Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (2 page)

The half-naked man on the beach? Wrestling with that enormous, muscle-bound dog who’d probably chew my face off at a single command? That man’s my legal husband and he has no idea that I’m about to crash his party.

Rohan MacCarthy is a former US Navy SEAL turned canine trainer. He’s part owner of Search and SEALs, a Florida Keys-based business that trains some of the best search and rescue dogs in the world. His dogs sniff out bombs, detect drug shipments, and track down lost two-year-olds in the woods before anything worse can happen. He’s a bona fide hero and has the medals to prove it. He doesn’t screw up, doesn’t make mistakes. You know that line Jack Nicholson delivers to a cocky Tom Cruise in
A Few Good Men
about how people die where he comes from when a mistake is made? Yeah. Ro’s job—his life—is spent living on that edge and he’s absolutely brilliant at it.

It drives me crazy, all that serious, wonderful, so sober responsibility. He wears it like Superman’s cape and he always will. He’s disciplined, in control, and forever giving orders. In case you haven’t figured it out by now, these are words that will never, ever be applied to Hindi Alvarez. In fact, if you happened to have a dictionary handy and popped it open, thumbed to the
o
’s, you’d probably find our pictures under the word
opposite
. We couldn’t be more different from each other, and the only place where that turned out to be a good thing was in bed. You know. Because it’s a plus to be boy and girl, penis and vagina when you’re bumping uglies in the bedroom.

Ro was always so physical, and yet the man never stopped thinking and planning. It was like God had surgically replaced his brain with a Day-Timer or an eternal, never-ending planner. Me, on the other hand? Around him, my brain shut down altogether and my only thoughts were of getting him naked. Running my hands down his gorgeous arms, his back, his… ass. Dear Reader, I married him for that ass and for every other sexy inch he let me touch.

Let me explain our brief marriage to you. Those few months felt like when you book a thousand-dollar-a-night room at a hotel, but you do it using coupons and reward points rather than ponying up the cash. I wasn’t a real guest. I hadn’t earned any of the perks—and it was an aberration, a temporary but wonderful blip in my life that had to end sooner rather than later. You see those stupid goddamned sunglasses he wears even when he’s wrestling a dog? Those sunglasses keep you from seeing his eyes and are a courtesy notice from the man that he’d prefer to minimize all people contact, thank you very much. He’s distant, remote, controlled. Pick your adjective, but being married to him was like being married to Mount Kilimanjaro. He was always off on the horizon looking fucking majestic. That sweep of dark slope with its icy cap isn’t the kind of shit you scale for fun, but admiring it from a distance works. You’ve got zebras and giraffes in the foreground, snow in the back. What’s not to like?

The key is that mountains belong in the
distance.
They’re not up close and personal material, because then you can’t help falling over the rocks or losing your breath or getting a gigantic, aching stitch in your calf and your heart as you try to scale all that height and fail miserably. There is no way I want to stay married to Ro. Every broken relationship has a guiltier party, and that would be me. I’m not good at letting people in, and consequently I suck at relationships. If we hadn’t parted ways six years ago, I’d have spent those days constantly trying—and failing—to please him like my mom did my dad. My front row seat to their marital battleground was informative. As my mom cycled through attempts and failures, my dad pulled further and further away. She disappointed him and he rewarded her by asking her to live in an emotional desert. Turns out hot sex isn’t enough.

Ro rolls with the dog, crooning something in the same rough, rich voice he used in our bed. The dog eats it up, as eager to please as I was.

My camerawoman and Gal Friday nudges me as she starts filming. “You didn’t tell me he was such a hottie.”

“Surprise.” I wish I could stop looking at him, but Lilah’s not wrong. Ro is gorgeous. He’s still big and dark, but now his skin has this deeper, sun-kissed bronze to it that makes a girl think of cones and licking. His hair is cut short, military-style, and his face is as hard and closed off as ever. Except when he’s looking at his dog. Then something in him kind of melts and lets go, and it’s perfectly clear that he loves this animal.

He was supposed to love me forever.

He was supposed to be mine. I don’t know where that crazy thought comes from. It just pops into my head as I’m trespassing on Ro’s beach, jealous of his damn dog.

Supposed
.

