A SEAL’s Resolve

by Cora Seton

  Curtis hooked his thumbs through it.

  “Don’t you dare!” Hope warned him and wiggled out of it.

  “Don’t I get to rip anything off you?” he grumbled.

  “Another night. Tonight is for unwrapping.”

  “I’ll unwrap these next.” He made short work of the fastening of her bra and let free her beautiful breasts. “Better make sure they didn’t get damaged in transit.”

  He nuzzled first one, then the other, cupped their lushness in his palms and groaned. “You are spectacular.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself. Let’s see what you look like out of uniform.”

  Curtis was only too happy to comply, and when they were naked together, he let out a satisfied sigh. “My wife,” he said, settling between her thighs and boxing her in with his arms. “Finally. What took you so long?”

  “If I’d known you were waiting for me, I would have put you in my planner sooner.”

  “We’re going to have to rewrite that thing,” he said, pushing into her slowly. “I’ve got some ideas what to schedule in it.”

  “Sex,” Hope said, arching her back and closing her eyes as he slid inside her. “For the next month, I say all we plan is sex.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Then some food and some more sex.”

  Curtis laughed and kissed her. “I’m not sure I can go for a month without food.”

  “I don’t think I can go for a minute without you inside me.” She moaned as he began to move, a rhythmic stroking that soon had him struggling to hold back.

  “I know what you mean.”

  “It’s never been like this for me. Not this good.”

  “Me, neither,” Curtis admitted. Something was right about Hope. They fit together in a way that made it even more special.

  “I love all of you.”

  Curtis murmured against her skin, lost in the feel of her, saying what he needed to say with his body, not his words. She was soft and smooth, pliant in his hands, molding against him, accepting him, taking him in with a delicious sense of coming home.

  As Curtis sped up he knew Hope was feeling the same way. Her small sounds urged him on; her touches enflamed his desire to get closer to her.

  Hope was everything he’d ever wanted. She was his wife.

  His world.

  When he bucked against her, she followed with a cry that shredded any defense he had left, and Curtis came with such force he thought the waves of ecstasy that traveled through him wouldn’t stop. Hope called out again and again, shuddering with the strength of her release.

  When it was over, she clung to him. “More,” she said. “More and more and more.”

  “You got it.” Curtis rolled her over, perched her on top of him—

  And started all over again.

  “Yes!”

  To find out more about Harris, Samantha, Boone, Riley, Clay, Jericho, Walker and the other inhabitants of Westfield, look for A SEAL’s Devotion, Volume 7 in the SEALs of Chance Creek series.

  Be the first to know about Cora Seton’s new releases! Sign up for her newsletter here!

  Other books in the SEALs of Chance Creek Series:

  A SEAL’s Oath

  A SEAL’s Vow

  A SEAL’s Pledge

  A SEAL’s Consent

  A SEAL’s Purpose

  A SEAL’s Devotion

  A SEAL’s Desire

  A SEAL’s Struggle

  A SEAL’s Triumph

  Read on for an excerpt of A SEAL’s Desire.

  A SEAL’s Desire

  By Cora Seton

  Chapter One

  “Maybe your wife will show up like mine did,” Curtis Lloyd said as he pushed open the door to the bunkhouse and led the way inside. He pulled off his woolen cap and unzipped the heavy jacket he wore.

  Anders Olsen doubted it. Not many women crashed their cars in the ditch at the end of the lane that led to Base Camp, the sustainable community they were helping to build. It was mid-December, and fierce winds had blown the heavy snowfall they’d received in the past week into deep drifts. The road between here and Chance Creek had become impassible once or twice.

  Which made it hard to go searching for a wife.

  “You’ve got thirty-five days.”

  “I know.” Anders had made a calendar on one page in the small notebook where he jotted ideas and pertinent facts. It was in his pocket right now. Every night when he crossed off another square, his concern grew. He’d known he’d need to find a wife when he joined Base Camp—it was one of the requirements of participation.

