MILITARY ROMANCE: The War Within Himself (Alpha Bad Boy Marine Army Seal) (Contemporary Military Suspense & Thriller Romance)

by Claire Branson

“Melanie Grace Kellan,” he said, staring down at her. “Almost as poetic as Sarah O’Hara.”

  “You need to step aside, sir,” she said in her coldest cop voice. “Right now.”

  “Sir?” He folded his arms. “You’re very respectful to a guy you used to try out most of the Kama Sutra, Melanie.”

  “It’s Mel.” She took a step back and assessed her options. Since he was being pissy, she went with honesty. “I’m an undercover cop. When they got wind of the kidnapping scheme from an informant, they assigned me to stand in for Ms. O’Hara.”

  T.J. rolled his hand.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” she insisted. “As long as they believed I was Sarah, she was safe. I had to maintain my cover until I was retrieved. When they grabbed me, they dumped my backpack, which had my tracking beacon in it. If you hadn’t come to rescue Sarah, I know I’d be dead.”

  T.J. rolled his hand again.

  “It’s my job to lie about who I am.” Mel didn’t know what else to say to him that wouldn’t break her heart. “I’m sorry if you’re upset with me.”

  “Upset?” He dropped his arms. “I’ve been trying to find you for three days, Melanie.” He advanced on her. “So was it all an act? The sex, the promises? The way you looked at me right before you ran out on me?”

  “I did what I had to do to survive.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned her back on him. “I’m sorry that I used you to get out. I’m not Sarah, but I am a good person. The work I do is everything to me. So please, just let it go, all right?”

  T.J. came up behind her, not touching her but close enough for her to feel the wonderful warmth of his body. “I haven’t slept in three days. You?”

  She shook her head, and finally leaned back against him. “I keep thinking about that dungeon. How awful it was. What might have happened to me in that place.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “You’re a good liar, sweetheart. But you can’t sleep because you’ve been thinking about me. The way it felt when I was inside you. How good we were together. How hard I made you come.”

  She turned around, angry now. “What are you going to do, take me off to that imaginary Caribbean island? Screw me on the powder-white sands? I’m a cop, Terry.”

  “So am I,” he said, startling her. “I work for intelligence agencies in Europe and here in America. My specialty is hostage recovery. We got a big problem in Germany, which is where I have to fly tomorrow. So no, Mel, I’m not taking you to the islands. I’m taking you with me to Berlin. You like kids?”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “We need to get the Lord Mayor’s son back from a bunch of fundamentalist zealots,” T.J. told her. “They snatched him from his nanny in the park. He’s five and has diabetes. They’re threatening to disconnect his insulin pump.”

  She swore under her breath.

  “They’ve agreed to let a doctor examine him, which is how we get in. I do better pretending to be a killer.” He took her hands in his. “You, on the other hand, would make a very convincing pediatrician – and you do like kids.”

  She laced her fingers through his. “I’ll have to talk to my supervisor.”

  “Done.” He pulled out a folded paper and showed her the leave form her boss had signed. “I’ve got you for a month, and we’ll pay you triple your salary. I’ll be your handler on and off the job. If we can’t make it work in four weeks, we walk away.”

  Mel knew he was lying now. “A trip to the islands included with this gig?” she asked, stepping into his arms. When he nodded, she smiled. “Okay, I’m in.”

  Just before he kissed her, T.J. asked, “You wouldn’t happen to be Irish Catholic, would you?”

  THE END

  The Tycoon’s Temptation

  Bound to the Alpha Billionaire

  Book 7

  (Can be read as a standalone book)

  By: Lucy Wynand

  The Tycoon’s Temptation

  Chapter One

  “That investigator from Interpol called for you again, Master,” Paolo said as he held out the dinner jacket. “He seemed very agitated about the death threat against you.”

  “Which threat?” Giovanni Valente shrugged into the jacket and straightened the lapels. “The ugly letter, the vicious voice mail, or the black spray paint on my Ferrari?”

  “All. The investigator believes they come from the same cartel.” The valet came around to check the knot of his tie. “I think the one you told to do the anatomically impossible with their illegal cargo.”

