Fredo's Dream: SEAL Brotherhood: Fredo

by Sharon Hamilton

  Alone again.

  “You want something to drink?” A young fresh face batted her big blue eyes, surprising Kyle. She held a round tray with a couple of empty glasses. He needed to get out of there.

  “I think I’m leaving,” Kyle said as he slipped her two dollars, and left.

  He scanned the faces and bodies in the crowd as he walked along the sidewalk. No one looked familiar.

  Good.

  No one he wanted to meet, either.

  Bad.

  Did he have some anti-girl bubble that followed him around lately? Women had always been nuts around him when he was younger. Tonight, no one looked twice.

  He put his hands in his jeans, and looked down at his canvas shoes with the tire retread soles. When he looked up, he saw her.

  She had come out of a high-end grocery store, bearing two packages. He was sure it was she, even though all he could see was her profile. Through her bulky sweatshirt he could see she was even bigger on top than he’d imagined at the airport. He fell in behind her to follow at a distance, hoping to get a glimpse of her face.

  He’d recognize that shapely rear and long legs anywhere. Those beautiful thighs were encapsulated in some worn jeans. The way she walked was confident, unmistakably her own style. Like a model. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head. All messed-up and just-fucked looking. He liked that look.

  So, she cooks.

  He liked that, too. He followed her for a block, checking store windows, hoping to see a reflection of her face. Would be just his luck if this shapely goddess had a horse face. But he ruled it out as extremely unlikely as quickly as he thought about it. She didn’t have to be a real beauty, but somehow he knew she was. She had attracted a lot of attention at the airport, and she had a chauffeured driver and handsome companion.

  Nah, he knew she’d be a knockout, if he could just look at her, engage in a little conversation he’d be happy.

  A couple of Navy regulars rounded the corner in front of her and bumped right into the lady. Kyle sped up to come to her aid. She stepped quickly back, not losing her balance and avoided their fumbling apologies, complete with attempts to touch her. The guys were practically falling over themselves, fawning and apologizing.

  Yeah, she’s a looker. No question.

  Half disappointed he didn’t have to go into rescue mode, he glared at the trio as he passed by. When he looked back down the street, she was gone.

  Damn!

  CHRISTY PUNCHED THE stainless steel button for the twenty-second floor as the doors closed. She undid her hair, fluffed it up and repositioned the plastic clip securely. Though alone in the elevator, she couldn’t get over the sensation she was being followed. Like everywhere she went there were eyes on her.

  Unlocking the front door, she entered, shifting the packages with one thigh, and then setting them on the kitchen counter. She flipped on her satellite radio program and listened to a dreamy Celtic instrumental piece, while she stowed her basics—enough for three days exactly.

  Her cell phone rang.

  “Christy, this is Carl Simms from Patterson Realty.”

  “Hi there.”

  “I’ve started on the numbers you’ve asked me for. Thanks for leaving the key, by the way.”

  “No problem. So, what do you think it will sell for?” Christy asked.

  “Well, I usually do that in person. But I was thinking about your situation. We haven’t met, but you mentioned over the phone you were getting ready to start selling real estate in San Francisco.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, have you considered moving here to San Diego instead? Great place for young singles. I’d be happy to show you the ropes. We have a very productive office. Small. Not an agent factory.”

  “Well, I think I’ve pretty much made up my mind.” Christy felt her resolve wiggle as she said this.

  “I understand. Still, I’d like to invite you to our office meeting tomorrow at nine. Afterwards, we can meet and, if you’re still interested in selling, we can go over the paperwork. And the numbers.”

  “Office meeting?” she asked.

  “We go over new listings, recent sales. You’ll get a feel for what happens during a typical week, get to meet some of the other agents here.”

  “Well…”

  “Look, just consider it, okay? If I see you here at nine, I’ll introduce you. If not, come by at ten for our appointment. How does that sound?”

  “I’ll think about it, Mr. Simms. No promises.”

  “No promises. Bye.”

