Ruined by the Seal(10)

Her phone didn't ring.

"I don't know," she said miserably. "That's why I've come to you guys."

"So right now it sounds like you guys are working under the same  assumption-that whoever gets the estate can do whatever they want with  it. And if that's you, then that's probably true. But if it's him … "  Arielle trailed off, her forehead wrinkling. "Can't you intervene or  something? Protect the building?"

Cara shook her head. "The board is pretty set against anything that requires legal action. That gets expensive really quickly."

"It's a shame there isn't a lawyer on the board," Daphne mused.

There were a lot of problems with the board makeup. Cara groaned. "Tell  me about it. There's been an empty seat for months, too. But the  nomination process-"

"What?" Arielle interjected. "There's an opening on the board? Let's fill it."         

     



 

"With a lawyer," Daphne added. "One who's under the age of fifty and totally switched on."

Cara laughed. "Just like that."

Daphne nodded. Cara turned and looked at her other best friend. Arielle  nodded. "Yep. Just like that. Well, not just like that. It'll probably  take a while. So you need to stall."

"Stall?"

"The sexy man? The lawyers in New York? The will debate? Stall."

"Uhm … " Cara blinked hard at her drink. No more rum for her. It sounded  like her friends were suggesting that she solve the problem with sex.  Surely not. "And how do you think I should do that?"

Daphne cleared her throat, then pointed to Cara's chest and did a little shimmy. "You said he liked looking at you."

"I don't think that's exactly what I said." Her cheeks flamed. "And I can't do that."

"Do you want to kiss him?" Arielle asked.

Yes.

"Do you like it when he looks at you?"

Like wasn't the right word for how that made her feel. "I don't dislike it."

Daphne snorted.

"What do you think I should do? Seduce him and every time his phone rings, shove it out of his hand?"

"Just until we come up with a back up plan," Arielle said lightly.

"That's not going to work. You don't understand how-" She cut herself  off. She was going to say they didn't understand how Mick brought out  the worst in her, and her in him, but that wasn't the whole truth.

He did like looking at her.

She did want him to kiss her.

She didn't much care for the idea of prostituting herself for the cause, and wouldn't for any other man, but maybe …

"I don't know if it will work," she amended her answer. "But I guess it couldn't hurt to be nicer to the guy."

Daphne cackled. "Yeah. Nicer. That's a word for it."

Cara groaned, but any further discussion was ended by her phone ringing. A New York number appeared on the screen.

She took a deep breath. "I gotta take this."





EIGHT





MICK HAD TO ADMIT PETITE CIOTAT HAD A CERTAIN CHARM. Wide streets,  whitewashed buildings, street vendors … but also a modern supermarket and a  bank, plus a few restaurants right at the centre of town. The long  stretch of the main street promised even more stores, but the clerk at  the supermarket pointed him down a back alley to the internet cafe and  since he hadn't yet had coffee-and Petite Ciotat didn't have a Dunkin'  Donuts or a Starbucks-he headed straight there.

By the time he'd found it and handed over his money for an hour of  computer time and an extra-large mug of what was thankfully excellent  coffee, he was feeling slightly more level-headed about the situation  with Cara. She'd been right to insist on boundaries. The chemistry that  sparked between them was destabilizing to the extreme.

Distance from her was a good thing, clearly. He sorted through his pile  of emails and tried not to think about the hot rub of her knuckles  against his abs and his chest. Even though the fabric of his t-shirt,  her fingers had imprinted on his skin.

His cock thickened against his leg. Idiot. And he was back to being  pissed off. He needed to figure out a plan in more ways than one. A plan  to survive his foolish attraction to the island's ice queen. A plan to  get his retirement goals back on track.

So much for beer, beach, sleep.

That was fine. He never slept well anyway.

