Night Maneuvers

by Tawny Weber

  In a sizzling prequel novella to her new trilogy, New York Times bestselling author Tawny Weber introduces the sexy, powerful Navy SEALs in the Poseidon team as they take on the ultimate mission: love.

  Within the elite brotherhood of Navy SEALs, the Poseidon team are the very best—and the most secretive. Convincing a naive journalist not to write a tell-all PR feature should be a piece of cake for Chief Petty Officer Aaron Ward. Especially once he glimpses Bryanna Radisson’s soft, lush curves. His tactic: seduce and destroy...

  Bryanna is no pushover. Aaron’s hard-muscled body makes her crave much more than a story, and she’ll get what she came for. Desire is her weapon of choice, but when this one wild night is over, will Aaron sabotage her plans...or lose his heart in collateral damage?

  Don’t miss Call to Honor, the first in the SEAL Brotherhood series, from HQN Books!

  Night Maneuvers

  Tawny Weber

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  “AND THAT, MY FRIENDS, is how it’s done.”

  With a cocky grin and a cockier salute, Chief Petty Officer Aaron Ward flipped his empty shot glass into the air, caught it upside down and placed it with the others on the tower already stacked on the table.

  Across from him, blurry eyed with a slack expression, his opponent reached for his shot of tequila. He overshot the distance by a few inches and lost his balance. With the speed and dexterity they were known for, one of the SEALs on the team opposite Aaron slid a chair under his wavering teammate.

  “Concede?” Elijah Prescott asked from his position at the head of the table. Deemed the fairest of them all by most of the personnel at Coronado Naval Base, the majority of SEAL Team 7 and the entirety of Poseidon, the lieutenant was their usual go-to referee.

  Half the bodies in the Officers Club surrounded the table, forming a wall of testosterone with the random nod to estrogen sprinkled here and there. There wasn’t much that offered more off-duty entertainment than the friendly rivalry between SEAL Team 7 and Poseidon. Although, as plenty had pointed out, every member of Poseidon was on SEAL Team 7 themselves.

  The brass deemed the healthy competition to be beneficial, and a lot of the sailors on base who weren’t in Special Forces saw it as inspiration. The SEALs, those who were and those who weren’t Poseidon, saw it as just one more way to train.

  That was what they did.

  They trained to be the best.

  There was a lot to be said for being the best.

  With that in mind, Prescott reached over to tap the still-untouched tequila shot and asked again, “Concede or not? Time, it is a-wasting.”

  Petty Officer Brett “Chug-a-Lug” Samson tried to reach for the glass again, but only managed to lift his hand about three inches before his eyes rolled back. Laughter rang through the low-roofed building as the man slid off his chair, into a puddle under the table.

  Prescott bent at the waist to peer at Samson, then rose to his full six feet two inches. He made a show of pointing both hands toward Aaron.

  “The winner and still reigning champion, Team Poseidon,” Prescott declared with a wicked grin. “That’s twelve face-offs out of twelve.”

  “And that, my friends, proves that there is nothing that we’re not the best at.” The room exploded in groans and applause as Aaron took his bow.

  “Bullshit,” someone muttered. Aaron glanced at Mike Borden, noting the guy’s face was a study of frustration. “There’s got to be something.”

  “Well, Lieutenant, let’s see,” Jared Lansky mused from his spot at the bottle-laden table next to the jukebox. With an arrogant tip of his beer, he leaned back so the chair rested at that perfect tipping point on its rear legs. “That’s pool, track and poker. We’ve nailed rock climbing, para-targeting and a dance off. Beer guzzling, weight lifting, sharpshooting, the trivia trifecta and now tequila shots. What else did we beat everyone at? Oh yeah, who could eat the most pizzas. What’s next on the list?”

  “How about a bake off?” someone called from the other side of the room.

  “Got that covered. Powers grew up in the restaurant biz, did his first tour as a culinary specialist on a sub. He can cook the hell out of anything from five-alarm chili to turducken to oh-la-la éclairs.”