  But Christy knew right away she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this place that had captivated her mother so. Until the mystery of why she felt she belonged here was revealed, she wasn’t in a hurry to return to San Francisco.

  She knew she’d be at the meeting tomorrow. And she also knew that her life would never be the same.

  * * *

  Continue reading the first chapter of the next book in the SEAL Brotherhood Series…

  Accidental SEAL (Book #1) is available here.

  Book 1 in the Band of SEAL Brotherhood Series: Accidental SEAL

  Chapter 1

  CHRISTY NELSON WORKED to keep her breakfast down as Wayne Somerville came lurking around her cubicle. He’d pestered her every day since she’d been introduced as the newest agent at the Patterson Realty sales meeting three days ago. His soft, flabby torso was repulsive, and those distinctive hair plugs, installed at an angle on Wayne’s shiny salmon-colored forehead, were distracting. Her gaze followed rows of black dots receding into his dyed-black hair. A life-sized version of Mr. King’s Chuckie.

  Wayne winked at her again, and her blood turned to ice.

  His horse teeth and foul breath could raise the dead. He’d made it clear he wanted to mentor her, but she suspected he had more in mind than real estate contracts and short sales. He was persistent, though. She’d give him that.

  He draped his bulky frame against the back of her chair. She wanted to duck for cover. The eerie need to protect her neck put her radar on high alert as she visualized violence and fangs.

  “I’ve coached quite a few of the new agents over the years.” Wayne’s look lasted too long—hungry and inappropriate. Christy didn’t trust one single hair plug.

  “Well,” she said, resisting the urge to escape, “I do need a good open house.

  Now, why did I say that?

  “I’ve got the perfect one! Great little short sale.” Wayne launched into his routine, oblivious to the fact she’d become dizzy from the smell of the garlic fries he’d apparently had for lunch. “The house is a little rough around the edges, but in a super neighborhood. The sellers are about to lose it.” He threw her a mock frown. She could see him singing a hymn, asking for money on TV.

  Perhaps a second career.

  “No sign on the lawn yet and it’s not even in the computer,” he continued. “You can snatch all those buyers for yourself.” He leaned in and whispered as if it were a national secret. “And I could help you with the paperwork. You know, show you how it’s done.”

  Male alert. If he touches me, he’ll get a knee to his groin. She swung her chair to angle for quick action.

  He stepped back just in time. She exhaled, grateful for the distance.

  “Doing short sales is a real art,” he added with a frown, stiffening. His shiny suit fit like one of those unfortunate animals in a teddy bear factory, stuffed into its fur. The silver glint of the fabric reminded her of fish scales.

  Run, Christy, run. You could be the one who got away…

  She had never in her life paid a favor with sex and wasn’t about to start. She would hold his new listing open, but only if she could do it without owing him.

  Besides, she had to do something to drum up business. Her move to San Diego marked the beginning of her new professional career as a Realtor. Being the top salesperson at Madame M’s lingerie boutique on Maiden Lane in San Francisco barely paid the bills. She’d loved Madame and had thrived as a sales clerk,
but recognized the time for a real career. She trained in real estate, and then moved to San Diego after her mother passed. Christy inherited the condo.

  Though she’d been comfortable selling to the rich and powerful of the City by the Bay, Wayne, even if he was half the success he claimed he was, made her nervous.

  This is a very bad idea. Just say no.

  “Fine.” It sounded like it came from the cubicle next to her.

  But then she spotted Wayne’s dimples and canines.

  Oh. My. God. I’ve just said yes.

  CHRISTY’S RED HONDA looked like a wet cherry lollipop, polished to perfection. Cute and shiny on the outside, but hot and sweltering on the inside. Sitting in the cramped front seat, she stopped and squinted to make out house numbers, comparing them to the address Wayne minutely scribbled on the back of his business card. Then she found it.

  The house appeared nicer than he’d described. The advertised price, he said, was the lowest in the neighborhood, going back ten years. Hopefully she’d pick up a young couple out looking for their first home, complete with good credit and a wad of cash from Mommy and Daddy. Wouldn’t it be great to make a sale on her very first day on the job?

