Книга - A Seal’s Desire

A Seal's Desire
Tawny Weber


Subject: Petty Officer Christian “Cowboy” LaramieMission: Locate a missing person…without seducing the man's fiancée!Navy SEAL Christian Laramie knows everything about explosives, including how to avoid them. But he sure as hell isn’t prepared for Sammi Jo Wilson—all gorgeous red hair and long-legged sexiness—in a wedding dress, asking him to find her kidnapped fiancé. Yep, he is definitely dealing with one dangerous bombshell….Laramie has a rep for thoroughly pleasing the ladies, but he's not interested in emotional entanglements. He has rules—and engaged women are a definite no-no. Yet the searing heat between him and Sammi is like nothing he's ever experienced. Each touch gets hotter. Each kiss more intense. And if Laramie can't disarm this desire, it will blow up in the only way possible…in bed!







Subject: Petty Officer Christian “Cowboy” Laramie

Mission: Locate a missing person...without seducing the man’s fiancée!

Navy SEAL Christian Laramie knows everything about explosives, including how to avoid them. But he sure as hell isn’t prepared for Sammi Jo Wilson—all gorgeous red hair and long-legged sexiness—in a wedding dress, asking him to find her kidnapped fiancé. Yep, he is definitely dealing with one dangerous bombshell...

Laramie has a rep for thoroughly pleasing the ladies, but he’s not interested in emotional entanglements. He has rules—and engaged women are a definite no-no. Yet the searing heat between him and Sammi is like nothing he’s ever experienced. Each touch gets hotter. Each kiss more intense. And if Laramie can’t disarm this desire, it will blow up in the only way possible...in bed!


“Do you think I’m going to have sex with you,” Sammi Jo murmured, “in return for you helping me find Sterling?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Laramie said, his eyes filled with laughter. “Sugar, I’m a highly skilled military machine. My training alone is worth more money than this entire town. You think you can pay me off with a kiss?”

Well, she’d actually thought the payment would be a lot more than just kissing.

“I don’t barter with sex. I don’t have to.” He waited a beat as the heat worked its way up Sammi’s cheeks. “But when we do have sex, you’re going to be the one asking.”

Her mouth dropped.

She wanted to laugh. To say that’d never happen. But as her stomach pitched into her toes, tingling the entire way, it assured Sammi that she should be careful.

Otherwise she was going to be in big trouble.

Big, naked trouble.

“I came here for your help,” she said shakily, the words as much for her as for him. “I’m not here to sample your legendary sexual skills...”


Dear Reader (#ulink_a179b053-0ba3-5970-968f-d2eae2422c71),

I knew I was going to write Christian Laramie’s story from the first time he showed up on the pages of a A SEAL’s Temptation. Not only was he a yummy SEAL with the call sign “Cowboy,” but he had this way with women that made him a legend. The better I got to know him in the writing of A SEAL’s Touch, the more one particular scene gelled in my mind. The one I knew I’d have to write his story around.

This gorgeous, lady-loving, freewheeling cowboy coming face-to-face with a runaway bride in search of a hero to rescue her groom. Sammi Jo and Laramie are so different, yet so much alike, and I truly enjoyed watching them explore those similarities and differences.

That, combined with the reunion of childhood friends, the excitement and fun of the weeks leading up to a wedding, and the bride’s cold feet all came together into a story that I hope will make you smile, laugh and sigh.

I hope that you’ll check out the rest of my sexy SEAL series. You can find them on my website, as well as insider peeks into this story and others. Visit tawnyweber.com (http://tawnyweber.com) or find me on Facebook at Facebook.com/tawnyweber.romanceauthor (http://Facebook.com/tawnyweber.romanceauthor).

Happy reading,

Tawny Weber


A SEAL’s Desire

Tawny Weber






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


A New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than thirty books, TAWNY WEBER writes sassy, emotional romances with a dash of humor featuring hot alpha heroes. It’s all about the sexy attitude! A fan of Johnny Depp, cupcakes and her very own hero husband, Tawny enjoys scrapbooking, gardening, spending time with her family and dogs, and hanging out with readers on Facebook.

Fans are invited to check out Tawny’s books at her website, tawnyweber.com (http://tawnyweber.com). For extra fun, join her Red Hot Readers Club for goodies like free reads, complete first chapters, recipes, insider story info and much more.


To Birgit, for helping me find the heart of the story


Contents

Cover (#u26339c4c-2b27-5534-a096-227f50f72c8a)

Back Cover Text (#u684de8ba-eeff-560c-8a98-1ac2c92c1e84)

Introduction (#ucd654b22-b5a7-5d7d-a2f1-c3a8663d0697)

Dear Reader (#ulink_ca2a6dfd-8cd1-5263-a87b-9c0189defbe5)

Title Page (#ud7550bd9-5580-5202-aca1-89c077f1d831)

About the Author (#u27e00ea5-2b9f-5732-8290-86f6442e3525)

Dedication (#u54ac843d-a804-5369-84e1-a37ec13399c0)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_206f5baf-e488-585e-a735-8298e406ba99)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_bea9fdcd-7f87-5793-bb21-5f5f5e8cb31f)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_6722d74b-cb22-5f8e-9b6a-fd8834f4424d)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


1 (#ulink_27bb562b-f766-5890-adbb-48078f23847b)

“RIDE ’EM, COWBOY.”

The cheer rang out across the sun-fried desert, making Petty Officer Christian Laramie grin as he blinded the second security camera perched high atop a rocky cliff.