  Mixed in with joking recommendations of just exactly what should be done with turducken were suggestions of which arena they should compete in next. While that raged around him, Aaron took a seat. He figured he did it with a lot more grace than Samson had, but with far too many shots of tequila swimming in his head, he couldn’t be sure.

  While the debate raged on, Diego Torres snagged the deck of cards, shuffled and dealt four hands of poker. He tossed a twenty into the center of the table, snapped up one of the hands of cards and waited for three others to pony up. Aaron debated for a few seconds, considered his chances of winning in his condition, then dug some cash out of his pocket. A pair of tens and two more twenties joined the one on the table, with Aaron, Prescott and Ty Louden snagging hands at random.

  “Bet’s to you, Bulldog,” Torres said after a glance at his cards.

  Aaron eyed the hand of crap he’d pulled, shot a quick glance at the other three faces and, reading exactly what he’d expect on them—nothing—tossed another twenty in the pile. He might have a lousy hand, but he’d won with worse.

  “And that, my friends, is how you win,” he murmured four minutes later as he laid down three ladies and a pair of aces.

  Lansky tossed his cards onto the table and shook his head.

  “You’re on a roll, Bulldog. Me? My luck is sucking big-time tonight,” he muttered. “I should ditch this and head for Olive Oyl’s. Good-looking women, loud music. Just the ticket.”

  “Not like you’d have any better luck with women, Lansky. At least, not the way I hear it,” Brandon Ramsey said from his spot at the next table. The image of relaxation, the tall blond lieutenant had propped his four-legged wooden chair to recline against the wall and leaned back with his head resting in his hands and one booted foot propped on the other knee. “Can’t say as I’ve seen you step up for any of these competitions, either. Twelve men on Poseidon and, what? Seven of you have done all the heavy lifting. Gotta wonder what that says about your qualification process.”

  “Haven’t you been beaten enough yet, Ramsey?” Torres asked, not taking his eyes off his cards. “You really want to battle wits with MacGyver here? He’ll fry your ass.”

  Not even a gallon of tequila could dull the senses to the waves of hostility bouncing between the tables. Before it could explode into anything more than a few hard glares and cursing, a man moved between the tables.

  “Now that you mention it, Ramsey, I haven’t stepped up to compete myself. Do you think my qualifications might be lacking?” Lieutenant Commander Nic Savino stood like an avenging angel for his team. Spiked black hair, obsidian eyes and sharp features echoed the blade-sharp edge in his voice.

  “No, sir. Of course not,” Ramsey said, his words as conciliatory as his smile.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Aaron grinned at Savino’s tone. The man had one hell of a way with the verbal eye roll.

  “Gentlemen, if you’ve finished playing, we have a matter to discuss.”

  As one, the five members of Poseidon who were in the room came to attention. They didn’t stand, they didn�
��t salute, but all of them gave Savino one hundred percent of their focus. Everyone in listening distance quieted, all wanting to hear as much of the discussion as possible.

  Savino had that effect.

  As ranking member of Poseidon under Savino, Torres took the lead.

  “Sir?” he asked, his voice lightly accented with the same hint of Mexico apparent in his dark features. The sharp spikes of barbed wire and the base of a trident were visible beneath the rolled edge of his shirtsleeve. A gang tattoo, Aaron knew. One Diego had changed to represent his service after he’d joined the SEALs. What the man hadn’t changed, though, was his devotion to brotherhood. His belief in the sanctity of the team. And the strongest handle on temper Aaron had ever seen.

  “Word just came down. There’s a new civilian public affairs specialist She has a hankering to create a special campaign to celebrate the SEALs’ fifty-fifth birthday. A big splash outlining the SEALs’ achievements over the years, their skills and renown. In our interest, she wants to do a PR piece highlighting Poseidon.”

  Mutters and derisive laughter skittered around the room. While the SEALs had gotten a lot of press over the past few years—movies, books, write-ups—as a whole, the men preferred their oath of anonymity. They didn’t fight for fame, they fought for their country.