  She parked in the driveway, popped the trunk, and brought out three sandwich signs with the Patterson Realty logo, on loan from Wayne. He was out with his family today. She hoped the Somervilles didn’t stop by since she’d feel uncomfortable looking into the eyes of Wayne’s wife, a woman he’d probably cheated on and would again if he got the chance. One of Christy’s other rules: no married men. She wasn’t about to change that, either.

  A perfumed late spring breeze blew softly against her face and neck, sending a thrill up her spine. The air ripened with possibility. This was her favorite time of year.

  The walkway looked freshly swept. After placing one sign in the front yard, she stacked the other two beside the front door and inserted Wayne’s key. While the lock accepted the new shiny silver metal, the tumblers stayed in place, frozen.

  Way to go Wayne. Waste my time and give me the wrong key!

  Irritation bubbled, ruining her cheerful, spring-induced mood. She yanked on the front handle and pushed against it out of frustration. It opened.

  “Anybody home?” her voice wavered like that of a small child. She waited. No answer.

  Christy stepped inside, onto a striped cotton rug lying cockeyed behind the front door. The smell of fried food hit her. She walked across the wooden floor of the living room, her stilettos clacking. She cracked open a window. Air scented by fresh blossoms poured in, diluting the smells of ordinary life. She grabbed the newspaper tossed on top of an ottoman and folded the crinkling pages under her arm, aiming for the kitchen to find a trashcan. She passed the dining room table, which was strewn with a map of the area, a couple of felt-tipped pens, and a letter-sized yellow lined tablet. She collected these items as well and made her way to the kitchen.

  Christy threw the tablet and newspaper onto the tiled countertop and placed her hands on her hips to assess the scene before her. She squinted at several days’ worth of dishes piled high in the sink. Next to it, a large stainless steel bowl sat encrusted with dark green and purple leaves at the bottom, evidence of a salad—several days old.

  Maybe Wayne had neglected to tell the sellers about the open house. She decided it was entirely possible. “How can you expect to sell a house this way?” she muttered, then sighed and removed her jacket, slinging it over the back of a clean-looking kitchen chair. She decided to take a tour of the place, checking for other things to clean or straighten before she’d be ready to hold it open.

  But this house was such a mess, an uneasy darkness chilled her. She tiptoed down the carpeted hallway, feeling like an intruder, past empty rooms to a closed door at the end.

  Probably the master bedroom.

  Something about the whole scene was strange. These people left in a hurry without cleaning up dinner from several days before. She’d been told short sale houses rarely showed pride of ownership, but this felt absolutely creepy, like she’d stepped on someone’s grave. The hair on the back of her neck bristled as she gripped the doorknob. She lightly tapped with her other hand and then opened the door.

  A naked body lay on the bed.

  Holy crap.

  Hesitant to look at first, she pushed through her fear. She saw movement. Tanned skin, a muscular male chest that rose and fell. Earphones were wired to a phone balanced on his open palm. The man was very much alive, and healthy. Her eyes drifted further down to a dusting of dark brown hair that led to an impossible-to-miss erection. His penis stood at attention, like a deep rose-colored light standard under a matching fireman’s hat of deeper pink.

  Blood pumped to her ears, making them ring, as her heart raced. A wave of anger coursed over her at the realization she had been the victim of a very sick joke perpetrated by Wayne and one of his disgusting friends.

  Christy silently closed the door and tiptoed back down the carpeted hallway, her three-inch heels wobbling on the thick, padded surface. Her knees knocked against each other as she picked up speed, her anger building. She grabbed her jacket, keys, and purse, and crossed the living room, headed toward the front door. She was almost free.

  Christy wouldn’t give the prankster the satisfaction of knowing she had even seen him. She wanted to stomp her foot and kick something through the window. This was Wayne’s doing.

  That sonofabitch and his lopsided plugs will pay for this.

