Ruined by the SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 2)

by Zoe York

  “Yes we do,” Daphne said, not softly at all. “And not because it hurts us, you dork, but because something’s clearly wrong and you aren’t sharing.”

  She thought about telling them about the unexpected visitor to the estate. They’d heard all about her drama getting the board to agree to the renovation project.

  So why didn’t she want to tell them about this new hiccup? They’d have her back if it turned into a fight, and God knows, with the board of directors, she could always use a couple of allies, even if it was just for moral support.

  They were all in the same boat, after all. All young and just getting started in their careers. Kind of broke and two bad luck breaks away from needing to leave the island in search of a better opportunity elsewhere.

  But Arielle’s father had recently disappeared, so she had that drama going on. It wasn’t the first time and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but that didn’t change how scary it was for her friend. And Daphne was job hunting in between pulling bartending shifts at the fanciest resort in Petite Ciotat and fending off pervy tourists. Compared to their problems, Cara having to put up with a sexy beast arriving on her doorstep hardly sounded like a real problem.

  Sexy beast? What the ever-loving hell? No. He was…tall. Too tall. Bossy. Way too bossy. And incredibly off-putting.

  If he was also incredibly good-looking, that just added to the annoyance, because why weren’t good-looking guys like that ever nice?

  “You know what’s wrong?” she finally said, setting her jaw in determination. This would be a lie of omission, sort of, but it was really at the root of her frustration. Not a violation of the friendship trust that expected honesty. “I don’t think the board of directors takes me seriously.”

  Daphne groaned. “Still?”

  Would they ever? She sighed and stabbed her fish with her fork. “Right? It makes everything I do fraught with doubt, you know?”

  Daphne shook her head, her blonde shaggy bob swinging wildly as she crossed her arms. “No! We talked about this. You rock at your job. And they need you. They just want you to think that you need them more than they need you. But that’s not true.”

  “It is true. I need them to keep me employed so I can pay rent and keep going out for fun dinners with you guys.”

  “This isn’t that fun,” Daphne said dryly. Unlike Arielle and Cara, Daphne didn’t have the lilting island accent. She’d been born and raised in the States and moved to Miralinda a few years earlier, right around the same time Cara came back after going off-island for university.

  They’d met through Arielle—Cara’s childhood best friend, and Daphne’s new roommate. An instant three-way friendship was formed over coffee one morning as they shared hard-luck stories.

  “You’re right,” Cara said, laughing for the first time in what felt like days. “I should move off island and get a real job. Find some real friends and—” She shrieked as Arielle launched herself around the corner of the table and squeezed her tight.

  “Don’t you dare,” her best friend whispered.

  She wouldn’t. Ever, because she loved Miralinda. But especially not now. Not while Arielle needed her. “You’re stuck with me,” she whispered into the smooth, straight fall of Arielle’s black hair.

  They were so different looking, but as they held each other, Cara was reminded that Arielle and her were the same from the inside out. They both carried in their blood the mosaic DNA almost unique to the Caribbean—a little of this, a little of that, a lot of the heart and soul that came from the sea and mixed it all together.

  Where Cara’s parents went back generations to ancestors in North African slaves, French colonists, American pirates, all colliding here on Miralinda before the turn of the last century, Arielle’s mixed heritage was…fresher. Her mother hadn’t been an island girl. She’d come to the Caribbean as a poor nanny from the Philippines, working for a British ex-pat family. When she’d fallen for a local bad boy, and “gotten into trouble,” the Brits had left her behind.

  Arielle was six when her mother took her own life.

  Cara’s parents hadn’t had a lot—her father had been a fisherman, her mother cleaned rooms at a resort. But what they did have, they shared readily with their widowed neighbour and his grieving daughter.

  And when Cara’s father was killed in a car accident when she was sixteen, Arielle and her father repaid the kindness.

  They were family.

  She wasn’t going anywhere.

  But that didn’t mean that her job was safe. With Mick Frasier’s arrival, her job was anything but safe.

