Navy SEAL Seduction

by Bonnie Vanak

  Lacey bit her lower lip, and it made him hard all over again. Such a sweet, lush mouth. “C’mon, Lace. I wouldn’t let you stay at a fleabag motel, and I do want to see your NGO’s compound while I’m here. It sounds amazing. I’d like to visit and see all the work you’ve done.”

  Finally, she nodded. “All right. But I’m paying you back for the room and the dinner when we get to my home. And I’m not getting on a plane with you, Jarrett. No matter what you say.”

  “Fine. Come with me and I’ll reserve you a room.”

  As she walked with him into the hotel, he felt a sense of relief more than jubilation. Lacey was safe here tonight, with him. And tomorrow he’d see the compound she had worked hard to establish.

  He just had to convince her to leave it all behind.

  CHAPTER 3

  Much as he’d wanted to head out at first light, for Jarrett didn’t want to take chances of running into protestors, they didn’t get on the road until nearly noon. Lacey had business in the city, and Jarrett drove her to various stores and did shopping of his own.

  They were safe enough for now. She’d monitored the radio, heard reports of burning tires and roadblocks planned for later this afternoon.

  Riding shotgun as he steered the rented Montero SUV through the city streets, Lacey fisted her hands atop her backpack. She’d spent a restless night thinking of Jarrett and their past. Once they had deeply loved each other. But life changed her. She wasn’t the naive, sheltered senator’s daughter who thought the sun rose and set on Jarrett. Her horizons had broadened and she wanted more. No longer did she want to sit and wait for him to come home. Sit and worry he would never come home, for he was a SEAL and his missions were dangerous.

  Being a military wife hadn’t suited her. She’d spent her time indulging in silly pastimes like manicures and shopping to ease the constant worries about his welfare. And in between remained glued to the twenty-four-hour television news channels to glean the slightest information about volatile parts of the world where Jarrett might be.

  No, she didn’t need Jarrett in her life anymore.

  Unfortunately, her libido remembered well the pleasure he’d given her in bed and begged her to draw closer. She hadn’t had sex since her last relationship two years ago. Francis Monroe was a great guy, son of a wealthy independent contractor, and exciting.

  All the men she’d dated since Jarrett had been dull and safe, except for Francis, who was on the board of directors of her charity. Francis was both wealthy and charming, and his family was connected. Their dads were friends and Lacey knew her father was grooming Alastair Monroe to become the next US ambassador to St. Marc. But as responsible as his dad was, Francis was not. He was more interested in playing the field than a stable relationship.

  Lacey was determined to never again get involved with a man who would desert her, both emotionally and physically.

  Unfortunately, Jarrett now seemed determined to stick by her side. How could she shake him? And why was he so worried about Augustin?

  Maybe when he saw her compound, he’d change his mind and leave. Some people shied away from her charity and the terrible reality of what the women had suffered.

  Lacey stole a sideways look. With his long legs encased in blue jeans, gray T-shirt molded to his muscled torso and chest, and his jaw set in a determined line, Jarrett made an imposing figure as he navigated through the tight streets where vendors lined the sidewalks and paraded their wares. Driving through downtown had always frayed her nerves, even after living here. She hated the tight spaces in this most dangerous part of the city one had to drive through to get to the main road leading south to her home.

  There was always that element about Jarrett that hinted at calm confidence. Once his overprotective streak had annoyed her. Funny how it didn’t anger her now, but made her feel safe. Maybe because she’d finally found a life of her own, and the confidence she’d lacked when they were married.

  She didn’t need designer handbags or dresses to prove her self-worth. Her purpose rested between the concrete walls of her compound with the women who relied on her.

  Finally, they cleared the city and accessed the national road hugging the turquoise bay that flanked the capital.

  A few abandoned homes that had been bombed years ago during a coup faced the bay, their broken windows looking like sad eyes. “Nice homes. Terrific view of the water. Needs a little work. Perfect for a do-it-yourself,” he murmured.