  “Ah, they are as persistent as Interpol.” He checked his insanely expensive watch and sighed. “I must go. I promised Chiara I would make an effort this time. Thank you, Paolo. Go to bed. I will be very late.”

  “Enjoy your evening, Master.” The smaller man bowed his bald head and retreated from the cabin.

  A short time later Valente stepped off the speed boat he used to go ashore. Hanging red lanterns illuminated the waterway entry of to the palatial home of his cousin, Chiara Fabrinzi. A dignified doorman in spotless livery bowed and admitted him to a hall that opened out into a huge ballroom. Valente paused on the threshold to take in the beautifully-dressed people, sparkling lights and soft, sensuous music.

  “Valente.” Out of nowhere his cousin materialized, her long body resplendent in a black velvet gown beneath a floor-length gold lace jacket. She kissed the air on either side of his face with her blood-red lips before she stepped back to inspect him. “Ah, you are so handsome. Are you quite certain we cannot marry? Say yes. I will divorce Leon tomorrow.”

  “You will not.” Of all his cousins, Chiara was Valente’s favorite. Unlike most of his relatives she shared his odd sense of humor. She’d also married for love, not money, scandalizing most of the family.

  “Is she asking you to marry her again?” Her husband, a bear of a man still dressed in the rumpled suit he’d worn to his office, lumbered over to shake Valente’s hand. “It is good to see you, Gio. Pay no mind to this incestuous witch. Yesterday over lunch she propositioned my brother, the priest. He nearly inhaled an olive.”

  Chiara shrugged. “I merely said that if the church ever reverses its stance on celibacy that I would gladly debauch him.” She kissed Leon’s grizzled cheek. “You may watch, darling. Always.”

  “You are so brazen. I love this about you.” Her husband discreetly swatted her on the bottom before he trundled off to corner another important-looking official.

  Valente and Chiara watched him go. “If you ever do cheat on Leon, with anyone,” he mentioned, “I will beat you myself.”

  “I should hope so.” His cousin tucked her arm through his. “I am very glad you came to my party. Since you will not violate natural law with me, I have someone in mind for you. She’s American, from California. A model or starlet. I can’t remember which. Not especially bright, but pretty, and very well-dressed.” She pointed her out.

  Valente smothered a groan. “The last model puked up everything she ate.”

  His cousin made a tsking sound. “That was the Brazilian. The last American was the tree-hugger, remember?”

  “I don’t need a woman,” Valente told her.

  “No? How long has it been since you’ve had sex?” Chiara tapped her cheek. “Six months, yes? And I know your crew is all male, and your secretary an ancient dragon woman. This American could be amusing.”

  “She will be a vegetarian,” Valente said. As a petite woman stumbled next to him, he caught her tipping champagne glass before it slopped down her silky floral dress. Her pretty face and head full of pale golden curls gave her a fairy-like look. “If you spill this, Signorina, we toss you in a canal.”

  “Oh, dear. Can’t swim.” Merry, grass-green eyes met his before she added in her cheerful British accent, “I owe you my life, sir.”

  Valente steadied her slender form, and handed her drink to his cousin. “Then you must reward me with a dance, Bella.”

  #

  Slipping into the billionaire’s arms and follo
wing his lead proved no trouble at all for Ashley Knight. Valente possessed the natural grace and effortless strength that made her feel as if she were floating around the ballroom. Her own light-footed father had also insisted she learn to dance as expertly as she could shoot.

  “You move like an angel flies,” Valente said as he boosted her into a fancy twirl. “Are you a professional dancer, perhaps?”

  “Not even in my dreams.” She watched a dimple appear in his right cheek and felt charmed all over again. “You?”

  “I considered the ballet,” he told her, his expression grave. “But they could not find toe shoes to fit me. What do you do to make your way in the world, Bella? Magic spells? Magic spills?”

  “Magic mystery tours,” she lied. “I write articles for a travel magazine, which allows me to wander the world in search of the perfect cup of tea. My name is Ashley Knight, by the way.”