  God, she didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to have to come up with a Life Plan B.

  Maybe that’s why she wasn’t telling them about Mick. She was hoping she’d show up on Monday and the six-foot-something problem would be gone. Poof.

  You’re not that lucky, she reminded herself.

  True story. But that didn’t mean anyone else needed to know about the problem before she knew for sure it was a problem.

  She’d stopped at her apartment on the way to the cafe and sent an email to the lawyer’s office in New York. Hopefully some overworked associate would look into it over the weekend.

  Daphne reached across the table and snagged some of her fish. At least one of them would enjoy it. She pointed her fork in Cara’s general direction once she’d finished chewing. “You know what we should do? We should go to Freeport for the weekend. Get our freak on.”

  “Don’t you have to work?”

  “Not until Sunday. Come on. It’ll be awesome.”

  It sounded awful. Club music and sweaty bodies, groping hands and constantly watching her drink… Why was she the only person whose idea of getting one’s freak on consisted of staying up late and spending too much money on Etsy?

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She nibbled on her lower lip. She liked dancing.

  “Come on…” Arielle cajoled. “We’ll take Daphne’s boat.”

  Cara hated flying, even though that was the easiest way to hop island to island. But when Arielle moved back into her father’s house—in part to keep an eye on him, and to take care of the house when he did his disappearing act every few months—Daphne had bought a boat instead of looking for a new roommate.

  So now they had options.

  She was trapped. “Okay. Fine.”

  Both of her friends squealed and threw their hands in the air.

  Cara rolled her yes and tried to join in their enthusiasm. A girls’ weekend was a good idea. If she wasn’t feeling that down to her core, that just underlined the fact that she needed this. Staying in a funk all weekend wouldn’t do her any good.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a more legit smile onto her face. “Yes. Let’s do this. This is a good idea.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Arielle said with a wink. “And now…dessert!”

  She almost said no, but then her stomach growled. What the hell. She hadn’t eaten dinner, but she was a grown-up and she’d had the most frustrating—and apparently secret—afternoon. And tomorrow would be for her friends. The least she could do for herself was have a damn sundae. “Yes, please.”

  ~

  WHEN THE CALL CAME IN FROM THE CHAIRMAN of the Historical Society’s board of directors the next day right before noon, Cara had just stepped onto Daphne’s boat. She gave her friends an apologetic smile and hit the button to answer the call.

  Two seconds later, she held up her hand, signalling that Daphne maybe shouldn’t cast off just yet.

  “Slow down, Bill, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” But the sinking feeling in her gut told her exactly what this call was about.

  The chairman took a deep breath and started again. “The electrician went out to Villa Sucre this morning and was barred from entering the premises by a naked man.”

  Cara’s eyebrows shot sky-high. Naked? An unbidden image of the calm, infuriating giant—now without clothes—slid into her mind. She squinted and tried
to pretend it wasn’t there. “Right.”

  “Right? Ms. Levasseur—”

  “Jesus, Bill, call me Cara. If you’re going to ream me out, do it as equals, okay?” She took a deep breath. She’d pay for that, and have to put up with weeks of huffing and concern. It was worth it. She hated playing games.

  “It is imperative, Cara, that the trust we’ve placed in your hands is not…abandoned.”

  How could she explain to him that the day before, a strange man had shown up at the villa and she’d just let him stay? That she’d scooted out of the way, even, and kept it all to herself, hoping that he’d just disappear by Monday?

  She hadn’t lived up to that trust, not this weekend.

  Pressing her hand to her forehead, she took a deep breath and made a solemn promise to herself that she’d fix it. Then she repeated it to her boss. “I’m sorry, Bill. I’m…listen, I’m at the marina right now. I need to go home and grab a few things, then I’ll head out to the plantation and make it all right.” Before he could interrupt her, she headed off his next question. “And as soon as I excuse myself from here, I’ll call you right back and explain everything.”

