SEAL's Touch: A Dirty Bad Boy Romance (Small Town SEALs Book 3)

by Vivian Wood

  He rifled through his cards and handed her a Black American Express.

  “I will be happy to check again,” she said. She typed another string of information, and looked up at him. “I’m sorry, but it looks like your reservation was changed yesterday. Paid for in advance by a Spencer Calloway.”

  He repressed a grimace. Of course his father had to meddle in his affairs. It made total sense.

  “Alright. There are two bedrooms, at least?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just down the first floor corridor. I’ll have one of the bellhops take you.”

  “Thank you. Are these the keys?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  He turned around and spotted Cameron taking a cell phone photo of a sculpture of ballerinas dancing. He had no doubt that it was famous, but he had no time for art right now.

  “Cameron, come on,” he chastised her. “We’re down the hall.”

  He turned on his heel and followed the bellhop down a series of corridors, until they arrived at the Royale Suite.

  He opened the door, tipping the bellhop as he looked around. They walked into a living room of cream furniture, all perfectly immaculate.

  “Whoa,” he heard Cameron say. “Holy shit.”

  The living room led into a white marble covered dining room, and an elegant marble balcony with black patio furniture. Two bedrooms and bathrooms were set up just off the living room as well, both with kingsize beds and done in beige tones.

  Smith turned to Cameron, possibly to make a joke of the ridiculous accommodations. Then he saw her putting her baggage in one of the bedrooms. She shot him a look, and shut the bedroom door with a definitive click.

  6

  Cam kicked off her heels in her room. They’d been in Paris for three days now, and she’d seen precisely none of the sights. Not that she’d expected to slack off and sightsee the whole time, but she had been so busy the last few days that a break was welcome.

  During the meetings at Calloway Corp, she’d mostly been left in the dark due to the fact that apparently everyone spoke French. They were in France, so it was to be expected, but it left her in the dust. She was often still looking up a word she’d managed to catch in her French-to-English dictionary when everyone stood to leave the boardroom.

  She sighed and rubbed her neck, sitting on the luxurious bed she’d been assigned. Her phone buzzed, no doubt to notify her that Erika was calling again.

  Erika had been elated to hear that Cam was being sent overseas, to what she called the most romantic city of all time. Her editor had urged her to spend her time seducing Smith, because she said the best informants were unsuspecting ones.

  Cam suspected that Spencer Calloway had sent them here for the same reason, so a little part of her was glad that she and Smith had been too busy to spend time together.

  She picked up the necklace from her bedside table, holding the locket carefully. The chain had been replaced three times, so the locket was the only original piece left.

  She pressed the locket’s smooth gold sides, releasing the catch and opening it carefully. She hardly ever opened the locket anymore, because the two little pictures stuffed inside were starting to fade.

  On one side, a picture of herself, a grinning redheaded girl of about eight. On the other side was a young woman, also a redhead. Dressed in overalls and a purple shirt, her mother looked at her with a vaguely happy expression.

  It pained Cam to think it, but the young woman in the photo might be younger than Cam herself by now.

  She closed the locket and put it away. She checked her watch. It was only four in the afternoon, and the meetings were concluded for the day. If she was going to do any sightseeing, it would have to be now.

  She got up and went to her closet. She changed into jeans, a band t-shirt, and a blazer. Simple but sophisticated, much like Paris itself.

  She grabbed her purse and her guidebook, planning on visiting the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. At least if she saw those two things, she could say her trip was not a waste.

  She went into the living room, pausing when she saw Smith on the balcony. She walked over and stuck her head out. She felt the low rumble of attraction as soon as she saw him in his jeans and t-shirt, just as he’d been the first night she met him.

  She swallowed her feelings down as he turned around.

  “I’m going to the Arc de Triomphe,” she said. “So I’ll be gone the rest of the evening.”

  He cocked a brow. “Are you, now?”

  “Yep. And the Eiffel Tower after that.”

  “You don’t speak French,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, however will I survive in this city full of tourists?” she sarcastically replied.

  She turned to leave, but Smith stopped her.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let me get my coat.”

  She must have looked pretty surprised, because he laughed.

  “What, I can’t take my assistant sightseeing?” he said.

  She was quiet for a second, so he pushed past her and disappeared in his room. When he came back, he was wearing his leather jacket.

  Now he really looked like he had when they met. A bunch of images rushed into her head, images of what he looked like beneath the clothes. Most men didn’t look better with their clothes off, but Smith was an exception.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, blushing a little at her thoughts. “Lead the way.”

  He led her out of the hotel. She noticed that none of the toadying bellhops even looked their way, and the valets didn’t offer to pull around the limo.

  She looked at Smith. She supposed he was different looking enough in his current garb to warrant different treatment. It was funny what taking him out of the Brioni suit did for his outward appearance. He looked handsome, but otherwise he was totally average.

  She smiled to herself, shaking her head as they walked away from the hotel.

  “What?” he said to her as he pulled out his phone and hailed an Uber.

