dark. And Kyle couldn’t blame him. He’d done it a time or two himself, but never without checking in with his buddy first.

Something is very wrong.

Armando was known all over Coronado as the Latin Lover of SEAL Team III. So good looking he could capture a girl’s attention simply by walking down the street. His linguistic training allowed him to sound Aussie, French, Brit, Eastern European Spanish, Pashtoon or Afghani. He could charm the pants off anyone on the phone as well as in person. He’d even been “captured” by a Marine unit who mistook him for a foreign interpreter trying to infiltrate the US forces. Some of TEAM III still called him “
Tarjumah,
”
translator.

There were more than a couple of Senior Officers’ wives who took long dangerous looks at him when he wore his dress whites. He was the Antonio Banderas type of good looking, with a fashion sense and love of stylish clothes that made him look more like a cover model than a SEAL. The Team guys had nicknamed him “Armani.”

But when Timmons told Kyle his buddy had never checked in before he left base, Kyle had known some serious shit had hit the fan. Nobody ever did that unless there was an attitude issue. Attitudes didn’t last long on the Teams. Armando had a history from his youth, growing up with a Puerto Rican gang, but the Navy had pretty much drummed that out of him. Legendary for his nerves of steel, Kyle had seen Armando disarm a bomb while blowing bubbles with his bubblegum. Armando could save the whole team from extinction while thinking about what he would have for dinner that night.

So, Mr. Cool and Lethal wanted to be followed, and found. It was as obvious as if Armando sent him a registered letter.

“What the hell are you up to, Armani?” Kyle whispered.

He’d spent days buried in sand with the man. They’d put their lives on the line for each other as well as for the rest of the team. Having spent three tours in Afghanistan and Iraq together, he and Armando had survived the battle of Fallujah together when their unit reported record kills without losing many of their own. He could practically read Armando’s mind. They’d been scared shitless together. They’d cried over a fallen team guy and still had the presence of mind to jump in and save someone else the next minute. That kind of brotherhood couldn’t be taught. It had to be
lived.

Without Armando as his swim buddy, Kyle knew he never would have completed the grueling BUD/S training, the qualification all Navy SEALs had to pass in order to begin their real training. He owed his gold Trident, the insignia of a SEAL, to this man. Armando’s problem, whatever it was, would now become Kyle’s problem.

Armando swam like a fish with the explosive strength of a bull. He used to joke with the members of his unit how he could bring a cruise ship to port in his native Puerto Rico by holding the tie line with his teeth.

Kyle and a couple other teammates had been granted ten days leave, and he intended spending every day of it searching for Armando. He knew deep in his soul that the guy would do the same for him. Kyle and his chief had a silent understanding. If he needed more time he would have to ask for it, and the request would be denied. If Kyle couldn’t find Armando, no one could. But the Navy could hardly afford to have one AWOL SEAL; two missing men could get a commander stripped or booted.

His thoughts wandered to the girl.

The scent of her perfume lingered on his skin. He couldn’t get the little hellcat out of his mind. No denying his body liked what Christy felt like under him; his erection had never fully settled down, even with the pain above his knee. His traitorous body part now started rising again, as if it had been summoned.

Damn. It had been too long since he’d held a woman that close. Was his training such that consorting with females ended up posing a danger to their health? He hated how he’d treated her. He shook his head, thinking of how the woman seemed to be one of those feisty, angry types who wouldn’t allow herself to become a victim. This woman, a stealth survivor of the love wars, did a damn good job at self-defense.