  Somehow he’d thought it would be easier than this.

  Curtis didn’t have to worry about the marriage requirement anymore. He’d married Hope Martin, a pretty brunette, just days ago, after a whirlwind courtship during Curtis’s struggle to deliver Hope and her friend, Raina, to Bozeman in time for Raina’s wedding. A blizzard had made that journey quite an adventure. He couldn’t help envying his friend, though. The adventure was over and now he had a wife.

  Anders had no idea where he would find one for himself. So far he’d struck out at the local bars and he’d never made new acquaintances easily. He wasn’t as outgoing as Curtis was, and—

  He nearly bumped into Curtis when the tall, burly, dark haired man stopped abruptly.

  “What the hell is Fulsom doing here—again?”

  Anders leaned sideways to get a look into the large room. Curtis was right; Martin Fulsom, the billionaire funding this whole operation was deep in conversation with Renata Ludlow, who produced Base Camp, the television show that was documenting their progress in building their community. Fulsom was a fit, energetic, silver haired man in his late sixties, whose outsized personality filled any room he entered. Renata was a trim woman in her thirties, her raven-black hair tucked into a bun, her professional clothing finally modified from her usual pencil skirts and aggressive white blouses to slacks and sweaters, because of the cold weather. She was even wearing winter boots instead of the stiletto heels she had favored well into November.

  Beside them stood a man Anders didn’t recognize, but immediately disliked. A rangy, sandy-haired, smug faced man who was watching Renata in a way that spelled trouble.

  “Who’s he?” Anders asked Curtis.

  “I don’t know.”

  Greg Devon, another member of Base Camp, a serious man with a shock of black hair, edged closer. “His name is Clem,” he said in an undertone. “Fulsom’s siccing him on Renata.”

  “What do you mean?” Anders asked.

  There wasn’t time for Greg to answer before Boone Rudman, the de facto leader of their community, called out, “Everyone sit down. Mr. Fulsom’s got something to say.”

  Anders took a seat on one of the folding chairs that had been strewn around the room. Meetings were always like this—a scrape of chairs and muted conversations dying down to silence as Boone waited for their attention.

  “Fulsom?” Boone gave up the room and the older man stepped forward.

  As always, the billionaire struck a pose before he began. Anders was getting tired of his lectures. Fulsom seemed to require attention at all times. If things got too quiet in California he came looking for trouble here.

  “I am sick of your bullshit!” Fulsom boomed suddenly.

  Anders looked around at the other men and women in the room. All of them were long past responding to the billionaire’s histrionics, except maybe Hope, who had only been at Base Camp for a handful of days. This was the way Fulsom began most of his speeches. There was always a complaint, followed by a demand. An outrageous demand.

  “I told you I wanted action,” Fulsom went on. “Adventure. Controversy. SEX! And what happens?” He turned on Renata dramatically. “You and nearly the entire film crew abandon your posts because of a little snow, and you—” He pointed at Curtis, “try to leave the one remaining crew member home when you embark on the adventure of the century. Which means Byron here,” he pointed to a young cameraman, “had
to chase after you and managed to total a very expensive 4x4 in the process. Now this week’s episode is entirely filmed on outdated, insufficient camera equipment, and it very nearly wasn’t filmed at all. What is this? Amateur hour?”

  Anders settled in. This could take a while.

  He was right. Fulsom droned on in a similar vein while Renata glared at Byron, and Byron did his best to fade into the woodwork. All the while Clem’s smug smile grew wider.

  When Fulsom finally calmed down, he gestured the newcomer forward. “This is Clem Saunders. He’s come to lend a hand to this production. Clem knows all about injecting much-needed life into a sorry excuse for a television show. This isn’t the first production he’s had to bail out. He’s got ideas, and he’s got the balls to see them through. And he knows how to keep a bunch of puissant, know-nothing, self-absorbed actors in line!”

  Actors? Anders straightened. So did the other men in the room.

  None of them were actors.