Of course, his grin was only on the inside. On the outside, he was too busy rappelling down a hundred-foot vertical drop. With nary a crease or crevice in the sheer stone, he had to rely on the soles of his boots to control his descent.

He barely saw the laser flash in time to jerk to the left and kick into a spin. He circled too fast to see where the shot had come from, so could only judge by its trajectory. Close. Too close. Instead of wasting time trying to figure it out, or worse, having to dodge more fire, Laramie unhooked the D ring from his harness, tightened his grip and risked fast-roping the last twenty feet.

Not as easy as it would have been if nobody were shooting at him. Granted, the Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement Sensor gear meant the hits wouldn’t be fatal. But that wasn’t the point.

Because he was already free from his harness, the minute Laramie’s boots hit the ground, he rolled for cover. Crouched behind a large boulder, he jerked his shoulders to shed some of the sand. This was a communication-free maneuver, so he had no headset, couldn’t ask his teammates for input. Instead, he listened carefully.

There. To the west, the sound of fabric on stone. Laramie angled his head around his boulder, assessing. Miles of hot sand were interspersed with rock formations, some tall, some wide. He watched the grouping to the west, eyes narrowed. Not on the rocks themselves, but on the sand to their left.

And booyah.

A shadow.

Grinning this time, Laramie kept to the rocks, skirting around behind the shadow’s cluster and coming up behind.

He didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who he was up against. The man’s size said it all. Laramie took a second to calculate how he was going to take down a man a good thirty pounds heavier and a hell of a lot more experienced than he was.

He had no doubt he could do it.

The calculations were simply to figure out how to do it fast, before he lost the element of surprise. He didn’t have a clear shot from here, and if he moved he’d be spotted. So he went for the dive, low and fast to hit the man’s knees. The element of surprise didn’t last more than that, if the fist that swung around at his face was any indication.

The fight was down and dirty, each man struggling to hold the other and reach for their weapon. Laramie got a grip on his, pulled the SIG from the holster strapped to his thigh, but a swift chop to his hand sent it flying. He let it go, and using that brief moment of distraction, Laramie used an armbar manipulation to bring the other man’s face to the ground, where he pinned him with a choke hold.

Knowing a captive was worth twice as many points as a dead body, Laramie dug in his heels and, choke hold still in place, shifted to bring himself and his combatant to their feet. About halfway up, though, the guy made as if he’d lost his balance. The move pulled them both forward into a roll, with Laramie hitting the ground, back first. He was on his feet in time to watch the other man finish his own flight through the air, land with a thud, then twist to roll to his feet in a single smooth move that Laramie had to admire.

Until he saw the pistol in the guy’s hand.

For a guy with the call sign Auntie, Castillo was one hell of a fighter.

Laramie grinned.

His eyes locked on the weapon, he anchored his hand to the rock, bending low and taking a deep breath as if the fight had left him winded.

He came up with a jump round kick, sending the gun flying. He feinted a palm heel strike to the face, wrapped his arm around the man’s neck and took them both to the ground. Before they hit, he had the knife out of his boot and carefully pressed the dull side to the man’s neck, tapping the sensor on his laser-engagement device to sound the hit.

As he did, a loud beeping sounded, then an air horn blared loud and shocking in the gritty air.

“Calling the win.”

“That means you’re dead,” Laramie said, as he reached out a hand to the body on the ground. “And you owe me a beer.”

“Dude, what’s with the backup blade?” Clasping Laramie’s outstretched hand to lever himself to his feet, Castillo gave the dirt on his fatigues a quick slap, then threw his arm over Laramie’s shoulder.

Now that the battle was won, they were teammates again. The sixteen-man platoon had split into two, each side battling “to the death” to test some new equipment. Laramie, O’Brian and Eckhart had led their side against Castillo, Morelli and Thorne’s team.

“Know your enemy. I figured your team would have some heavy hitters and I’d need everything I could bring to the game,” Laramie explained with a shrug. “That, and I saw the sheath inside the new boots and figured I’d try it out.”

“Nice.”

The two men strode off the mock battlefield, collecting the bodies of the others as they went.

“You girls call that a battle?”

The challenge bellowed out from a husky man so short that even standing there on that boulder, half the men on the team were still taller than him.

“Can I help you with your critique?” As ranking officer on the team during this exercise, Castillo’s offer was both militarily correct in tone, and a clear screw you in message. Just one of the things Laramie liked about the guy.

“Warrant Officer Murdock,” the troll-like man snapped, his words as sharp as his salute. “Here to take over CQC training.”

“You’re scheduled to report for Close Quarter Combat training on Monday at o six hundred hours.”

“I’m here now.” His heavy brow furrowed over beady eyes, the man spread his glare over the entire group before aiming it at Castillo again. “Do you have an issue with that?”

“Now why would anyone have an issue with that?” Fingers hooked through his belt, Castillo rocked back on the heels of his combat boots and grinned. “We’re trained to deal with ambushes.”

“Trained, my ass.” Murdock bent at the waist to stare into Castillo’s face. “You call that dancing around you were doing training?”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Thorne called out with a tilt of his head toward the field. “Show us how it’s really done.”

“You think I’m afraid of your big bad club?” Murdock’s laugh dripped with enough insult that Laramie felt as if he should shake it off his boots. “What makes you think you’re all so special?”

“We’re SEALs,” sixteen voices chanted together.