  She pulled the door handle and was rewarded by the smells of a warm spring day bleeding through the inch-wide crack she’d created. An enormous hand and forearm came from behind her and slammed the door shut. She saw a familiar blue-green tattoo of some animal tracks on his muscled forearm just before his other hand gripped her mouth. Callused fingers pinched the sides of her cheeks. The grip hurt.

  She panicked at first; then her self-defense training kicked into gear. She struggled to duck and turn, digging her nails into the man’s arm. He locked her tightly in a choke hold, which immobilized her upper torso. She attempted a muffled cry, but the chokehold pulled against her windpipe and allowed her only a weak, high-pitched whine. He was good at the mouth grip, not giving her any room to bite the way she’d been taught. His mountainous shoulders were so large she couldn’t find his face to scratch at his eyes.

  That left her lower body somewhat free. Christy balanced herself like a stork on one high heel, leaned against the wall of his chest, and dug the other heel backward into his knee. She felt him jerk in a sharp inhale. He didn’t cry out. She knew she’d hurt him, but cursed her inability to land the steel tip of her new three-inch stilettos into the soft tissue area of his thigh, going for his femoral artery. Christy moved to deliver a second blow and was pulled backward, tight against his chest. They tumbled to the floor. He took the brunt of the fall, and then pitched her body like a tiny twig in the wind, climbing on top of her.

  Though they faced each other, her hair was everywhere, covering her eyes, but by the anatomical placement of his body pressed against hers, she knew he was the naked stranger from the bedroom. It took only one large paw to hold both her wrists and pin them high above her head.

  With the weight of his packed and well-developed body immobilizing her, she feared a more sinister intent. She mentally prepared herself for the worst: a brutal rape or murder, or perhaps both.

  Think, dammit. There’s always a solution.

  But the universe remained mute.

  Out of options, she vowed deep in her heart she would cause him damage, maybe spill some of his blood so that when the police detectives looked over her lifeless body at the crime scene, there would be forensic evidence.

  So this is the way I will be remembered: at a crime scene, outlined in yellow chalk.

  Maybe she wouldn’t survive, but she would help get him caught and save another innocent woman from this sexual sicko. She couldn’t see his eyes, which was a minor blessing. She didn’t want him to know her fear.
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  He adjusted himself and shifted off her lower body. Her skirt rode halfway up her thighs. Christy used the opportunity to maneuver her stocking-covered knee between his legs and punch his groin. To her horror, her knee felt the warmth of his naked skin. His yell, accompanied by a string of obscenities, interrupted her repulsion. She was pleased not all the blood from his cock had drained, meaning the hit had caused him pain. He lifted his hand off her mouth and balled it into a fist under her head, gripping her hair at the scalp.

  “You bastard…” She growled from deep inside her chest, surprised at her own bravado, then decided to scream. Immediately, the hand clamped over her mouth again. This time she bit down through the soft tissue between his thumb and forefinger and tasted the warm metallic liquid from his broken skin. But he still didn’t flinch and pressed down even harder. His other hand released her wrists and pulled her hair back with a tug at the nape of her neck, forcing her chin up toward the ceiling. She tried pushing him away with her arms, but his were longer.

  She arched her chest in defiance, but this gave him a full view of her breasts. The buttons on her sheer ivory blouse popped open. She muttered a curse. The fleeting thought that he would now ruin her two-hundred-dollar bra and be spurred on to ravish her further flashed through her mind.

  He immobilized her arms above her head with one forearm and pinned her thighs with his own that were easily twice the size of hers. She had no way to move and no ability to scream for help. But his blood dripped on the wooden flooring, and it coated the inside of her mouth. Maybe that would be enough to land him a spot in San Quentin. Tired and resigned, she sighed, knowing she could not win the physical tussle, and allowed her body to go limp.

  He responded by whispering a question in her ear. “Who are you?”

  For a second, her ears buzzed. Then she mumbled through his fingers, seeking the soft fleshy part of his palm with her canines again, but failing. She was unable to give him an intelligible answer, but if she could, it would be, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m going to take my hand away, and you will tell me who you are and whom you work for.” His voice came across calm and steady. Practiced. Measured. She’d have to say, commanding.