Life comes with no guarantees. Pick up any issue of
Cosmopolitan
and I promise you a wealth of unhappy endings. You fall, and people offer well-intentioned advice about picking yourself up. About going on, making lemonade out of lemons, finding your bigger and better whatever-it-is. Yes, I’ve juiced enough fruit to flood a small continent, and I’ve been searching for years.

I wasn’t
supposed
to have regrets.

Lilah’s foot connects with my ankle. This is less pleasant than it could be because, unlike me, she’s not barefoot. She maintains that she likes to keep her fight-or-flight options dialed into
run like hell
, so she’s wearing sneakers.
Get in there
, she mouths.

Right. She needs her filmable moment and I’m stuck on the side of the pool of life. I need to jump. To hold my nose and throw myself in. To go for it like I always do. But Ro’s like the wolf you watch through that six-inch plexiglass at the zoo. He’s gorgeous, his body ripples with power—and if that glass disappears, you’re fucking toast because he’s a pack animal and territorial at heart. Angel Cay is his place now, and I don’t belong here.

I take another step toward the beach. I’m dragging my feet and we both know it.

Ro deserves better than a lingerie designer and public sideshow of a wife. Worse, I’m the wife he doesn’t even know he has. Yes, let’s imagine for one brief moment how he’s going to feel about my big reveal.

“This is easy, right?” I force myself to stop staring at the man on the beach and confront Lilah instead. “I go out there. I ask him for a divorce. He agrees.”

This is where she’s supposed to lie to cheer me up. I’m pretty sure it’s in her job description.

“Sounds like a plan,” she agrees cheerfully. This is a win-win situation for her. “But are you sure you don’t want to keep him? He’s one fine-looking man.”

“Sometimes the outside doesn’t match the inside,” I say as lightly as I can.
Lie.
Ro may bear a passing resemblance to Grumpy Cat, but he’s an all-round nice guy once you get past the bark. And the bite.

Lilah exhales disappointedly. “Too bad, because I’d totally roshambo you for him.”

Rock, Paper, Scissors is so not on my agenda for today and I’m not playing Lilah for Ro. I don’t like the possessive
mine
that threatens to escape my lips. My relationship with Ro was perfect right up until it wasn’t, but there was always one constant. I didn’t deserve a guy like him. It was only after we’d met and married that I realized how much I was lacking in the merit department. And honestly, he couldn’t have been the perfect man immortalized in my head because he’d married me—and then he’d gone back overseas. I’d seen him twice since our wedding weekend, which kind of made my point. He was good in theory, but missing in practice.

A divorce is our best option. In his eyes, I haven’t been his wife for years anyhow. I’m sure someone with his fine looking package has been active in Dating Land, and for all I know he may have Mrs. Number Two lined up and ready to go. I’ll always be his first, but never his best and last. The future Mrs., whoever she is, will score his tomorrows and the real engagement ring.

We had fun together. We were Ro and Hindi on a beach adventure. Younger. Crazier. Up for hot, sandy, messy sex and not thinking any further than tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. Life has a way of reminding you that there are 365 days on the calendar, however, and we had five days of paradise and then all the rest were
oh my GOD what have I done?

I do want a divorce.

From Ro.

Just as soon as I can convince him to do the paperwork. He rolls with the dog, the muscles in his forearms working as they wrestle, and his face lights up with laughter. The tired look slides away for one gorgeous moment, and even the dog knows it because man’s best friend leans in and licks Ro’s face enthusiastically.

Okay, so I’m also a big fan of the calorie-free sundae. Part of me (and you can guess which part) would like to use the man as my own personal vibrator, but only if I could then wipe his memory. A Ken doll with an actual dick. You’d think Mattel would get right on that.

“Stop procrastinating,” Lilah hisses at me. I have a job to do here. I need the network to renew our show because no way I lose the security of my paycheck if I can help it. I spent the years before I met Ro getting fired from a series of shitty jobs, and I know exactly how it will go, even if my current paycheck sports way more zeroes than anything I earned previously. I’m grateful, and I’d like to stay employed.

I let Lilah shoo me out from behind the palms and step onto the sand. God. It’s been years since I’ve been to the beach. There’s something about the sand beneath my feet, or maybe it’s the salt in the air? It’s not just that it’s beautiful—it definitely is—but some part of me just inhales and then lets go. Everything loosens up, and it’s gonna be fine. It really is.