“Whatever. I’m here to teach you pansies how to really fight.” His words sneered down the extensive combat training and battle experience that each and every man there had under his special-ops belt. “The kind of fighting that requires more than guns or knives hidden in your socks.”

The sidelong looks of amusement slanted his way made Laramie smile. Hell, that move had won the battle. Like the others, he began unbuckling and shrugging out of the vest that held the various laser sensors for their mock battle. Being the last man standing, Laramie’s laser-engagement sensors were the only ones not lit, indicating he hadn’t taken any hits.

As if seeing that as a negative, Murdock pointed at the flashing lights.

“You bubble-blowing babies don’t even play with live ammo? What’s the matter with you? Lasers all you can handle?”

All that earned him was an eye roll since the SEALs were known to regularly train with live ammo. It was rare enough that they hauled out the MILES gear that a few of them had had to be briefed on how to use it. But the commander expected them to train with all available resources, and laser practice was considered a resource. Something Murdock probably knew if the disappointment on his face at not getting a reaction was anything to go by.

Still, while the platoon continued to silently strip down, Murdock continued his insult-laden introduction.

“The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat.”

“At least he’s got his clichés down,” Scavenger muttered with a laugh as he joined them. The bag of MILES gear he dropped at his feet muffled his words, but from the glare on Murdock’s face, the warrant officer had a good enough radar to know he was being mocked.

“So...” He took a slow look at them, his eyes shifting from man to man with a look of distaste that reminded Laramie fondly of boot camp. “Let’s see if one of you sissies can handle this new move. Any of you got the balls to step up here and take me on?”

That got him a slew of laughter and a few pats between the legs as some of the team checked their personal equipment.

“How about you, Anchor Clanker?” Murdock gestured to Laramie, using the derogatory reference to the anchors on the petty officer insignia visible on the collar of Laramie’s camouflage jacket. “You think you can take me on?”

This time the laughter was aimed at Murdock. The guy was forty if he was a day, and those eleven years he had on Laramie weren’t any kind of advantage in a physical contest. The guy might have skills when it came to close combat fighting, but they weren’t likely to pay off in this situation.

Because Laramie was good. Maybe not competition form, but he held a second-degree black belt in jujitsu, he was fast on his feet and he had big hands. Big enough that it usually only took one punch to put a guy down.

Still, it was never smart to underestimate an enemy. Laramie rocked back on his heels, assessing. The guy was older, smaller, but too cocky not to have some tricks up his sleeve. He was also fresh, whereas Laramie was coming off three hours of intense maneuvers.

So the minute the guy jumped down from his rock, knees bent and fists high, Laramie did a jump scissor kick, knocking him sideways. As soon as Murdock regained his balance and swung, Laramie blocked the punch with his forearm, launched a spring hip throw, then pinned him with a double arm lock.

And grinned down at Murdock’s furious expression.

“Point?” he asked, wanting his pin acknowledged before he let the guy up.

When Murdock shoved, Laramie waited a moment just to make sure the guy knew he was letting him up, then pushed to his feet.

As he did, Murdock kicked Laramie’s feet out from under him, sending him ass-down on the hard sandy ground.

“How’s that for a point?” Murdock spat, lumbering to his own feet and slapping at the sand covering his uniform. “You didn’t give me a chance to show the move.”

“That,” Laramie said bouncing back to his feet, his easy tone a vivid contrast to the other man’s breathless one, “is how we do it.”

“You mean by cheating?”

“If we ain’t cheatin’, we ain’t trying,” Laramie paraphrased. It was known among the SEALs that the larger force set the rules, and the team was always the smaller force. Therefore, to win, they broke those rules. “Bottom line, I won.”

Which shouldn’t be a surprise.

Because Laramie was a SEAL.

He made it a point to always win.

* * *

FOUR HOURS, A SHOWER and a hot oil massage from a talented blonde named Hilda, and Laramie was back in fighting condition. He strode into Olive Oyl’s bar, his Stetson taking the place of his battle helmet, jeans instead of combat gear and his cowboy boots knife-free.

The Navy hangout located a few miles away from the base in Coronado, California, was loud. Music and laughter rolled over the top of the conversations, hitting Laramie in an inviting wave as he stepped through the double doors. Bodies were packed from one end of the long building to the other, proving why the bar’s proprietor hadn’t wasted a lot of time prettying up the decor. It was a man’s bar. A sailor’s bar.

The grayed wood floors were nicked, the whitewashed walls punctuated here and there with anchors, rustic ship wheels and a faded nautical compass painted over the bar itself. Neon bounced off rope-trimmed stools and the roving waitstaff wore wide-legged white pants, striped cotton nautical shirts and classic sailor caps.

Olive Oyl’s was the go-to place for the SEAL teams. It was also the embodiment of all of Laramie’s childhood visions of the seafaring world. He grinned. And a damned welcoming place.

He moved easily though the crowd, his rolling gait as much from spending his formative years on the back of a horse as spending many of his adult years on the deck of a ship.

He returned greetings and waves with ease, but didn’t slow on his way toward the back rooms where the team usually met. At least, not until one particular greeting.

“Laramie!”

The breathy greeting was accented by a loud giggle and a bouncy little wave to get his attention. Laramie chuckled, appreciating what the bouncing did for the tiny strips of bright blue fabric masquerading as the blonde’s dress.

Okay, he thought as he changed his heading, sauntering toward the woman. So he’d had a lot of sailor visions as a kid, but he’d bet the sexy side of those visions, the ones with naked mermaids and nubile port warmers, hadn’t hit until he was at least thirteen. Maybe twelve.

