A SEAL's Desire (Uniformly Hot!)

by Tawny Weber

  Sterling slid an apologetic look toward Sammi, then, of course, started talking business. She frowned at the irritation spiking through her system. It wasn’t the first time one of their meals had been interrupted. Actually, it was rare that one wasn’t. And it wasn’t as if she could call Sterling out on his comment here in public.

  She’d simply wait until after breakfast and go with Sterling to her office. They would talk in private. They’d hash it out and settle the issue like two reasonable adults. Because that’s what they were. That’s why they were marrying each other.

  Some of the tension she’d been carrying since yesterday finally loosened in her shoulders as Sammi smiled her thanks as Darla set her huevos rancheros on the table. While the men talked business, she ate her breakfast while mentally rehearsing the best way to approach their discussion.

  “Excuse me, Sammi Jo. Julio needs you in the kitchen.” From the frantic edge to Darla’s smile, Julio was having one of his tantrums. The man was simply not a good enough chef to be worth the drama, but Mr. Barclay insisted on keeping the guy.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but now my business calls,” she said, rubbing her napkin over her lips before sliding to her feet.

  “Nice chatting with you, Sammi Jo.”

  “I’ll see you up in the office when you’re finished,” Sterling said, lifting his hand to squeeze hers before she left. Her heart warming at the sweet gesture, Sammi squared her shoulders and prepared to do battle with a spatula-wielding diva.

  Two hours later, she’d handled the kitchen emergency, fixed the reservation snafu, checked in three guests and had approved housekeeping’s request to call the repairman to look at the leaking washing machine.

  And she still couldn’t get into her office. The last time she’d tried, Sterling had growled from his position hunched over her computer. She stood at the top of the stairs, debating going into her office to try again, or down to the lobby to find busywork.

  “There you are. Let’s go to the bridal suite right away.”

  For a brief second, Sammi considered opening a side window and jumping. But she had a feeling that even broken bones wouldn’t save her. Not bothering to hide her reluctance, she turned to face Mrs. Ross.

  “This isn’t a good time to discuss wedding plans. How about tomorrow.” Or never.

  “This can’t wait for tomorrow. Come, come, let’s do it now.” Dressed in eye-searing orange, Mrs. Ross gestured for Sammi to hurry up. “This will only take a quarter of an hour.”

  Knowing the woman would nag her for longer than that, Sammy cast one last longing look toward her office where Sterling was probably still happily ensconced in front of her computer. Then, as she did with all distasteful things, she got on with getting it over.

  As soon as she stepped into the still-being-remodeled bridal suite, her frown deepened to a scowl.

  “What’d you do to my wedding dress? Did you cut it in half,” Sammi exclaimed. But after a second, her scowl faded. About three-quarter length now, without the yards of petal-like chiffon layers it might be a lot easier to move in.

  Relief battled joy. She liked it.

  “Of course not. This is the second dress.”

  “Second... No.” Sammi shook her head. “I’m not wearing two dresses.”

  Completely ignoring her, Mrs. Ross continued to roar around the room like a steamroller, bustling from the dress to her sewing basket and back again like a wide orange blur against the elegant blue room.

  “You wear the formal one for the ceremony and after the first dance, this similar but less formal one for the reception.” Seeing Sammi’s mutinous expression, Mrs. Ross pursed her lips, then added, “Once I’d explained to Mr. Barclay that second dresses are all the trend, he agreed that it was a perfect idea.”

  Sammi eyed the dress, then the martinet with the measuring tape. She wanted to protest. She wanted to put her foot down. She wanted to elope, dammit. But Sterling’s words about how important the wedding was rang in her ears. She unbuttoned her blouse.

  “Tattoos are trendy, too,” Sammi muttered as the woman helped her into the dress, then pinned and tucked. “Were you planning on just me getting one, or the entire wedding party?”

  “Perfect.” Mrs. Ross walked around Sammi ten minutes later, inspecting every inch. “The fit is just right. I have an idea for straps, though, for the more vigorous dancing. The fabric is in my car. Hold on. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  Leaving Sammi trapped in her second dress.