  “Five minutes, Cara.”

  “I’ll call you in four. Promise.”

  Daphne was holding out her bag even as she disconnected the call. “Work trouble?”

  “I’m sorry. You’ll need to head off without me.”

  Her friends gave her matching understanding smiles.

  “You want us to stick around?” Arielle asked.

  They would. Cara knew that without a doubt. But she hadn’t wanted to tell them about Mick the night before, and she really didn’t want them to follow her out to the plantation today. No, it would be better if they were off-island for the next twenty-four hours. When she went nuclear on his stupid, brawny body, it would be best not to have any witnesses.

  “I’m sure,” she said with a decisive nod.

  As they started the engine behind her, she hurried up the dock and tossed her bag in the back of her car. Steeling herself for more recriminations, she dialled Bill back, a plan already forming in her head.

  An hour later, she found Mick lying in a hammock he’d strung up between two pillars on the back veranda. Because of course he was having a nap, the giant ass.

  Stomping right up to him, she tried not to notice that while he was wearing clothes, strictly speaking, there was a lot of bare skin on display.

  Tan, muscled, solid-looking skin, and then a slice of less-tanned lower abdomen sliding out from the low-riding waistband of his board shorts.

  Her eyes got stuck on the flat, ridged planes of what looked like eight-pack abs for a second before she remembered she was there to yell at him. She propped her hands on her hips and glared at him, ignoring his vaguely amused expression as he blinked up at her—apparently he wasn’t napping, just resting his eyes so he’d be fully prepared to blast her for being in his way.

  Well, two could play that game. She loaded up her best boss-lady voice and fired. “You sent away my electrician?”

  He shrugged and slowly rolled up to sit on the edge of the hammock, clearly immune to boss-lady. “Not expressly.”

  “What happened? He was left with the impression he wasn’t allowed in the house.”

  “Oh. Well yes, I did tell him that.”

  “You don’t have that authority!”

  “Yes, I do. You just don’t recognize it. Have you heard from the lawyer’s office yet?”

  There was enough of an authentic question in his voice for her to know that while she hadn’t, neither had he. So she didn’t answer him. Suck on that, mister.

  “Where did you get a hammock?”

  “In town.”

  In town? She sputtered and gapped at him as the corners of his mouth curled up, lazy and proud as a peacock. She tried to suck in a breath. It hurt. “What…” She trailed off, then tamped down the outrage and tried again. Her voice was strained, but at least it was working. “How else have you made yourself at home?”

  He stood, again moving slowly, just to irritate her. But as he towered above her, it wasn’t only annoyance she felt. Through her bristling anger came a wave of awareness. She narrowed her eyes to keep them from rolling at herself. Really, hormones? Him?

  Yeah, him.

  Had he been that tall yesterday?

  No, yesterday she’d been wearing wedge sandals. Today, in her flat deck shoes, she felt positively miniature next to him. Focus, Cara. “Have you been in contact with your…friend?”

  “So many questions, Ms. Levasseur.” He winked at her and moved past her. She refused to breathe in. Don’t smell him, don’t smell him…

  He disappeared into the kitchen, and after giving him a reasonable head start, she followed. She found him at the counter, where two boxes of supplies glared at her. So a hammock wasn’t the only thing he’d picked up. Bottled water, bread, bananas, the largest pack of Slim Jims she’d ever seen. Cereal, shelf-stable milk—ick—and cookies rounded out the groceries. Okay, so he wasn’t cooking or settling in for the long haul.

  But he would still be here on Monday.

  She took a deep breath. “Until confirmed otherwise, work will continue as planned. And you are not to scare away any tradespeople with nudity.”

  He gave her a lazy grin. “I was wearing clothes.”

  She glowered at him.

  “Okay, I was wearing boxers. It’s the weekend, and I was making myself some breakfast. I wasn’t naked, and even if I was, that’s nobody’s business but mine.” His smile got even cockier, if that was possible. “And yours, if you want it to be.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then stop staring at my chest.”