As he approached the blonde, it only took a couple of flips through the little black book he kept in his mind to come up with a name. Terri, who worked as a cocktail waitress but wanted to be a movie star. She liked her chardonnay with ice, preferred Froot Loops for breakfast and had a penchant for doing it doggy-style.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted with a warm smile as he leaned in to prop one hand on the bar behind her. “How’ve you been?”

“Lonely.” She batted her heavily lined brown eyes, the slight bloodshot hue cluing him in to the fact that she wasn’t on her first drink of the night. “I’ve missed you.”

“Is that a fact?”

Before he could even begin the mental debate over whether he was going to help her get over missing him tonight or not, another slender hand smoothed up his back, then tickled its way down.

He glanced to the right to see the sultry brunette, her short cap of hair and the little mole above her lip immediately clicking open the file. Stella, flight attendant with a penchant for leather, beer on tap and midnight sushi.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, shifting his body so he was positioned directly and evenly between the two women.

“Hi, Laramie. I’ve been waiting for your phone call.” She tiptoed her fingers up his back, wetting her bottom lip and sliding a dismissive look toward Terri.

Terri, however, wasn’t easily dismissed.

“You’ll just have to keep waiting,” the blonde said, wrapping her arm through Laramie’s and leaning in to his body so her breasts almost engulfed his arm. “He’s with me right now.”

“Why would he be with you when he has me?” Stella countered, her hand now tiptoeing down Laramie’s front, as well.

Laramie tilted his head to one side, loosening the stiffness in his neck, then to the other. As the two women hissed at each other, he debated his options. Option one, pull them both close and suggest the three of them make a night of it. Option two, let them both down easy before either thought they had any rights to claim.

Even as his body suggested option two, because dammit, massage or not he was still sporting a corral full of bruises, he automatically slid into option one. Because, well, hey, two women and hot sex? Why not?

But just as he slid an arm around each slender woman, he heard a call.

“Ride ’em, Cowboy.”

Laramie glanced down at the laughing comment, noting with amusement that three of his teammates were grinning at the show from their perch at the end of the bar.

“Need help?” another asked.

And just like that, the moment of peace between the two women exploded into a catfight. Laramie didn’t know what set them off. Hell, he figured it wouldn’t make sense to him even if he did know. The only thing he understood about women was how to pleasure one and how to walk away. Usually unscathed.

But as the blonde dived across his body, nails extended toward the brunette’s face, he arched backward. Not in time to miss the brunette’s response, which was a lousily aimed fist that missed the blonde and skimmed Laramie’s chin.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he snapped with enough force to stop them both so that they stared, breasts heaving dangerously over the tops of their skimpy outfits and their eyes hot enough to fry rattlesnakes.

“Laramie—”

“But she—”

“Ladies.” He angled a charming smile from one to the other, then despite the pain shuddering through his shoulder from the impact of the angry dive, wrapped his arms around the women again. He looked into brown eyes, then blue, keeping his expression easy and his tone as soothing as he would toward a skittish mare. “Two gorgeous women, both wanting my attention? I’m a lucky man. But as much as I would love to spend the evening with both of you, I’m due to meet my friends. So what d’ya say? How about we all kiss and say good-night for now. I’ll catch up with both of you when I’m back in town.”

It took a little more soothing, and more than a couple of kisses each, but Laramie was soon able to ease himself away. And, he noted as he made his way down the bar, he left the women happily chatting away.

“Impressive,” intoned a Nordic giant most of the team called Ice. Ensign Dag Eckhart was six-five and built like one of the mountains from his homeland.

“Were you coming to save me?” Laramie asked with a grin, noting that the large man was on full alert, something he’d come to recognize from the way Ice’s white-blond hair stood on end.

Ice was relatively new to the team, having only joined before their last mission. They’d just come off a two-month deployment that’d involved training foreign counterparts in strategic defense in a country that didn’t believe in hamburgers, beer or fraternizing with women.

So he knew the man wasn’t trying to be insulting. But the idea that there was any situation that involved the fairer sex that Laramie couldn’t handle?

He’d thought his reputation was stronger than that.

Laramie tilted his Stetson back a little farther on his forehead and sighed.

Damn, he wanted a beer.

He didn’t get two feet before he was surrounded by laughing teammates.

“Dude, why’d you stop them? They hadn’t got to the hair-pulling and clothes-shredding part of the fight.” Mick Samuels, aka Blackjack, looked as if he was going to cry in his beer. “You know that’s the part I like best.”

“You’re a sad little man,” Ice deemed, shaking his head in dismayed judgment.

“Everyone’s little to you.” Blackjack shrugged. “I’ll bet you have plenty of dirty little thoughts, there, Dag.”

Looking as offended as if Mick had just suggested his mama did dirty times with polar bears, Dag shifted his stance, looming over the smaller man.

Laramie just kept moving toward the room at the back of the bar reserved for the SEAL team. There, he lifted a finger to the roving waitress, then angled it toward Castillo’s table. She responded with a wink and a look of interest that he debated while he took his seat.

“Looks like you might have plans for tonight,” Castillo said by way of a greeting.

“Nah,” Laramie decided. That didn’t stop him from giving the leggy brunette a slow smile of thanks when she leaned close to bring him his order. He did a quick inventory, noting the bare ring finger, easy smile and hot appreciation in her eyes, then slid his hand over hers on the glass of beer. “I’ve got plans tonight.”