  They’d all fought for their country as Navy SEALs. Survived situations Fulsom could only dream of—

  “Yeah, now I’ve got your attention,” Fulsom said. “You’re supposed to be men of action, so get out there and do something worth filming, for God’s sake. And you!”

  Anders recoiled when Fulsom pointed at him, caught himself and straightened again. “It’s your turn to marry, so do it—spectacularly. Got it?”

  “Got it.” Anders bit back a curse. How the hell did you spectacularly marry a woman? More to the point: how did you find a woman to marry, period?

  “Good. Clem, got a few words you want to say?” Fulsom stepped back and waved the man forward.

  “You heard Fulsom.” Clem stood before them with his legs spread, his hands behind his back. Did he think he could fool them into thinking he was their superior officer?

  This guy took the cake.

  “We’re going to shake things up around here. Starting tomorrow morning. Expect the unexpected from here on in. We’re going to base everything we do on ratings. We’ll communicate with our audience. Listen to what they have to say. Give them what they want. That’s all. Dismissed.”

  Everyone exchanged puzzled glances before standing up and putting away their chairs.

  “Fuck,” Curtis said under his breath. “They could cut us a little slack once in a while.” He put an arm around Hope and kissed the top of her head. “Bet you’re glad you joined Base Camp.”

  “I’m glad,” she said with a grin.

  “Renata looks pissed,” Greg murmured. “If I was Clem, I’d sleep with one eye open tonight.”

  “Do you think Clem’s here to replace her?” Renata was a ball-buster, but Anders was used to her, at least. They had enough problems here at Base Camp without infighting among the crew.

  “Maybe.” Curtis nodded toward the door. “You and me had better do one last plow of the lane. It’s snowing again.”

  “Sure thing.” He stood up and got his outer gear back on while Curtis gave Hope another kiss.

  “…back at the house in a minute,” Anders heard him say as Curtis turned toward the door. Still newlyweds, those two seemed joined at the hip.

  Would he feel like that about the woman he married?

  “Boone pestering you about backup brides yet?” Curtis asked as he opened the door.

  “We talked about them.” Outside, the cold air made plumes of their breath. Snow was falling softly, a slow accumulation rather than the crazy amount they’d gotten just days ago. They’d made a habit of keeping the lane as clear as possible, though, in case of an emergency. The state plows had a way of blocking the end of the lane as they passed. That took the most time to clear.

  “I told Boone I’d set up my own ad,” he continued. “I don’t need him finding me a woman. I can do it myself.” What he didn’t say was that he’d already had profiles on some of the more popular dating apps, but he’d cancelled them all after the show got popular. He’d been overwhelmed by the kind of response he’d received, women far more interested in his notoriety, and getting on television, than on settling down in a real way.

  He wanted a real connection, but how did you find that on a ranch in Montana, when you were a reality television star?

  If only fate would deliver him a wife—like it had delivered one for Curtis. A wife he could marry in a spectacular way, to appease Fulsom.

  Plowing the lane was easy, but as he’d predicted, the drift at the end of it was harder going. In the end, they had to park the truck, get out and shovel it by hand as Fulsom, Renata and the rest of the crew members not spending the night here waited impatiently in their trucks.

  The stillness of the night and the hard work gave him a reprieve from his racing thoughts. Out here, the world was large, and he was only a bit actor, one of billions of people getting through another day. When they’d cleared half of the pile, they stepped aside to let the waiting trucks past. Once they were gone, real quiet descended.

  “That’s that,” Curtis said fifteen minutes later, throwing one more shovelful of snow onto the banks. “Let’s call it a night. God knows we’ll be back out here in the morning, doing it all over again.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Anders hesitated, looking down the road in both directions. Not a car in sight. They were alone out here, and he savored the peace. In a minute he’d be back in the bunkhouse, settling down for the night on the floor with the other single members of Base Camp. There was always someone around back there. Always talk and jokes. Just for a moment it was nice to be—

  Anders squinted, peering through the dark. “What’s that?” He pointed to a shape making its way slowly toward them.

