Ruined by the Seal(8)

"I can't do this." She cleared her throat and slide her gaze away from his too-keen eyes.

"Do what?"

"Kiss you. Or let you kiss me."

"Awfully cocky assumption about what was about to go down," he said dryly, but stepped back as well, mirroring her movement.

Heat swept up her neck and curled onto her cheeks. "Okay. Well, if I've also just embarrassed myself-"

"Hey." He said it quietly, but there was a commanding edge to his voice  and she jerked her head up, catching his gaze before she remembered that  looking at him was dangerous. His dark eyes glittered. "Nothing to be  embarrassed about. I was totally going to kiss you."

Her lips parted but no words came out. He dropped his gaze to her mouth,  and she felt the phantom kiss so realistically her knees went weak.         

     



 

"But you're right. It's not a good idea."

"Terrible," she whispered.

"We should probably just do our own things … "

"Yeah. No more shared meals."

His jaw tightened, the tense pop of muscle all the more stark because of  the dim light and the ruthless play of shadows across his skin. It was  like she was watching him shut himself off from her. Which was the  point, right?

Distance.

Separation.

Space.

They needed a border between them, literally, or she'd push him against  the counter and find out just how good that kiss would be.

Amazing. She had no doubt.

Shit.

"You should stick to the staff quarters," she muttered, crossing her arms. "And I'll use the main house."

"What if I want the main house?" He again mirrored her movements, and  his arms were so big, suddenly he felt close to her again, even though  he hadn't moved. She was pretty sure he hadn't moved, anyway. Why was it  so hard to think clearly. He was so close to her, she could feel the  heat radiating off his chest against her arm.

Okay, he'd definitely moved closer.

"Too bad," she said with more confidence than she really felt. "I was here first."

"Is that how it's going to be?"

She nodded. "Until we sort this mess out, it's for the best."

He didn't say anything.

She didn't move.

She could still feel his gaze on her mouth, hot and interested.

"Fine," he finally muttered, back away. "Tomorrow we sort all of this out."

Yes. Her heart plummeted at the thought. No matter what, tomorrow wouldn't be a good day.

And there was a solid chance it was going to be the first of many awful days to come.





SIX





MICK LEFT CARA IN THE KITCHEN AND HEADED THROUGH THE DARK to the staff  quarters where he'd started to make himself at home. It was a bunkhouse  of sorts, although every room opened to the veranda and the ocean was  just down a short path, so that beat a ranch any day of the year. He'd  taken the room closest to the basic bathroom, and it was spartan.

Not like that was a problem. He was used to spartan.

What he wasn't used to was radio silence. Not without a plan.

It hadn't taken him long to realize that they'd been way too lax about  this mission. Because it wasn't a mission. He'd come in blind, with  nothing more than a letter.

Still, he should be handling this better. Doing more.

Saving the world.

Except really, the only task here was to save Will, and that fucker hadn't gotten back to him.

Mick had texted three times and left him two voice messages. He wasn't  blowing up the guy's phone again, not when there was a solid chance he  was away on an unexpected mission. A real one that didn't involve a  plantation and a gorgeous girl with mocha skin and sun-kissed curls.

And since Mick was out of the navy and off the teams, whatever Will was doing-if it was work-was none of his business.

Bitter resentment twisted in his guts. And then he hated himself for that reaction.

He grabbed his phone and threw himself on the single bed he'd claimed  for his own. No new emails. The crappy reception out here let texts  through, but his email hadn't downloaded in days.

Staring up at the dark ceiling, he waited for Brayden to answer the phone.

No answer.

Next he called Finn Callahan, who he'd just seen a few days earlier.  Finn was a former SEAL teammate, and the last time Mick had seen him,  he'd been living it up. Damn. Had it really only been a few days? A  weekend of sparring with Cara and he felt like he'd been in Miralinda  forever. And not in a good way.

Finn answered on the first ring. "Hey man, how's the island paradise?"