The brunette looked disappointed, but slipped a folded napkin into his hand before sauntering away. He took a second to enjoy the swing of her hips, then tucked the paper into his pocket. He didn’t have to glance at it. He knew it’d be her phone number.

“Nice of you to put Murdock on his ass,” Castillo said. “Nothing like a little welcoming humiliation to cement his hard-on to outdo the SEALs.”

“You’re welcome.” Laramie grinned, twisting the chair around to straddle it. “I’m only sorry I didn’t put him on it a lot faster.”

Castillo chuckled as he reached for his own beer.

“Guaranteed, that guy is gonna be a pain in our asses for the next four weeks.”

“If you’re lucky.” At Castillo’s questioning look, Laramie reminded him, “He reported for duty four days early. What d’ya wanna bet he’ll try to extend training a week or three longer than scheduled?”

“Damn.” Castillo’s scowl only lasted a second before his grin busted it up. “We’re due for predeployment as soon as Donovan and Thorne get back the first of the month. Murdock can stick around if he wants, but that’s his expiration date.”

“I ran into Murdock on my way off the island,” Blackjack said, referring to the location of the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, as he joined them. He knocked a chair back with one foot, then slid into it in one smooth move. “Crazy bastard was going on about how he was going to put us in our place. He’s aiming hard for you, Cowboy.”

“That’s just fine. I’ll be happy to kick his ass again when I get back,” Laramie said in a slow drawl. “Guys like Murdock, they’ve always got things to prove.”

“He keeps calling us girls, we might want to make it our business,” Blackjack muttered into his beer.

Poor guy, he was still so green. Laramie shared a look with Castillo. They were gonna have to rub some of that shine off Samuels, PDQ.

“He keeps calling you girls, then as soon as I get back, we’ll all just drop our drawers and crush his ego once and for all,” Laramie told the new SEAL, downing the last of his beer as the others burst out laughing.

“My wife will vouch for mine,” Castillo said with a smile. Laramie figured Genna would vouch for anything when it came to Castillo. Poor girl was crazy in love.

“What’re your plans for the next three weeks?” Castillo asked, propping his size thirteen boots on the opposite chair. “You heading back to Texas?”

“First flight out.”

“What d’you do there?” Blackjack grinned. “You working your way through a harem or two?”

As if.

“My plans for leave include three weeks of peace and quiet,” he said, his words a little dreamy. “I’m heading for a small cabin in the Guadalupe Mountains. No traffic, no neighbors, not even a television.”

“Seriously?”

At Laramie’s nod, Blackjack’s face fell like a three-year-old being told that Santa was a big fat myth.

“And the women?” Castillo asked, looking much less disappointed than the other man.

“I said peace. That means no women.” Then, because his reputation demanded it, he added, “Most of these guys, they use leave to get all the women they can. Me? I get them all the time. I use leave to recoup.”

“One of these days, Cowboy, you’re going to find the right woman.” Castillo’s smile was wicked enough to assure Laramie that he wasn’t offering a friendly assurance so much as wishing retribution. “And she’s going to have you hog-tied and branded while you just sit there.”

“I’m a tactical warfare specialist trained in recognizing, analyzing and neutralizing threats.” Laramie shook his head. “In other words, that ain’t never gonna happen.”

No way in hell. He’d seen up close and personal what loving a man who put his career first did to a woman. And sure, some of the team might have found women who could deal with the pressures and demands—or so they thought. But Laramie was his old man’s son. He had the same looks, the same thirst for adventure, the same kick-ass skills. It stood to reason he’d have the same talent for ruining the life of any woman crazy enough to love him.

“No way,” Blackjack echoed, looking as offended as if Murdock had just come in and threw down pictures to prove the entire team was as dickless as he kept implying. “Cowboy is a legend. His reputation is unparalleled. Don’t even jinx it.”

“Don’t worry.” Laramie patted the guy’s shoulder. “I’m completely committed to keeping the legend alive, buddy. Nothing’s gonna jinx me. All things considered, I’m pretty sure I can avoid the trap.”

“Yeah.” Castillo gave a slow nod, his expression supportive. Then he tilted his glass in a salute. “I used to think that, too.”

Laramie had heard about Castillo’s rep. And Romeo’s rep. And, damn, he stopped himself before he went through the mental list of SEALs who’d fallen to the marriage trap.

Nope. He shook his head.

“Believe me, I’ve armed myself too well to tie myself to one woman for the rest of my life. Me and marriage? Never going to happen.”


2 (#ulink_79477c3a-587f-5e18-99d0-d3ca00ba7622)

“OH, LOOK AT YOU, Sammi Jo. Aren’t you a vision of the perfect bride? A fairy princess about to start her happy ever after.”

Was that what she was?

The Barclay Inn’s elegant bedroom with its rose and gilt decor, the antique tester bed and rosewood cheval mirror were definitely fit for a princess.

But did that make her one?

Did the dress?

Her eyes narrowed at the mirror, Sammi Jo Wilson—Samuel Joseph on her oft-lamented birth certificate—tilted her head to one side and peered into the mirror. She tilted her head to the other side, trying to see if the dress actually had that kind of power.

Cream-colored, beaded lace hugged her torso from the strapless sweetheart neckline to the dropped waist. One side skimmed low on her hip, layers of organza flowing from the other side like flowers to form a petal that floated, layer after airy layer to the floor.

It was beautiful.

The most elegant thing Sammi had ever worn.

But its message was more along the lines of, hey, scullery maid, go ahead and play princess for a day. See how that works out.