  “Comes complete with running water, when it rains. Air-conditioning when there’s a breeze,” she joked back.

  He glanced over and grinned, and the power of that smile made her toes curl. Lacey scolded her raging libido. Sex was on the back burner. She had other priorities.

  “We’re in your car and no one can hear us. Can you tell me now why I don’t want Monsieur Augustin as a donor? He’s a very wealthy philanthropist.”

  Jarrett checked out his rearview mirror. “He’s wealthy, but his idea of philanthropy isn’t charitable. And his real name isn’t Augustin.”

  He shot her a hard look. “It’s Robert Destin. He’s an illegal arms trader who found refuge here. He isn’t interested in your NGO for a tax deduction.”

  Lacey’s heart dropped to her stomach. That was news. Jarrett might be overprotective, but he had excellent information. “He’s known around the country as a philanthropist. He donates to several NGOs.”

  Jarrett eyed her. “He’s rich because he sold weapons to terror groups, Lace. Intelligence chatter has it that he’s looking to finance a new op out of this country.”

  His face tightened. “Perfect place to plan an attack. St. Marc is a Third World country already balancing on chaos, where money can buy a lot of new friends in low places. His cover is doling out money to international charities with global operations.”

  It didn’t make sense. “Why would Augustin want to donate cash for my NGO’s irrigation system? I’m a small operation.”

  “You have something he wants. I don’t know what. But he’s not interested because he’s a nice guy.”

  “Or he needs a tax deduction.” She reached for her cell. “I have to warn Paul.”

  “Don’t.” Jarrett stayed her hand. “Tell him not to meet with him, but don’t share what I told you. That’s for your ears only.”

  The fact that Jarrett shared such information warned he was deadly serious. In their years of marriage, he never told her anything about his work, his missions or the scumbags he encountered.

  Lacey called Paul, telling him she’d handle Monsieur Augustin. As she hung up, wished she could light a fire beneath the bottoms of the State Department workers who were processing the paperwork. I need more time...

  The car radio blasted out the news. In St. Marc, Lacey always listened to the radio to get reports of possible protests or roadblocks. But today seemed peaceful, and even more so as they drove farther south.

  They entered a small town where a man led a donkey through traffic, ignoring the red light on the main road. A parade of motorcycles streamed past their vehicle like water. Bright red umbrellas with a local phone company’s logo lined the sidewalks, shading the vendors who sold mangoes, breadfruit, candy, gum and other wares. The mountains rose to their left, dotted with trees.

  They got stuck behind a tangerine-colored bus. A goat and a man perched on top of the bus, enjoying the view. Two men jumped onto the bus as it pulled into a small town. One held a clear plastic bag filled with bread. The other clutched plastic baggies of water.

  Jarrett navigated through a local market, people milling in the street as they examined fruit for sale. Behind his shades, he seemed to study the mood of the street. Outside the city it was peaceful and normal. No torqued crowds. No danger.

  Please let it stay that way. Last week someone had firebombed her best truck when she’d parked outside the compound to check out property she’d thought of purchasing. Lacey was doing all she could to expedite the paperwork, but it hadn’t come through yet. Damn red tape...<
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  “See how peaceful it is here?” She needed to assure him she was fine, and he could leave her once he’d driven her home.

  “It’s deceptive. The radio said there are strikes planned for Monday. The president is planning to raise fuel prices again and the people are going to march.” Jarrett peered over the top of his shades. “Marching people usually equates to violence, Lace.”

  “In the city.”

  “There’s been a few protests in the country, as well, along this road.”

  She knew it and had taken great care to monitor reports to avoid roadblocks. “Not recently.”

  “And that will change when the president raises fuel prices if he’s reelected. The poor are desperate and things are getting worse. I don’t like it. Everything in this country points to another coup and it’ll turn into a royal goat fluster. You really want to take a chance with your life?”