  “I was just thinking… no one noticed you leaving, back at the hotel. It’s almost like you’re in your punk rock disguise.”

  He winked at her and grinned. “Don’t tell anyone my secret.”

  She laughed and shook her head again.

  “You are so bad,” she said.

  “I try,” he said casually as their Uber arrived.

  She rolled her eyes and allowed him to put her in the car. He climbed in the other side and told the driver where to go.

  “You’re just lucky that you speak French,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t say lucky,” he said, looking out the window. “I was stationed in Senegal for six months, then in Rwanda.”

  “Stationed?”

  “Yeah. Special Air Service Lieutenant, at your service, ma’am.”

  She was stunned. She’d taken Smith at face value, as a rich kid who went to punk clubs to defy his parents. Of course, now that she knew, it made sense. He was tidy, and seemed so worldly. He had gotten both of those things in the Special Air Service.

  “How long were you in the service?” she asked.

  “Almost four years,” he said, pulling a face. “I would’ve gladly stayed in, but…”

  “But?”

  “Duty called,” he said with a sardonic little smirk. “My father pretended he was about to retire. Somebody had to run Calloway Corp.”

  He smiled, but it was humorless this time. She digested that information. For the first time, she considered who he was as a person, apart from the business.

  Did he know that money was being misappropriated from his company? Worse, was he complicit in it?

  She didn’t think so, but he was proving that she knew next to nothing about him as a person. She looked at him through her eyelashes, wondering if she was working toward putting him in jail.

  “Ah, here we are,” he said. He said something to the driver in French, and the driver pulled over.

  They both got out, Cam marveling at the sheer
size of the Arc de Triomphe. It was a gray cement arch, at least 150 feet tall and almost as wide. It was covered in elaborate figures of the soldiers it celebrated from the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars, or so her guidebook told her.

  “God, it’s huge,” she said, as they approached it.

  “It is,” he said, looking up. “It makes one feel small, doesn’t it?”

  She smiled at the fact that his British accent meant he could get away with saying such a dramatic thing. “It does.”

  They walked right under the monument, marveling. There were plenty of other tourists there, but not so many as to make it seem crowded.

  “We should go to a museum tonight, instead of the Eiffel Tower,” he said.

  “Really?” she said.

  “Yeah, don’t you think?” he asked. “We can see the Eiffel Tower by driving by it. We can’t see the Louvre from the outside.”

  “I’m down for whatever you suggest,” she said with a grin.

  Cam oohed and aahed for another half an hour. Smith was perfectly patient with her, getting a cab when she was ready to go. He gave the driver a long string of instructions, then nodded to her.

  “He’s going to drive us by the Eiffel Tower.”

  They sat for a couple of minutes, silently absorbing the city around them.

  “Ahhh, look,” she pointed at a stately-looking old building. “Everything in this city has so much history.”

  “That’s very true,” he said. “A lot more than any place in the US, anyway.”

  “Oh, I can see the Eiffel Tower!” she said.

  “It’s just lighting up, now that it’s getting dark,” he observed.

  She sat back, dazzled by the whole thing. The tower was so much taller than she’d imagined, every steel beam decorated with lights. It was gorgeous really, everything she’d ever hoped it would be.

  They moved past it, and Cam realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled slowly and watched as the city slid by the cab’s window.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Me too,” said Smith. “There are a few restaurants near the Louvre. Why don’t we grab something to eat before we see the art?”

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  He smiled, and their eyes met. For a second, she thought that he was going to lean in and kiss her, but after a moment he turned away. Her heart skipped a few beats, regardless.

  Smith said something in French to the cab driver. The cab driver let them out in front of a restaurant called Le Rose, a quaint little café with seating out front.

  “It’s pretty nice outside. Should we eat out here?” Smith asked Cam.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “This looks like an order up front kind of place. How about I go inside and get us some snacks? You can stay out here and settle in.”

  “Okay,” she said, pointing to a wrought iron table. “I’ll be right at this table.”

  He headed inside, and she made herself comfortable at the table. He returned a few minutes later with a tray of food. He set it down.

  “Hold on,” he said. He went back inside, then came out with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Ta-da!!”

  “Nice!” she said, leaning forward to inspect the tray of food while he worked to open the bottle. “What is all this?”

  “Let’s see,” he said, popping the bottle of champagne and pouring two glasses. “We have a baguette, and a couple kinds of cheese. I think that’s brie and that’s sheep’s milk cheese. Then there’s ham, and butter. I also got a few pieces of chocolate.”

  “Holy crap,” she said, her eyes wide. “All this and champagne, too?”

  “Never say that I wasn’t a giving and festive boss,” he said, sitting down. He raised his glass to hers. “A votre santé.”

  “Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

  They both took a sip. Cam laughed at the sweet taste of hers, and at the bubbles that tickled her nose.

  “Alright,” he said, taking a piece of baguette and digging in.

  “Alright,” she echoed, setting down her glass and doing the same.