  “We don’t want PR and we do all of our liaising on the field of battle,” Torres pointed out, tapping his cards on the table.

  “That’s what I said.” Savino nodded. “That preference was noted and dismissed. Orders are to comply with the interview.”

  The mutters took on an angry edge. Public relations, publicity, public forms of attention, they were all against the motto most of these men lived by.

  “‘I do not advertise the nature of my work, nor seek recognition for my actions,’” Aaron muttered, quoting the SEAL ethos.

  “I agree.” The moment Savino lifted his hand, the room quieted. Settled. “But we’ve all been given unappetizing orders before. We all know how to swallow our objections, to move past any issues and do the job we’re assigned to do.”

  “Some versions of unappetizing are uglier than others,” Lansky said, rat-a-tat-tatting his hands on the table in a nervous staccato.

  “Only the ones we’re not trained for,” Prescott reminded him. “Which, let’s face it, this would qualify for. Nobody on the team worked in PA. We’re warriors. Not puppets.”

  “I’ll do it,” Ramsey offered, his pretty-boy smile flashing with movie-star glam.

  “There ya go. Let Hollywood do it.” Aaron figured he’d be good at it. The guy had the looks, charm and a mile-deep line of bullshit that’d easily bury a reporter.

  “Yeah, be sure they take photos, too. Ramsey needs something else to add to his personal scrapbook,” Prescott joked without lifting his eyes from the sketch pad he’d been doodling on since the contest ended. Within seconds, he tore off the sheet he’d drawn and tossed it onto the middle of the table. The paper fluttered down to cover the pile of bills that made up the current poker pot, with Ramsey’s face grinning off the page in charcoal.

  The quick sketch showed the SEAL posing in shorts and combat boots, his T-shirt covered with medals and arms lifted to show bulging biceps. His pretty-boy features were exaggerated, the smile gleaming with tiny stars. At his feet were a series of bowing figures, a couple with notepads and pen and the others with cameras.

  “Rock on, Rembrandt,” Ramsey said, snagging the sketch and laughing. “You captured my best side.”

  “Best side is the one you sit on,” Lansky muttered, tossing his cards on the table. “Weren’t you listening? This PR expert is looking for someone in Poseidon. That ain’t you, Ramsey.”

  Ramsey’s smile didn’t change, but his eyes went ice-cold. It wasn’t news that the guy was having trouble adjusting. Used to being the shining star of every force he’d served on, Ramsey didn’t much like that Poseidon’s rep was almost on par with DEVGRU. Poseidon was made up exclusively of twelve men who’d come out of BUD/S class together a decade ago. All twelve served among SEAL Team 7’s various platoons, putting in extra training, extra studying, extra time together in their off hours with a single goal. To be the very best. Their mission was known only to them, their focus broad and well defined. Ramsay had no part in all this.

  “Doesn’t matter what they’re looking for. SEALs are SEALs and SEALs don’t want publicity,” Torres said, tossing his cards on top of Lansky’s and scowling before Ramsey could respond. “Neither does Poseidon.”

  There was a second of silence as if everyone was waiting to see Savino’s reaction to Torres’s response. When he said nothing, the men exploded. Protests, complaints, dissection and criticism foamed through the crowd like an over-shaken beer.

  Through it all, Savino stood, listening. When the litany quieted to a mutter here or there, Savino nodded, his elegant features calm. Aaron knew a lot of people thought calm and cold were the only expressions the man had. Poseidon knew better, of course. But their leader’s mythical reputation added to the team’s mythical reputation, so nobody bothered to correct it.

  “Objections acknowledged and, for what it’s worth, I agree.” As he spoke, Savino pulled a Leatherman knife out of his pocket, slit an inch off the bottom of one of the straws, then gathered them all together. “But our views are irrelevant in the matter. Word came down and it came down from Admiral Cree. Apparently this person has enough pull and knows which strings to tug. They want the article to focus on Poseidon. They want to talk to one of the team. We’ve been ordered to cooperate.”