He pounded out a detailed email to Will, interrupted here and there by  other emails. After one from Dex Riley, asking if he could borrow the  plantation for a honeymoon-which took Mick some processing, because the  last time he'd seen Dex, the man had been single and on the prowl. Well,  actually … in hindsight, maybe not on the prowl. But there'd been no  mention of a future Mrs. Dex. And now … A honeymoon. Shit.

Too bad Villa Sucre wasn't his to lend out just yet.

He marked that email unread, promising himself he'd come back to it just as soon as he sorted out this ownership mess.

Then he went back to the email to Will, but hesitated over the send  button. Unloading all of that into Will's inbox wasn't going to change  the fact that Mick was the guy on the ground. He was the only one who  could turn the tide of this disaster.

He rocked back in his chair.

More to the point, he wanted to do it. Will owned the property. Brayden,  who was wrapping up his last session as a BUD/S instructor, would do  the heavy lifting in curriculum design. And heavy lifting in general,  since before he joined the SEAL team he worked in construction for a few  years.         

     



 

Mick got to tag along on this new lease on life because he was a free  body to stake a claim on the property. So far, all he was offering was  his oversized form. Time for him to put his head in the game and stop  whining about how it hadn't gone perfectly easy the first few days.

This wasn't only Will's fight, it was Mick's as well.

He was going back to Villa Sucre to tell Cara she needed to get her gorgeous ass off his estate, once and for all.

Right after he stopped at the store. Sleep might be elusive and the  storm front might rule out any beach time, but the beer thing still had a  chance of happening.

When he got back, she was still on the porch, reading, but her hair was  twisted in a damp braid. She pretended not to see him. He didn't stop to  pick a fight.

Not yet.

He shoved his way into the bunkhouse as he'd started to think of it,  propping the door open to get a breeze circulating. Next on his repair  to-do list would be fixing the overhead fan. With a thunk, he set the  beer on the table in the main room. It was cold, but it wouldn't stay  like that for long. Shame the only working fridge was in the kitchen in  the main house.

Another couple days and it would be all his. Even if he didn't succeed  in shoving her off the estate, eventually the fact that she didn't have a  functional bathroom in the main house would tire her, right?

He told himself that this would soon be over, one way or another, and he  could stop thinking about her earnest hopefulness and the way her hair  curled into a million golden brown tendrils as it dried in the sun.

She'd moved out into the garden now, as the sun had peeked out between  storm clouds. She was out in the open between their two declared spaces.  So he was entirely within his rights to watch her, to observe her with  her guard down.

He was coming to an uncomfortable understanding that Cara really loved  this place. She was invested in it, and not just as a professional  accomplishment.

And he was the asshole that wanted to ruin that for her.

He twisted the top off a bottle of beer and started pacing.

The problem was, if he held himself back, he was just prolonging the  inevitable. That wasn't being kind to her. He needed to somehow push the  issue, make her see for herself that they'd overstepped or whatever,  gone ahead too quickly with this project.

Maybe he could convince Will that they could … dunno. Do something for the Historical Society. A gimme.

No. That was his heart going all soft again. They'd do something for  Cara if it made good sense for their new company. Not just for her.

But she's worked so hard …  He didn't know that.

He didn't know anything about her.

Harden the fuck up, man.

"You'll wear out the floor, pacing like that." He jerked his head around and found Cara leaning in the open doorway.

"We'll probably tear this place down, anyway."

She tightened up, from her toes all the way to the tiny muscles around her eyes.

Direct shot. This was going to be too easy. He took the last swig of  beer, finishing the bottle, and set it down a little too roughly on the  table. Then he grabbed another one. With a rough twist, he sent the cap  flying.

Another wince.

Think the worst of me, babe. "What do you want?"

"I spoke to a lawyer this afternoon," she said. "From New York."

He tipped his beer bottle up in silent response.

"He apologized for the confusion."

An empty statement. Mick wasn't impressed. "You should sue them. Recoup your investment in the renovations."

She gave him a dry look.

Not that easy. Fine. He leaned against the wall, ignoring the protest in his leg.