  She put some ham and brie on her baguette. She bit into it, then moaned.

  “Oh my god,” she said between bites. “It’s so good! The brie is really creamy.”

  “You should try the butter,” he said, offering it to her.

  She laughed. “You’re trying to make me fat!”

  “Hey, I’m just offering,” he said. He eyed her. “Besides, putting on a couple pounds wouldn’t kill you.”

  “What?” she said. “I’m your executive assistant. You’re supposed to encourage me to be thin. It makes you look more powerful.”

  He cracked up. “Is that right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Mmmm,” he murmured. “No comment.”

  She sipped some champagne and looked at him. Seeing him at ease and smiling was odd, after he’d tried to seduce the flight attendant and then called her unprofessional for kissing him. On top of all that, he’d given her the cold shoulder since they got here and compelled her to work from dawn to dusk.

  “You’ve been really hard to work for this week,” she said, taking another bite of her baguette.

  His chewing slowed. He swallowed, then nodded.

  “I know. I’ve been a bastard.”

  He stuck another piece of bread in his mouth, watching her.

  “Is it because of your father?” she asked, canting her head. “He seems to think that pushing us closer together is a good idea.”

  Smith slowly nodded. “That’s part of it, yeah. It seems wise to keep you at arm’s length.”

  She toyed with her wine glass, making a face.

  “Because we were together?” she asked.

  “Because—” he said, then paused to pull his thoughts together. “Because I grew up in this rich kid bubble, where I got everything I wanted. And I went into the military to cure that, to experience the opposite of that. Deprivation.” He ran his hand through his hair. “My father tricked me into leaving the Special Air Service. So I’m doing this job, and trying to dodge the traps he’s set for me, the easy life he thinks I should have.”

  He took a breath, then looked her right in the eye.

  “You’re part of that, I’m afraid,” he finished softly.

  Cam shifted in her seat, taken aback by his honest revelation.

  “Oh,” she said. “I mean… oh.”

  “I’m sorry if I was a complete bastard this week.”

  He looked forlorn.

  “It’s forgotten,” she said. “As long as you’re nicer to me from now on.”

  He nodded. She felt a moment of inspiration.

  “Hey. How about we just… start over?” she asked. “As if it’s the first time we’ve laid eyes on one another.”

  His mouth kicked up on one side.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Here. Hi, I’m Cam. Cameron. I’m from Massachusetts originally. And I like punk rock music and working to make my loft more habitable.”

  He extended his hand and took hers. A fission of energy skittered across her skin, but she ignored it.

  “Hi. I’m Smith. I’m from London originally. I was in the military, now I’m not. I like punk, too.”

  She grinned as they shook hands for another second, then she withdrew her hand.

  “See?” she said. “Perfectly civil.”

  He grinned, his dark hair falling in his eyes. She wasn’t going to swoon over that, though. She jumped up.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “Bring the champagne bottle. We can drink while we walk.”

  He picked up the champagne bottle. She made quick work of the tray, disposing of everything but the glasses.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Which way is the glass pyramid thing that I see every time someone mentions the Louvre?”

  Smith pointed. She headed that direction, walkin
g slowly.

  They didn’t talk much, just enjoyed the sights and the bottle of champagne. They made it a couple of blocks before she finished it off.

  “Ah, well…” she sighed, throwing it in the first bin she saw.

  Cam turned back to him to ask a question, but he surprised her by sliding his hand behind her head. He kissed her fiercely. She was shocked at first, her hand hitting his chest. But his lips were firm and warm against hers, his scent in her nose.

  She caved. Her hand grasped the lapel of his jacket as she pulled herself closer. Her breasts brushed against his chest. He gripped her hair and she let out a gasp, then kissed him harder.

  She knew that she shouldn’t be doing this, but a part of her whispered, So what? Be naughty for once in your life.

  At length, he broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers.

  “I wish we were near the hotel,” he whispered. “And I wish this wasn’t so…”

  He stopped and shook his head. She smiled.

  “Wrong?” she suggested. “That’s usually what they say about employer-employee relationships.”

  He laughed, stepping back. “That’s one way to put it.”

  She looked at him for a moment, standing there so tall and handsome. He’d said his father had picked her, laid a trap for him. She wouldn’t be the one to make him step in it.

  “Well,” she said, gesturing. “Don’t you have some art to show me?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted.

  “I guess so.”

  He headed down the street, leaving her to follow.

  7

  To say the least, Smith was conflicted.

  He looked down at his scotch, idly swirling the amber liquid around in the heavy crystal tumbler as he sighed, thinking about Cameron.

  Smith snorted to himself, taking a large sip of his drink. Thinking about her was all he seemed to do anymore.

  After he’d kissed her, on the Pont des Arts of all places, Cameron had been seemingly content to pretend as if the moment had never happened between them, going about the rest of their night of sightseeing as if they were no more than professional acquaintances on a business trip together.

  Which is what you bloody well wanted, you tosser. So what’s with all the brooding?