Lilah yelps behind me, and I stop staring at the ocean like a moron and see the dog barreling toward me. It looked perfectly harmless playing with Ro, but now it sprints toward me, monster paws devouring the sand. Do I look like puppy chow? Fuck being brave and a bad ass—like my next diet, I’ll start
tomorrow
—I pivot, intending to put plenty of distance between me and the dog, but it’s too late. Teeth sink into the hem of my sundress.

I should have worn a mini-dress. Or maybe then I’d have puncture wounds in my butt? I pitch forward with a shriek, palms slamming onto the sand. My doggy dementor barks once, and wouldn’t you know it—he sounds just as authoritative as my not-quite-ex.

Paws step up my spine. Ro must be feeding the mutt cement because it’s
heavy
. And its breath stinks. I rethink the sexy factor of Ro’s previous wrestling.

“Call it off,” I bellow. “I come in peace.”

Ro snaps out a command and the dog steps off my back. I suppose this is an improvement. Still, I’m not moving until he gives the all clear. I’m not that stupid—my arms, legs, and head are staying firmly attached to my body, thank you very much.

“
No trespassing
and
Private property
signs are posted at the entrance,” he growls.

I ignore him the way I ignored his signs. Words, words, and more words. I saw them. I just decided they didn’t apply to me. I mean, this used to be my island. I may have sold it, but the current owner is my soon-to-be-ex-husband, so what better pass did I need? This is probably not the best way to tell him that little factoid, however.

“You can come out too,” he says dryly, and a few seconds later, Lilah plops her butt down onto the sand beside me.

“Are we getting arrested? Or just busted?” She sounds downright cheerful—bet her contract includes some juicy bonus money for putting herself in mortal peril.

“Don’t give him ideas,” I tell her.

Ro mutters something, and he doesn’t sound so calm anymore. Good. My cheek’s pressed against the sand and this gives me a primo view of his legs stretching away above me. He makes a damned fine man mountain. Then he frowns, sort of spoiling the view.

“We eat trespassers here, honey. Give me a reason not to.”

Eat them
out
. Yes, my mind immediately goes straight to the sex thoughts. Part of me (guess which part) hopes that Ro’s comment is a dirty joke. A double entendre. A promise. Unfortunately, Ro misplaced his sense of humor in boot camp and apparently he hasn’t rediscovered it in the six years since we parted.

The dog stares at me, even closer than Ro. It doesn’t drool, doesn’t growl, doesn’t bite. Somehow, though, we’re both perfectly clear that it’s in charge and I’m going nowhere. You’d think that would be Ro’s clue to back the hell off, but no. He doesn’t leave anything to chance.

He also hasn’t realized who I am. As his frowny face gets darker, I have to admit that my disappointment is irrational—after all, I’ve spent the last six years
trying
to avoid my husband. I also traveled incognito to the Florida Keys and the outside of me has changed more than a little during those eighteen hundred-plus days. Yes, I’m ten pounds heavier (sue me). If I was pocket-sized before, that pocket was one of those teeny-tiny, decorative pockets. Now I’m more of a functional pocket, the kind that’s large enough to double as a purse. My head’s no longer a rainbow of colors either—it’s all golds and browns with the odd bleached streak and I’ve let it grow halfway down my back. This makes it easier to twist up on top of my head and out of the way, although right now having long, flowing locks means I’m about to transport half the beach in my hair whenever Ro’s dog lets me up.

And although the frowny face is familiar, Ro’s not quite the same, either. The general Ro shape is still the same—he’s big, built, and has shoulders and legs that Hercules would envy. He’s picked up some new scars, though. Since he’s so damned close, I can see the white lines on his right calf. I have no idea what leaves that kind of mark, but I’ll bet it hurt like a bitch. I had no idea he’d been injured—and I definitely shouldn’t care. I get lost in that thought for a moment too long, because Lilah elbows me hard in the side.

“Hindi. Answer the man,” she hisses. Apparently, she’s
not
thinking dirty thoughts or she wouldn’t be in such a hurry to wrap up this delightful reunion.

“Hindi?” Ro takes a step back, calling off his monster dog. He actually takes a closer look at me, which isn’t flattering. I nudge my sunglasses up on top of my head. Surely I haven’t changed that much? “Fuck. What are you doing here?”