Sammi turned, the heavy fabric swishing as she twisted her neck to look at the back. Corset-styled cream satin laces crisscrossed down her spine to where the organza flowed again in another layer of petals.

Nope.

She wasn’t getting the happy-ever-after vibe the wedding consultant kept talking about. But if they added a pair of luminescent wings and a wreath of flowers to her russet hair, she’d look like a fairy.

Her brow twitched.

Maybe that was the problem.

Fairy or princess, neither suited Sammi Jo Wilson of Jerrick, Texas. She felt like an imposter.

Maybe it was the whispers—most of them behind her back, but not all—wondering how on earth a girl from the trailer park had ended up engaged to the most eligible bachelor in town.

Maybe it was as Sterling had said when she’d confessed to him that she was having doubts; it was simply a case of bridal nerves.

Or maybe she was just an imposter.

No, no, no, Sammi assured herself. It was most likely that this wasn’t her style. She was more suited to simple than elegant. To fun than fancy. To being in the background instead of standing under a spotlight on center stage.

She just had to convince the wedding coordinator of that. So, once again, Sammi took a deep breath and tried to find a compromise.

“Maybe this is a bit too much,” she said as she maneuvered herself and her twenty pounds of dress back around to face the mirror. “I think I’d be better suited to a simpler dress.”

“Oh, no. We won’t be changing a thing.” In an eye-searing-green pantsuit, Mrs. Ross fussed around Sammi. Her hands fluttered from the petal-like skirt to adjust the crafted silver bead rose on Sammi’s hip, then flickered dangerously close to her breasts. “Mr. Barclay approved this dress. He also approved the Asiatic lilies for the bouquet and the string quartet for dancing.”

A string quartet?

Sammi could only sigh.

“I was thinking it’d be sweet to use Sterling roses for the bouquet instead of lilies.” At Mrs. Ross’s blank look, Sammi added, “Sterling roses, for my fiancé, Sterling.”

“Nonsense. The plans are approved. The wedding is in three weeks. This isn’t the time to make sentimental changes.”

“Oh, no. Can’t muck up a wedding with silly things like sentiment,” Sammi muttered on a sigh. The tiny rebellious voice in her head wanted to point out that it wasn’t Mr. Barclay’s wedding. Except that it was, her practical side argued. He was paying for everything, including the dress and jewelry.

And she was marrying his son.

So, really, it was his wedding.

Besides, Sammi owed Mr. Barclay so much.

And it wasn’t as if she’d been dreaming of her wedding since she was a little girl. She’d never actually considered it a possibility until Sterling had mentioned that his father was hoping they’d marry. Next thing she knew, they’d set a date and Mr. Barclay had told Sammi she could use their nuptials as a test run for her suggestions that they host weddings here at the Barclay Inn.

“You do know how to dance properly, don’t you?” Mrs. Ross asked with a doubtful look.

“I don’t need lessons, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Sammi started to shrug, but the dress was so heavy, she was afraid one good shoulder twitch and her breasts would flop out. Before she could ask if Mrs. Ross had changed anything else about the wedding, a whirlwind rushed into the room.

“Sorry I’m late. There was an accident on Old Marsh Road, ER was packed.” Blythe Horton’s words tumbled over each other much the same way her blond curls tumbled out of the bundled knot on top of her head. Her magenta hospital scrubs clashed with the lime-green frames of her glasses and, Sammi glanced down, her red plaid high-tops. “Whoa, Sammi Jo. Check you out.”

“Pretty fancy, huh?” Sammi said, holding out both bare arms and twisting one way and then the other. She didn’t do the full turn, figuring she’d had enough of a workout for one day.

“Fancy schmancy,” Blythe returned with an eye roll. “You look like you should be getting married in El Paso or even Dallas or Houston. Not Jerrick.”

“This dress is entirely appropriate for a wedding of the Barclay stature,” Mrs. Ross interrupted with a harrumph, gesturing for Sammi to turn around.

Sammi sighed with relief. She could feel herself growing lighter as the older woman started unlacing and releasing her from the lacy confinement, so that when she stepped out of it to tug on her simple blue cotton robe, it was as if she were floating on air.

Oh yeah. She’d definitely be much more comfortable in something simpler.

“But isn’t a wedding supposed to be about the bride?” Blythe kicked off her high-tops. “Not about the father of the groom’s stature?”

“The groom is a Barclay, as well.” Mrs. Ross unzipped the protective bag holding Blythe’s bridesmaid dress with a metallic hiss. “Perhaps instead of criticizing things you know little about, you should practice telling time so as not to be late for any wedding-related events during the next three weeks.”

“Sorry. All of those injured people distracted me from watching the clock,” Blythe said with a sad shake of her head. She made a show of looking around the space, the elegant smaller bedroom as lovely as the rest of the Barclay house. “I guess the other bridesmaids were so punctual that they’ve been and gone.”

“Nobody likes a smart aleck,” the older woman snapped, her carefully drawn-on eyebrows arching almost to her modified beehive as she tried to stare Blythe down. But Blythe was an expert on disapproval. Sammi didn’t even get to the mental count of three before Mrs. Ross gave up with a loud sniff and flounced out of the room.

“I love smart alecks,” Sammi claimed as the door slammed. Grinning as Blythe laughed, Sammi found the shoe box marked with Blythe’s name and set the heels on the floor next to the dress.