  She debated calling down for one of the staff to come unbutton her, but before she could decide if it was worth the inevitable drama, her cell phone rang from the pocket of her cargo pants.

  “Sterling?” she answered with a laugh. “I thought you were just down the hall using my—”

  “Sammi, listen,” Sterling interrupted, his words an urgent rush. “Don’t say anything, just listen to me.”

  “What’s wrong? Sterling, are you okay?” Her stomach leaden with fear, Sammi dropped to the bed. The dress fluffed around her legs like small chiffon clouds.

  “Look, something’s come up. Something important.” His voice choked for a moment, then, sounding as if he were in pain, he continued. “I’m going to be away for a few days. Maybe a week. You have to cover for me.”

  “What’s going on?” Fear was bubbling to the surface now, threatening to choke her. She pushed off the bed and headed for the door. “I thought you were in my office. When did you leave?”

  She rushed down the hall toward her office, stopping short at the sight of the mess. The chair lay on its side, one wheel missing. Papers covered her desk, looking as if they’d been thrown like confetti and her computer monitor flashed from black to blue and back again.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “Sterling, are you in trouble? Should I call the police? I’m going to call your father.”

  “No!” His breath came over the line sounding as shaky as the nerves in Sammi’s stomach. “Don’t call anybody. That’ll make it worse. Just do what I asked.”

  No way in hell.

  Sammi didn’t say a word, but apparently that was as good as declaring intent, because there was a scuffling sound.

  “Prove it to her,” she heard a mean voice order.

  “Who is that? Where are you, Sterling?”

  There was a grunt, then a wheezing sound. Sammi ran to the landline. She didn’t care what he said. She was calling the cops.

  “I’m switching to video call,” Sterling said before she could lift the receiver. “Sammi, look at it.”

  With trembling fingers, she slowly pulled the phone away from her ear to look at the screen. And let out a small cry.

  Sterling’s face was bruised, his hair disheveled and his eyes filled with pleading. Her heart was trembling as hard as her hands now.

  “Sammi—”

  “Shut it.”

  Sterling shut it so fast, she saw his teeth snap together.

  More scared to see how easily he acquiesced than she’d been already, Sammi tried to breathe through the panic. Her toes dug into the cool satin of her gilded wedding shoes, her fist clenched tight the fabric of her dress.

  “Here’s the deal,” that same mean voice growled from offscreen. “You want him back, you do exactly what we say. You don’t do it exactly, you won’t be needing that pretty white dress.”

  The meaty hand shifted so the barrel of a gun pressed alongside Sterling’s cheek.

  “Yes,” Sammi gasped. “Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Don’t tell anyone about this call. Don’t tell anyone he’s missing. You make damned sure that nobody has a clue.” Already menacing, the voice lowered to send chills of terror down Sammi’s spine. “If you don’t, we’ll know. And we’ll make him pay.”

  “Listen to them,” Sterling insisted, his expression showing the same apprehension Sammi felt. “Sammi, do exactly what they tell you. Just cover for me. Make excuses
. Find a way to make sure that nobody questions my being away. If you can do that, everything will be okay.”

  “But—”

  The cell phone went black. They’d ended the call. Sammi tried to breathe, but the panic kept bubbling up in her throat.

  What was she supposed to do?

  She couldn’t just pretend everything was okay.

  But what choice did she have?

  Her head pounded in time with the black dots dancing in her eyes, her heart throbbing so fast, so loud, that she could barely breathe.

  She wanted to call Mr. Barclay and beg him to fix this. To find his son, bring him back.

  But the menacing warning still sounded in her ears, a loud and clear hissing threat that terrified her to her very core.

  Sammi pressed her lips tight.

  She couldn’t tell Mr. Barclay.

  They’d kill Sterling if she did.

  But she couldn’t just trust that it’d work out. That the creeps with the ugly guns would keep their promise. Why would they? What did they want with Sterling, anyway? Nothing good, she was sure. But if they wanted a ransom, why didn’t they want Mr. Barclay to know?