  “You’re as bad as my father. He wants me to come home, as well.”

  But she couldn’t leave, even if he paid her. Frustration bit her because she suspected Jarrett was right, but she was trapped here. Lacey fished her mobile out of her backpack and thumbed it on. “You don’t like it here? You need to book the next flight out for yourself? Use my credit card.”

  He ignored the jab. “Tell me what’s been going on with the locals where you live. Any hot spots?” He lifted his right hand and pantomimed a gun and trigger. “Bang bang much?”

  “There’s been hot spots in Danton, the city closest to us, but there’s always hot spots flaring up.”

  Mango and palm trees flanked the road as they drove south, past hand-painted signs advertising auto part repairs, billboards in French for local hotels, past the small concrete “banks” where lottery tickets were sold. They passed a herd of motorcycles, their riders waiting for passengers. He glanced to the right and noticed the gas station with its bright yellow-and-green sign remained open.

  Calm. So calm. But she knew the peace could shatter as quickly as a fired shot.

  Jarrett glanced at her. “Why don’t you get some shut-eye while I drive? You’re nodding off.”

  She didn’t want to admit he was right, but he was. Lacey closed her eyes and dozed off.

  When she opened her eyes, he was turning onto the unpaved road leading to her compound lined with dusty mango trees. A few dump trucks loaded with rocks rumbled past.

  Sitting up straight, struggling to snap to attention, she pointed to a turnoff. “Turn at the sign that says Mangoes For Sale. There’s a quarry not far from here. Reason why the road is so bad. But we got the land very cheap, and it’s right off the main highway to make it easier to find us.”

  The vehicle bounced up and down as he drove. “Bounce factor,” he mused. “Makes you feel like a bobble-head doll.”

  “You get used to it.”

  He gave her an amused grin, pushed down his sunglasses to peer at her. An impish look of mischief and sex gleamed in his green eyes. “I give great massages to work out the kinks in your body.”

  A shiver raced down her spine. Jarrett did give great massages, and the smooth glide of his big hands over her naked skin had always been so arousing, leading to him getting naked, as well, and then...

  “I have a vibrator,” she shot back and then flushed as his grin widened.

  “A BOB doesn’t substitute for the real thing, Lace.”

  “I didn’t mean a battery-operated boyfriend kind of vibrator. I meant a massager. For my neck.”

  “Still,” he murmured.

  He drove toward the handmade sign, passing several mango and palm trees. Small wood houses peeked through the trees, as goats grazed in the scrub. An abandoned building came into view. Painted on the building was a mural of rows of corn, with happy children peeking out among the stalks.

  “Originally that wall had a mural of a young woman being led on a chain before the devil. The man leading her clutched her beating heart.” She sighed, remembering all her hard work to convince the locals she was committed to staying and helping them. “I found the artist, paid him to paint the cornfield because the mural kept spooking people. This farm kept spooking people. They said hoodoo rituals were conducted here, ones where a man cut out a woman’s heart for good luck. We’ve managed to overcome some of the tainted superstition, but it’s been a long process, with lots of patience and working with the locals.”

  “You always did have a lot of patience.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You did with me, especially when I was gone so much. Maybe if I hadn’t been gone all those times, we’d still be together.”

  Lacey had wondered the same at times, wondered if he had stayed that one time and given her the support she needed, would they have worked out their problems? But she’d vowed to not regret the past.

  “Maybe. Or not. You can’t go back, Jarrett. We’ve both changed and moved on.”

  Jarrett drove until reaching a tall concrete wall with an imposing red gate. Lacey’s heart went still. Panic clogged her throat as she stared at the gate.

  “You were saying something about hoodoo?” Jarrett turned to her, his expression grim. She’d been gone only a day, and this was bad news. Lacey had thought the other little things that had happened, like the graffiti warnings, were just some kids fooling around. Not this.