“That woman is a complete nightmare. Especially the way she lords over the dresses,” Blythe muttered as she shucked her clothes with all the inhibition of a five-year-old. “Does she get paid extra to impose her views on everything? Has she demanded the cake be four tiers instead of three? Changed your jewelry again? I don’t know why you put up with her.”

“She’s not a complete nightmare,” Sammi defended halfheartedly. Mr. Barclay had carefully chosen the wedding coordinator, both for his only child’s wedding and because he wanted an expert on hand to advise them before they launched Weddings at the Barclay Inn.

As both the bride and the assistant manager of the inn, Sammi was a little disappointed that he wasn’t letting her handle it on her own. But it was the end result that mattered, she told herself as she unhooked and unzipped the amethyst satin dress on the hanger. In a few short weeks, she’d be married to a man she respected who’d then gain her the respect of others. And if this new venture worked as well as she hoped, she might even get that long-promised promotion to manager.

She gave a happy sigh. Manager of an inn that offered the loveliest wedding packages in western Texas. Didn’t that sound awesome?

“Mrs. Ross knows this event will kick off Weddings at the Barclay Inn.” She handed Blythe her bridesmaid dress, noting that it weighed a lot less than her own. “She’s probably a little overenthusiastic.”

“Uh-huh.” Blythe twisted her mouth but didn’t say anything else as she stepped into the dress. She tugged the fabric chest-high, then turned so Sammi could zip her up. Strapless and fitted to the hips like Sammi’s, the rich purple exploded over the knees in petal-like layers. “I notice you didn’t deny that she’s lording over the dresses.”

“The woman watched while I washed my hands to make sure I did it right before she’d let me touch my dress.” Giving in to her own sense of the ridiculous, Sammi rolled her eyes.

“You manage the fanciest inn in the county, you’re so organized it’s scary and you have exquisite taste. Why wouldn’t old man Barclay let you arrange your own wedding?” Blythe tweaked her shoulders this way, then that, arching her back and trying to make it look as if she had breasts holding up that fabric.

“I’m assistant manager,” Sammi corrected meticulously. Don Reedy was the actual manager. Sure, he was away as often as he was here, given that he handled a number of Mr. Barclay’s properties. But he still had final say in everything, and the inn was run to his specifications.

“But didn’t Barclay promise over a year ago that he’d promote you to manager?”

“Once I proved myself.” Sammi nodded. And she had, hadn’t she? In the past year, she’d increased reservations by 20 percent, arranged for the launch of a new website for the inn and had cut kitchen expenses by purchasing from local farmers and suppliers. “I think the wedding venture will do the trick.”

“Hmm.”

“You doubt me?”

“You, no.” Blythe shook her head. “Barclay, yes. So far he’s managed to give credit for everything you’ve accomplished to someone else. All the while, he’s got you living on the property as a full-time caretaker while paying you minimum wage by claiming he’s covering your wages with room and board.”

Sammi waved that all aside with a flick of her hand. She’d explained plenty of times that while Mr. Barclay had shared the credit for those improvements she’d implemented, he’d still thanked her personally. And though it hadn’t been her idea to take room and board instead of a salary, Mr. Barclay’s reasons were sound. After all, any cash she made was like a red flag waving high over the town, just daring her mama to come sashaying in with her hand out. And Sammi did owe Mr. Barclay for paying for college, at least for the part that her scholarship hadn’t covered.

Blythe unknotted her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. As she fluffed it around her face, her eyes met Sammi’s in the mirror.

“I suppose the RSVPs are coming in,” she asked, her voice so casual it was an instant tip-off.

“They are and she’s not,” Sammi said, her voice as tight as the knot in her stomach. Buying time, she rummaged through a tackle box labeled Bridesmaids until she found a new comb to give Blythe.

“You’re really going to get married without Cora Mae?”

“Well, I graduated high school without her. And college. Why should getting married be any different?” Sammi shoved her fingers into her hair, but they got stuck in the fancy French twist. Glad for the distraction, she started tugging hairpin after hairpin loose.

“Is she not coming because she objects to who you’re marrying? Or because you don’t want her there?”

Not want her there?

Sometimes it felt as if Sammi had spent her entire life wishing her mother would be there, really be there.

Like when she’d found herself home alone at ten when her mother took off for a week in Vegas with a guy named Spike.

Or at eleven when she’d been so excited to play an angel in the holiday show and had stood there on stage, waiting and watching the audience with her hopes high. Only to walk home alone with her tinsel wings drooping to find that Cora Mae had found herself a new beau when he’d stopped in at the Quickie Mart where she worked for cigarettes, and simply hadn’t been able to tear herself away.

At thirteen, Sammi had given negative attention a try, getting into fights and ditching class. But after Cora Mae had skipped four meetings with the principal in a row, she’d had to accept that even that wouldn’t work.

At sixteen, she’d told herself she didn’t care anymore. She’d gotten a housekeeping job at the Barclay Inn and, with Mr. Barclay’s help, she’d had herself declared emancipated. She’d left the trailer park, and her mother, behind. At least, that’s what she’d told herself.

Except some sad part of her buried deep in her heart kept wishing otherwise. It was easy enough to ignore most of the time. It was just the occasional event, like Mother’s Day, Christmas morning—or whenever that cheap beer commercial played on TV—that her heart ached a little.

But no amount of aching was going to change anything.

“Sammi?” Her hair fluffed around her face like static-charged fur, Blythe pointed the comb. “What’s the deal? Why isn’t Cora Mae coming?”