  Her head was spinning too fast for Sammi to find any of those answers. All she could do was lean against the wall and try to suck in air. She clenched the phone tight to her chest, but couldn’t bring herself to call anyone. Not with the threats ringing so clearly in her head.

  She had to do something.

  Anything.

  Then, out of the blue, she remembered.

  Laramie was in town.

  * * *

  “YOU SURE ABOUT THIS?”

  “Yep.” The bridle in one hand, Laramie gave the horse’s neck a fond pat with the other before leading Storm out of the stable. Small dust clouds followed their steps through the scrubby grass toward the paddock where the sun beat down like hot spikes. Having served months in the Middle East, the heat barely registered on Laramie’s radar, other than to make sure he had a decent supply of water for the ride.

  “You could stay here. Just a day or two.”

  Checking his packs, Laramie slid a sideways glance at his uncle. The resemblance was there, but only if you knew to look for it. The shape of their eyes, although Laramie’s were hazel instead of brown. The arch of their brow and the full lips. Art and his younger sister had shared those features. Features she’d passed on to her only son. Otherwise, Laramie was the spitting image of his father.

  “What’s wrong, Art?”

  “Nothin’s wrong. Just think maybe you shouldn’t go up now. Go up next month instead.”

  Laramie frowned at the intensity in older man’s voice. It wasn’t as if this trip was out of the ordinary. He came back once a year to make this sort of pilgrimage from his uncle’s spread outside of El Paso up to the family cabin in the mountains. But it was rare that he made it back the first week of June. It was just as rare that his uncle said anything about it, though.

  Laramie came back because he was a part of this land. Even as a kid, all he’d wanted was to ride horses on the land he loved, go to school like a regular kid and sleep in the same bed night after night.

  At twelve, he’d used his mom’s love to force her to choose between staying in Jerrick or constantly uprooting her son to tag along in her husband’s search for fame. To decide between staying in town near her brother who’d look out for her, in a place where there was steady work and a real school. Or to follow the rodeo circuit yet again, where their every meal and every mood depended on how long his father stayed in the saddle. Bottom line, he’d forced her to choose between him and his dad.

  She’d chosen him.

  Two years later, his father was dead of a broken neck and his mother of a broken heart.

  So he knew why Art might think he was here out of guilt or some misplaced need to atone. But he’d be wrong.

  “This is the time I was able to get leave,” Laramie said, bothering to explain like he’d do for few people. “So this is when I’m heading up.”

  Expecting that to be the end of it, Laramie tucked one foot into the stirrup. Before he could swing his leg over the saddle, though, Art scurried forward, putting one hand on Storm’s neck.

  “Beatrice, she’s been dead almost fifteen years now, Christian.”

  Settling both feet back on the ground, Laramie blinked at the unfamiliar use of his given name. He heard it so rarely now that it fit like a piece of clothing long outgrown.

  “She’d be proud of you, Beatrice would. She’d want you to move on with your life.”

  Would she? For eleven months and one week out of every year, Laramie managed to put aside any and all thought of his mother, of his family, of his life before he’d joined the Navy. He wasn’t a bitter man, nor was he running from his past. He was simply practical. The past was over. Gone. So remembering it was pointless.

  But he owed the man in front of him too much to point that out. Art had opened his house to a troubled fourteen-year-old. He’d shown a boy with vague ambitions of being a rodeo bull rider to look past the stables, beyond the ranch. In his own gruff, taciturn way, Art had taught Laramie to live.

  So no matter how impatient he was to be off, no matter how stupid he thought it was to waste time acting as if the past was no big deal, Laramie gave the old man his attention.

  Because he owed him.

  “I’m a Navy SEAL. I’m based in California when I’m not deployed elsewhere. I’m a debt-free, contributing member of society.” Laramie paused, frowning at the hand-tooled stitching on the saddle, faded and worn after so many years. “What else is necessary for me to do in order to be considered having moved on?”