  She jerked her eyes up to his face—she could have sworn she was just looking at him. She’d seen him grin. And then…maybe there’d been some gaze drifting. Not her fault. “You’re taking up a lot of valuable real estate right in front of me.”

  “Uh huh.” This time his smile was crooked, his eyes hooded. He looked like he was about to ask her a question he already knew she’d say no to. “You got a bathing suit on, by any chance? I’m heading down to the beach.”

  He wanted to go swimming together? The only thing she wanted to do with him was bid each other a polite farewell as he carried his ridiculously oversized, over-muscled, over-everythinged body off the estate and out of her life.

  “No, I do not,” she lied. “And stop calling it a beach.”

  “Oceanfront property, lady. In my world, that’s a beach.”

  He was insufferable. “Well, go enjoy cracking your head open on the rocks, then. I have work to do.”

  “On a Saturday?” He frowned. “I thought you’d said you’d be back on Monday.”

  That was before you started waging a guerrilla war based on some misguided sense of possession being nine-tenths of the law. “Change of plans.”

  He gave her a long, scrutinizing look. She held her ground. She wouldn’t be intimidated.

  Finally, he canted his head to the side and nodded. “Well, if you’re hungry, there are sausages and grilled tomatoes in the fridge.”

  “The fridge isn’t…” She trailed off. It hadn’t been connected to power. But as she glanced over his shoulder, she realized he’d moved it back against the wall and plugged it in. So cereal and shelf-stable milk were his backup pantry staples. Crappity crap.

  Two could play at that game. “Thank you for the offer, but I had my breakfast a few hours ago.”

  He smirked at her. “Early riser, are you?”

  “You should try it some time.”

  That shouldn’t amuse him, but it clearly did. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  She stiffened. “Anyway, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Just what work are you doing on the weekend? Suddenly?”

  She gave him a bland look. “Why?”

  He gave her a slow perusal. Up and down his gaze crawled, and it should haven’t felt good. It didn’t feel good, she
lied to herself. They were on opposite sides of what could turn into a serious legal battle.

  This man was the enemy, no matter how tall or how handsome he was. No matter how warm his gaze.

  The. Enemy.

  “Because I think you’re going to be a problem for me, Ms. Levasseur.” Okay, so he was on the same enemy-page. That was…good. She swallowed as his gaze hardened. “Does that start today?”

  Did the fact that she’d brought all the camping supplies she owned and quietly set up shop in the ballroom constitute the beginning of an all-out-war? “You tell me. Does it?”

  He laughed quietly. “Answering a question with a question. I’m guessing yes.” He took a few steps back, slow and sure, his eyes never blinking as he held her gaze. “I’m going swimming.”

  “And I’m going to work.”

  “See you later.”

  “Definitely. You can count on it.” She really didn’t need to say both of those things. She pressed her lips together to keep any more empty, threatening promises from spilling out.

  “Ms. Levasseur?” She jerked her chin up in response to his slow drawl of her name. He smirked as he pointed to the jug of filtered water that she used for tea. He hadn’t used any of it, she saw. “In case you were looking for some running water. I got the bathroom hooked up in the servants’ quarters.”

  What? She gapped at him. “When?” The question stuttered out of her.

  He grinned. “You’re not the only one who had breakfast hours ago. I’ve been busy.”

  THREE

  MICK LOOKED DOWN AT THE FROTHING SURF SWIRLING AROUND HIS ANKLES.

  He shouldn’t take as much glee in throwing Cara off-kilter as he did. But there it was—the first bit of fun he’d had in a long while.

  And for all her bluster, for all the hard, angry looks she threw his way, he felt an odd familiarity with her.

  So he secretly liked the woman he’d spend the next few days around, at least as much as he liked anyone, and he was having fun.

  This was all good.

  The ocean was fun, too. The surf had been pretty vicious first thing this morning—exactly how he liked to greet the day.