  “And mine is Gio Valente,” he said. “But your name is wrong. I will call your parents and have them change it to Bella. Have you found this tea yet?”

  “I came very close in Japan, and then again in New Zealand,” she confessed. “I have great hopes for Venice.”

  “We Italians drink tea only when we are ill, or when the espresso machine and our legs are broken.” He whirled her down the length of his arm and back to his chest. “How do you know Chiara and Leon?”

  “I don’t, I’m afraid.” She nodded toward the sulky-looking starlet. “That American and I are staying at the same hotel, and she needed help finding the place. When we arrived Mrs. Fabrinzi insisted I stay.”

  As the song ended, he tugged her closer. “I will get you another glass of champagne.”

  She smiled up at him. “That would be lovely. Is there a powder room somewhere in the vicinity?”

  He showed her the corridor to take, and then pointed to the bar. “I will be waiting, Bella.”

  Ashley smiled and hurried off. Once inside the luxurious bathroom, she made sure she was alone. Removing the tiny, encrypted satellite phone from her clutch, she quickly phoned London.

  “I’ve made contact, Geoffrey,” she told her handler. “We’ve danced. He’s intrigued. I’m going to wallop whoever packed these shoes for me. Really, they’re at least a size too large. I had to stuff the toes with paper.”

  “Only you could complain about dancing with the rich and famous in Venice.” Geoffrey Wells, the field operative who had temporarily manned her desk, rustled some papers. “Valente’s planned another week paddling about the Med on his yacht. Natter about the death threats has stopped. We’re thinking they’re about to make good on them. So, the powers want your boy kept paddling.”

  Ashley flexed her sore toes. “Safer on the water.”

  “Right.” Geoffrey’s voice dropped to soft murmur. “Your dad had a chat with the minister. The Queen and country be damned sort. By the time you nick back he might have you engaged to some toff.”

  “Never. I’m saving myself for you, darling.” She made the kissing sound he hated into the phone, switched it off and unlatched the door.

  Chiara stepped inside and shut the door before Ashley could exit. “My cousin sent me to see if you had climbed through the window. He is very taken with you.”

  “Yes, I know.” She smiled wanly. “Sorry.”

  The Italian woman walked over to inspect herself in the wall mirror. “I agreed to this so that Valente would be safe, English. I am glad they sent a woman. We are more vicious when we protect those we love.”

  “I’m not in love with your cousin, Madam,” Ashley felt she had to point out. “We know he favors small, blonde women. They sent me because I simply fit the bill.”

  “I think you do more than that,” Chiara said, her smile taking on an edge. “With your training I am also sure you can protect him. So enjoy yourself with my cousin. Fall in love with him. This should not be difficult. He is a handsome, wealthy, and a skillful lover. Only remember me, English. Remember that if someone kills him, I will come looking for you. I will cut your throat.”

  Ashley knew she meant every word, and nodded before she went back out to find Valente waiting with two glass of champagne.

  “Thank you.” She accepted one and turned to watch the dancers with him. She felt sure she could handle Valente, but his cousin had her a bit rattled. “This all feels a bit like a dream. I will be sorry to wake up.”

  “Then don’t,” Valente told her, and folded his hand around hers. “Come sailing with me.”

  Chapter Two

  Walking to the speedboat waiting to whisk her off to Valente’s yacht made Ashley feel as if she were walking down the aisle and the plank, respectively. She’d never run an op on the water, and as huge as the billionaire’s yacht was, it would still keep her penned and cut off from any other avenue of escape – or hope of help.

  “Safer on the water,” she reminded herself under her breath as she gripped her tote a little tighter.

  Valente stood on the deck watching for her, and as the speedboat drew near, his white teeth flashed. He vanished from the deck, which Ashley didn’t understand at first. On the starboard hull a hydraulic hatch lifted from the water. The speedboat driver cruised through the portal into a large rectangular pool inside the yacht.

  “Oh, my.” She smiled at Valente, who was waiting on the pool deck to help her out. “Your yacht has a garage.”