  The bandy-legged old man frowned, the move creasing his wrinkles even deeper. He scratched his fingers through the grizzled thatch of gray hair circling from ear to ear.

  “I dunno. Maybe she’d expect you to be married by now or somethin’. A man hits thirty, he’d better think about the future.”

  “I’m doing just fine the way I am.” Laramie grinned as he swung into the saddle, settling in as if it’d just been yesterday that he’d been on a horse instead of three hundred yesterdays.

  He’d given Art the same answer last year, the year before, all the way back to his twenty-fourth year. The older man’s attempt to do right by his sister was as much a part of the coming-home ritual as the ride to the cabin.

  But as Laramie had told him time and time again, he was doing fine.

  “See you in a few,” Laramie said, tapping his fingers to the brim of his Stetson. Without looking back, he tapped his heels against the horse to signal a walk, waiting until he left Rolling Stone land to gallop, out of respect.

  He took the meandering path without having to think about it. He simply rode. He’d spent most of his childhood at the cabin. As a family when his dad wasn’t following the rodeo circuit. Just him and his mom most of the rest of the time.

  He’d been happy there.

  Until his mother had died there. Because he hadn’t been able to save her.

  That’s why he went back every year.

  Not out of guilt or a need to make amends. He hadn’t done anything deserving of punishment. And even if he had, being orphaned was probably payment enough.

  He followed the familiar terrain toward the mountains.

  No. He didn’t come back to punish himself.

  He came back to remind himself.

  Of who he was.

  Of where he’d come from.

  And of how far he’d come.

  And of the fact that he’d never be helpless again.

  That, he decided, leaning back in the saddle and letting peace settle over him, was as much of his thoughts as he was giving to Art’s concerns. And like anything else Laramie put his mind to, he did just that. The concerns, the thoughts of having anything to prove, all of it was shoved right out of his head.

  It took him an hour of easy riding with that clear head of his until he reached the clearing where the cabin was settled. A
small one-story log building, the wide porch wrapped around toward the back where a narrow river babbled along. Laramie dismounted, tossed his gear on the porch and walked the horse toward its little home away from home for the next three weeks.

  It took him longer to settle the horse in the lean-to with water and a scoop of grain than it did to settle his supplies in the cabin. All he had to do was toss his pack on the bed, and he was back outdoors.

  It was tradition, not guilt that had Laramie heading along a narrow path toward the west. A few trees had fallen here and there, but the small, flower-filled clearing was the same as it always had been. Peaceful and serene. Beatrice had called it her Zen Zone.

  He barely glanced at the simple headstone. There was no need. He’d commissioned it himself. Had carried it up on horseback and set it there over his mother’s grave fifteen years past. He knew exactly what it said.

  Beatrice Laramie. “To thine own self be true.”

  How often had he heard her say that? It was her one and only rule.

  Art’s words danced through his head, making Laramie grin again.

  His mom had been all about truth to self, and she’d expect him to be married? No way.

  As if mocking the thought, a rustling came from his left. Rocks clanked together and branches slapped at each other.

  Laramie frowned.

  It only took him a second to assess the situation. This was a pretty remote place. He was alone. Other than stocking the food supplies, Art didn’t come up here and didn’t expect to hear from him for three weeks. And there was no cell service. On the asset list, he knew there was a shotgun in the cabin and rope in the lean-to. And, of course, his own skills.

  Grinning as much in battle anticipation as to welcome the distraction, Laramie dropped into a crouch, his hands fisted and his eyes trained on the rustling bush.

  A second later, a five-foot-ten mass in cream satin burst through the foliage.

  The sight damn near knocked him on his ass.

  Thankfully, he had good balance.

  So Laramie was able to straighten and reassess at the same time without losing more than a dozen or so brain cells.

  Luckily the brain cells trained to assess and evaluate the female form were still working just fine. The golden complexion lent truth to the fact that the disheveled red hair falling from the knot atop her head to float around her shoulder was natural.