  The white, hand-painted sign reading Marlee’s Mangoes had been obscured with a splatter of crimson paint. But it wasn’t the vandalism that worried her.

  It was the dead chicken impaled on the iron spikes of the gate. The bloody entrails were draped over another spike, along with a clear warning painted on the gate in French.

  American, go home before you end up like this.

  Lacey swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She beeped the horn and a man in gray trousers and a blue shirt came out, opened the gate. Pierre waved at her, twirling the shotgun in his hands as if it was a baton.

  “That’s your security?”

  She bit her lip. “I told you, it’s peaceful out here.”

  “And that dead chicken and the sign are a welcome home?”

  Ignoring him, she rolled down the window and spoke in rapid French to the guard, who stared at the dead chicken. “Pierre, when did this happen? Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

  He shook his head, his eyes wide in his face. “Nothing, miss. I was here all night.”

  She nodded. “Get some help and clean this up right now. I want it all gone before the kids come home from school.”

  Jarrett drove through the opened gate, and looked into the rearview mirror as Pierre shut the gate behind them.

  “How long has he worked for you?”

  “He’s the cousin of one of the women I’m helping. He’s been here about two months. I don’t pay him much.”

  Her budget had already been strained with fixing the outdated irrigation system and the other unexpected expenses.

  “It shows. Your security sucks, Lace. He doesn’t even look old enough to shave, damn it.”

  The thinly disguised anger in his deep voice fueled her own anger. “My compound is respected by locals. They know the farm provides jobs and teaches skills to women.”

  Jarrett snorted. “You call a dead chicken respect?”

  “It was probably a prank.” Lacey’s stomach tightened. If he found out about the other incidents, she’d never shake him loose. She couldn’t be certain it was locals causing trouble, or worse.

  Jarrett drove into the loose gravel drive, flanked by tall mango trees and colorful hibiscus bushes. He parked before a turquoise two-story house. The white, one-story guesthouse was a short walk away down a gravel pathway.

  Lacey jumped out, relieved to see everything looked normal.

  He nodded at the solid concrete building. “At least your personal living space looks secure. From a distance, anyway.”

  Fumbling in her backpack for her key, she walked up the steps to the front door. “Thanks to Paul. He helped me find the right construction team to expand the house and put in a
water system. He’s well connected.”

  The compound held acres of corn and a clearing near the cornfield. Construction equipment and stacks of concrete blocks sat in the clearing. Jarrett adjusted his sunglasses and pointed to them. “What’s going on there?”

  “Houses. I’m going to build them for twenty-five single moms helped by my charity. I’m in the process of subdividing the land so each woman will have the land and the house in her name and never have to worry about hooking up with a man just to have a place to stay for her and her children. Paul thinks I’m crazy for building homes, though he agreed to try to find funding.”

  Jarrett peered over the top of his shades. “Pity the man. He doesn’t know your stubborn streak.”

  She smiled and pushed back a stray lock of hair. “I had a lot of opposition. Some of my friends said the women would bolt soon as they found a man. It was tough at first. I couldn’t find funding, so I used alternative sources.”

  “You used your trust fund.”

  Heat suffused her face. “I needed start-up capital.”

  Jarrett reached out and stroked a knuckle down her cheek. The bare caress filled her with yearning. “You have a real heart. Always knew you’d use that fund for something other than designer bags and shoes.”

  Lacey turned away, her emotions churning. How could she even share with him that she’d wanted to make some kind of contribution? Jarrett chose the Navy and dedicated his life to serving his country. Her father had entered the diplomatic corps and then became a US senator to serve, as well. And all she’d done was contribute to the United States economy with her shopping sprees, which left her feeling cold and empty afterward.

  If she hadn’t lost the baby, maybe then her life would have taken a different turn. But no use agonizing over the past...

  “Come inside. I’ll get us some cold water.”

  Jarrett followed her into the living room. She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. Sighing, she dumped her backpack on the orange sofa.