  With that, he held out a hand filled with eight straws, one for each, including their leader. Nobody grimaced, none of them said a word. They knew the drill. Starting with the man on Savino’s left, each took their turn tugging a small red-and-white-striped cylinder from the lieutenant commander’s hand. This was as much a ritual as the mantra they recited before each mission.

  Savino met the eyes of each of the seven men who were Poseidon as they pulled their straw. The others who made up the twelve-man team were deployed elsewhere, off the hook for this particular venture. If they’d been there, he’d have looked them right in the eye, too. Savino never sent a man on a mission he wouldn’t take himself, and he reminded each of them with his direct and honest gaze.

  When it came to his turn, Aaron contemplated the three straws remaining, figured the odds, went with the one in the middle.

  And frowned at the short straw.

  Shit.

  He’d rather be sent into a terrorist cell wearing neon. It’d beat the hell out of dealing with a clueless journalist with more enthusiasm than smarts.

  “Congratulations, Bulldog. Looks like you’re our PR patsy.” With a slap on the back, Savino grinned. “You’ll meet Ms. Radisson tomorrow, nineteen hundred at Olive Oyl’s.”

  Shit, again.

  A clueless female journalist.

  Could it get any worse?

  CHAPTER TWO

  THIS WAS SO GREAT.

  Her foot bouncing to the beat of the band’s pretty decent rendition of “Brown Sugar,” Bryanna Radisson had to force herself to stay in her seat. There was so much to see here. So much to do. And she was a woman who embraced seeing as much as she could see and doing as much as she could do. What better way to enjoy life than to live it to the fullest, after all?

  And talk about enjoyable.

  She surveyed the bar, loving the clever name. Olive Oyl’s. Who knew a small seaside bar would have such an eclectic variety of patrons. Grizzled, unshaven fishermen types bellied up to the bar next to sleek businessmen with their ties loosened and their shined-like-glass shoes. There was a guy in the corner playing a handheld game one-handed, using the other to alternately lift his beer to his mouth or shove his glasses back into place. A trio of women argued good-naturedly in the corner, and Bryanna swore she even saw one g
uy in cowboy boots dancing with a woman in a dress that looked like a watercolor.

  She could write a whole series of articles based on this bar alone. Relaxation options for the average sailor, base-community relations, a visitor’s drinking guide. The possibilities were endless.

  It was a great example of local color, a glimpse at the type of people who lived and served in Coronado. The small resort town was nestled between the cool waters of the Pacific and the San Diego Bay and sported that casual beachside glamour she loved. The gorgeous area housed both the Naval Amphibious Base and the Naval Air Station, which meant there were a plethora of military hotties to ogle.

  Especially SEALs.

  Bryanna shifted in her seat, halfway out of it as she angled a look toward the back room. This was reputed to be a SEAL bar, and she’d heard that back room was where they hung out. She’d grown up on the fringes of the Navy, paying just enough attention to know a petty officer outranked an ensign, that Bravo Zulu meant “well done” and that a pollywog was a sailor who’d never crossed the equator.

  Nobody had been more surprised than she when she’d decided to take her journalism degree, with a minor in marketing, and apply for a job as a public affairs specialist, civilian, for the Navy. But she’d been at loose ends and dissatisfied with the jobs she’d tried out and had always wanted a chance to live in California. So when her uncle had mentioned the position, she’d jumped at it. And, in her inimitable way, got it.

  In her usual gung ho fashion, she was determined to make it a huge success. Bryanna firmly believed in the power of thoughts, and since she had so many, she figured that meant she had a lot of power to make her dreams come true.

  Her smile widened as the waitress stopped at her table, a glass-covered ship’s wheel. Bryanna took a second to admire her modified sailor suit—double-button-front white jeans and a navy shirt with red and white stripes—then smiled.

  “Great lemonade, Lila,” she complimented, admiring the redhead’s sassy sweep of side bangs. “I love your hair. I wish I could pull off that style.”