"Not as … paradise-y as expected." Mick sighed. "Are you still island-hopping yourself?"

"Shit. That's too bad. Nah, I'm back in Florida now. You looking for a place to crash?"

"Nope. It'll work out, I'm sure. But … I can't get a hold of Will." Mick  rubbed between his eyes. He'd taken his time getting to Miralinda,  knowing he had months to get the project started. When was the last time  he'd talked to his buddy. Two weeks ago? Three? "I don't have access to  the internet here. My phone's only so good, you know? I'm going to go  in search of an internet cafe tomorrow, see if I can sneak onto the dark  net. But can you do me a solid and find out where he is-even if you can  just tell me they've gone radio silent and maybe a timeframe they're  expected to return?"

"Can do."

"Thanks, I owe you one."         

     



 

"I'm sure I'll call it in at some point. And seriously, if you need to  come here for a bit … We can always use an extra pair of hands."

Finn and a couple of former SEALs had started a canine-training business  in the Florida Keys. They kept the military supplied with working dogs,  and also placed canines with private businesses that needed the  additional security. It wasn't a bad offer, but Mick frowned at the  thought of leaving Villa Sucre. No, he didn't want to do that. This was a  frustrating speed bump, that was all. "I'm good. Just need to connect  with Will."

"All right, brother. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, man."

He lay in the dark for a while, rolling their conversation over and over  in his head. Thinking of Cara, tucked into that ridiculous tent of  hers.

Who pitches a tent in a ballroom?

Why not stay in one of the rooms upstairs?

She was making a statement. More to the point, she knew what statement she wanted to make. One of righteous ownership.

Mick's possessive feelings were murkier. More about the idea of the place than the place itself. What it represented.

So he lay in the dark and waited for another dawn. Another day. Hoping  that when it came, it would bring clarity or peace or, if he was damn  lucky, both.

Since he didn't sleep, morning didn't bring either peace or clarity.  Instead he got up when the jungle started stirring and scowled at the  birds as they swooped and soared along the ocean's edge that he knew was  just past the trees.

He had a headache.

He wanted breakfast, something hot and filling, but Cara had laid out a clear boundary: stick to their own spaces.

Looking at the sky, heavy with white clouds, but grey in the distance,  he also realized that he didn't have a lot of time to dick around making  fancy omelets for pretty women.

For himself. Not Cara.

Unless she was hungry.

The band around his head tightened and he growled. A protein bar and a  bottle of water would do just fine. He grabbed those and his phone and  wallet, shoving the latter two into his pockets as he ate and walked as  quickly as he could toward the house.

He should have moved his moped down to the servants' quarters last night.

Now he'd have to cross into her space just to leave the property. Not really, of course. He could walk around the main house.

Could.

Wouldn't.

Except he didn't even need to go inside to find her. Not that he'd  wanted to find her, he lied to himself. Because of course that was why  he'd been heading toward the kitchen, with a plan to retrace his steps  on Friday. Right down the centre of the plantation.

Marking his claim, a claim that was fresher and less clear than hers, but still … it needed to be made.

Mick Fraser wasn't going anywhere.

This was his future, he'd been promised it like a lifeline when his world blew up, and he was going to fight for it.

Cara was on the back veranda, reading. She set her book down as he  approached and stood, moving to block his entrance to the house.

She wore jean shorts again today, just like the first day, and a sky  blue t-shirt that set off the bronze of her skin and the bright, daring  anger in her eyes.

Why did she have to be so captivating?

Why did he have to care about her feelings?

Why did she have to have so many damn feelings, anyway?

"Working hard?" he snarled, stopping on the path a few feet away from the steps.

"Waiting for the workmen to show up." She shrugged. Island time. "They might not. A storm is coming."

"Good to know. We won't employ them when we take over the estate."

She laughed at him, as if unaffected by his bluster. "Not going to  happen, but if it did … good luck with that. You take what you can get  around here. And when a storm starts brewing … you pick up a book."