  “Internal basin,” he corrected. “Eighteen thousand liters of water that can be added or emptied in three minutes. I can even heat the water if the sea is too cold for swimming.”

  If she kept looking into his burnished copper eyes, she’d never feel cold again. “All the comforts of home, then.”

  Valente lifted her from the boat with his strong arms. “This is a pretty color on you, and you feel as light as a bit of fluff. Do you only eat clouds and feathers, Bella?”

  “I prefer fish and chips.” Since he wore only an old faded shirt and a pair of frayed cutoffs, Ashley gave herself a moment to admire his muscular torso before she glanced down at her lavender sun dress. “I considered wearing my tweeds, but I didn’t want to be too formal. Or melt. Permission to come aboard?”

  “There is a charge,” he warned her, and rested his hands on her shoulders. “One kiss.”

  Ashley brought his hand to her cheek, and as he bent his head turned hers and pressed her lips to his palm. “You didn’t say where,” she told him as he scowled.

  “True.” He leaned close enough for his breath to warm her mouth. “But next time? I will, Bella.”

  Valente relieved her of her tote, handing it off to a waiting steward, and then took her on a tour of the gigantic vessel.

  “Tell me how you managed all this,” Ashley said.

  “My grandfather was a fisherman,” he told her as he showed her the enormous, luxurious guest cabins. “He left his boat to my father, who hates water but loves money. Papa sold it to his cousin Luigi, who likes calamari, and used the money to buy two more boats. Since this worked so well for him, he did it over and over until he was buying and selling ships. Then he thought he could make more money loading them with people and cargo, and sending them all over the world. And he did. The end.”

  Ashley’s eyes widened as he brought her into a sumptuous galley where white-clad attendants stood behind a huge buffet of seafood, pastas, vegetable and fruit platters and a small mountain of dessert pastries.

  “I hope you did not have a large breakfast,” he murmured as he guided her to the lavish feast. “Carlo, this is magnificent. Tell me, do you have fish and chips?”

  “I can in five minutes, sir,” the chef said, beaming at Ashley.

  “Well, it really doesn’t go with Russian caviar and Dom Perignon, does it?” she said to Valente. “We can have it the next time you’re in London. My treat.”

  Over the delicious food Ashley talked with Valente about her fictitious travels, and listened to his stories about the shipping industry. He fed her spiced shrimp, and garlicky pasta, and slices of tiny, golden
apricots simmered in honey. By the time a steward served her black tea and Valente a strong espresso Ashley thought she must be glowing with satisfaction and pleasure.

  “You may stay on my yacht as long as you like,” Valente told her. “You are small, and you do not eat very much.”

  “Ah, but you’ve never seen me at a fish and chips shop,” she reminded him, adding a dollop of milk to her cup. “I push big, strong chaps out of my way. Counter girls fear me chomping off their fingers. No one ever tries to take the malt vinegar bottle from me.”

  “The last time I was in London, my British friend took me to a pub. He ordered warm beer, which was bad enough, but then had the waitress bring a plate of beans on toast.” Valente shuddered visibly. “I would have called for the police, but everyone was eating it.”

  She nodded in sympathy. “I remember the first time someone had me try calamari. To me it tasted like very skinny, rubbery shrimp, until the breading fell off. Then I asked my friend what sort of shrimp had tentacles.”

  Valente made a face. “I do not care for either. Or toad in the hole, for that matter. Tell me, why do your people eat frogs on toast? Did the French do that to you?”

  They laughed and swapped more food stories, and then Valente asked her to go up on deck with him.

  “What are you going to do with the rest of the food?” she had to ask as Valente guided her up the stairs. “We barely touched it.”

  “It is time for the crew to eat,” he said, leading her over to a pair of chaise lounges in the sun. “There are fifty of them, and they are like piranha. There will be nothing leftover.”

  “Most men would not be so generous with the help,” Ashley said as she sat down on the lounge.

  Valente reclined on the one beside her and stretched out his long legs. “They are not the help. They are my people. Good, hard-working people. I know their names and their families and the faces of their children. I never forget that if not for Papa hating water, I would be working alongside any of them.”