  “I don’t see anything.” Curtis moved to his side.

  “There.” The shape had stopped. Wavered. Was coming at them again. “Is that—?”

  Curtis swore and began to run. A second later, Anders sprinted past him. He covered the hundred and fifty yards in record time, lunged forward—

  Just in time to catch the woman who fainted into his arms.

  “…in shock. We’ve got to get her warm.”

  “…no shoes, no jacket—how’d she make it this far?”

  “…come on, come on, wake up…”

  Evelyn Wright tried to focus on the voices, but they slipped away and came back, slipped away and came back again with no rhyme or reason, evading her grasp.

  She was warm, at least.

  Warm after so much cold.

  She knew she should be concerned. Male voices.

  Men.

  Like the ones who’d—

  She didn’t want to think about that.

  “… losing her…”

  “…Miss? Can you say something? Do you know where you are?”

  Evelyn struggled to open her eyes. To make sense of things. Where was she?

  A hospital?

  No. Not with that wooden ceiling. The rough floor. Her fingers slid over wide planks, quarter-inch gaps between their up-curled edges.

  Where was she?

  And why was Anders Olsen bending over her?

  Evelyn blinked. Shut her eyes and opened them again. She was dreaming. That was it. She’d climbed right into a television show. Into the show with all the Navy SEALs.

  Smart.

  They’d protect her from—

  “…coming around again.”

  “… accident in town. A bad one. Ambulances all taken. Maybe we should drive her—”

  “Look. She’s awake!”

  Evelyn opened her eyes. Tried to sit up. Groaned when the room spun and allowed soft hands to lay her back down again.

  “What’s… going on?” she managed to murmur.

  “Miss, we found you walking up the road. You had no jacket, no gloves or hat. Your boots are wrecked. It looks like you were walking a long time. Do you know what happened?” a man asked. Curtis. Curtis Lloyd. From the television show.

  Was she still sleeping?

  “Start with something simpler,” another man said. A
nders Olsen. “Miss, can you tell us your name?”

  “Evelyn. Eve,” she managed. “Eve—” She shut her mouth, self-preservation instincts suddenly snapping into place, as images crowded her mind. The men. The metal pipe. The truck—

  No one could know who she was. Or where she was. She had to get out of—

  “Woah, woah!” Anders held her shoulders and gently lowered her down again. “It’s all right. Whatever happened out there, you’re safe here. You got that? You’re safe.”

  She read true concern in his startlingly blue eyes. A fierce protectiveness in the lines of his muscular body. He was a Navy SEAL, after all, she told herself. They all were. And from what she’d seen of the show, they were good men who wanted to do right in the world.

  She could be hallucinating, though.

  She could be still out there. Still walking. Trying to get away—

  “Eve,” Anders said. “We’re going to transport you to the hospital—”

  “No!” This time she surged to a sitting position, braced her hands on the floor and waited for the room to stop spinning. “No, I can’t go to the hospital.”

  Anders searched her face with his gaze. “Who did this to you?”

  It took a moment to realize what he meant, until an image slid back into her brain. A man coming after her, a length of metal pipe in his hand. Another behind him.

  “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “Never saw them before.” Could she trust these people? Or should she stay quiet until she could get away?

  “We should call the sheriff,” a woman said.

  Eve turned. Avery Lightfoot. One of the last of the original women on the show who was still single. Where was Walker, the man she so obviously loved?

  There. In the corner of the room, sitting on the edge of a large wooden desk.

  Boone’s desk.

  Eve bit back a wild laugh. If she was dreaming, her brain had conjured an incredibly accurate vision. Everything was just like the TV show.

  Then Avery’s words penetrated her brain. Eve spoke up.

  “No! No sheriff! You can’t call the sheriff!” She had to leave here, dream or no dream. She struggled up again. Anders caught her and urged her to stay seated.