“Mr. Barclay put his foot down.” Leaving her own hair still tangled with the couple of hairpins she hadn’t found yet, Sammi hit the tackle box again, this time for a bottle of hair serum. She dabbed about a half-drop on the palm of one hand, then rubbed both together before smoothing them over Blythe’s head. As her fingers slid through, separating the curls and taming the frizz, she met her oldest friend’s gaze in the mirror. “He was right to ban her, wasn’t he? I mean, she’d be a nightmare. You know how she is.”

“She is a nightmare,” Blythe agreed quietly, her eyes dark with sympathy. “She’d probably get drunk and dance on the tables, fall into the cake and hit on the minister.”

It shouldn’t be funny, but Sammi’s lips still twitched at the image. She gave Blythe’s hair a final smooth, then sighed and started searching for her hairpins again. Blythe found them faster.

“Still, it should be your choice,” Blythe said, handing Sammi the comb.

But by not having to make the choice, she avoided the guilt of not wanting her mother at her wedding, dancing drunk on the tables with the minister. Was that so wrong?

“Why would anyone object to my marrying Sterling?” she asked instead of answering, focusing on Blythe’s earlier comment.

“You are kidding, right?” Blythe snorted. “Bless her heart, your mama probably figures that she has more reasons than a dog has fleas for hatin’ on the idea of you marrying a Barclay.”

Sammi didn’t need to see Blythe’s face to know that dislike for Sterling Barclay and the fact that grass grew green were about the only things she’d ever agree with Cora Mae about.

“That’s ridiculous. Sterling is a great catch. Everyone says so. He’s handsome and cultured. He’s intelligent and well-read and ambitious.” Sammi’s stomach tightened as she searched for more and came up blank. Then she caught the look on her best friend’s face.

“What?” Sammi’s stomach tightened again.

“Just, well, there are rumors going around again. I’m not saying it’s true or anything, but there’s talk that Sterling has been seen with one of the waitresses at Longhorn’s.”

Sammi had to swallow hard to get past the knot in her throat. It wasn’t as if she and Sterling were a love match, or even marrying for hot, wild passion. But that didn’t mean he’d cheat on her, did it?

Her fingers clenched and unclenched as if she could grab the dots dancing in front of her eyes and squeeze them into oblivion, but after a couple of seconds, Sammi was back in control enough to see the expression on Blythe’s face.

Her spine immediately stiffened.

Best friend or not, the last thing Sammi wanted was pity.

“Oh, that,” she said with as airy a laugh as she could manage. “It’s nothing.”

“Sammi—”

“Did you want to look at the jewelry choices before the others get here?” Sammi interrupted. “I want you to have first pick.”

As if they’d been waiting for their cue, the door sprung open and with it, three women bounced into the room. She welcomed them with a grateful smile. She’d deal with wondering about Sterling and the waitress later. Right now, she had friends to greet.

And greet, they did, with their usual laughter, hugs and exaggerated air kisses. She’d roomed with Amy and Mia when they were at the University of Texas in El Paso, and had met Clara when she’d come to visit her sister Mia. She’d always be grateful to them, not only for helping her adjust to college life but because, thanks to them, she’d managed to develop a sheen of sophistication. Granted, her sheen was only surface and theirs went skin-deep, but she’d take what she could get.

“Hey there, Blythe,” they greeted, their tone a shade cooler. Given that Blythe was offering a stony stare, the chill wasn’t surprising. Sammi didn’t know if it was because they were out-of-towners, because they were country-club sleek or simply because they represented a different part of Sammi’s life—one Blythe wasn’t part of. But Blythe had taken an instant dislike to the other women.

“Sorry we’re late,” Amy said with a breathy laugh that went perfectly with her sultry looks. From her long mink hair to her this-season Louboutins, Amy screamed luxury.

“We’d have been on time if a certain someone hadn’t been indulging in a little afternoon delight with her new hubby.” As no-nonsense as her gamine-cut ebony hair and simple linen pantsuit, Clara shot her sister a chiding look.

“Whine, whine, whine.” Mia said, dismissing the criticism with an airy wave of her hand, her glistening wedding ring catching the light, sending rainbow sparks around the room. “We’re newlyweds. We’re supposed to have uninhibited, spontaneous sex as often as possible. Right, Sammi?”

“I’m not a newlywed yet, but I’ll be sure Sterling knows that rule,” Sammi joked, pushing her hand through her heavy fall of hair.

Now that it was combed out of its fancy twist, the russet waves tumbled wildly around her face, so she grabbed a clip to pull it back. As she did, she noticed three pairs of eyes lock on her left hand.

Her bare left hand.

As one, they frowned. Clara opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again when Mia stepped on her foot. All three started talking at once, so the room was filled with random observations about Blythe’s dress, the weather and how many calories there might be in lemonade.

Sammi sighed. She’d rather ignore it, but she knew it was better to head off their concern.

“Did I mention that Sterling is having his mama’s rings redone for me?” she said with a little laugh, curling her fingers into her lap. Granted, it was his mama’s cocktail ring and they’d visited the jewelers for the fitting a month ago. But that was beside the point. “It’s taking a little longer to get them back.”

“Oh, there’s nothing like an heirloom,” Amy gushed, giving Sammi’s shoulder a friendly rub.

“Oh, I have something for all of you,” Sammi exclaimed as if she’d just remembered. She hurried over to the glossy writing desk where she’d left the envelopes. She’d actually planned to give them each the hand-painted cards as they were leaving. But hey, why pass up a good distraction?

“Oh, Sammi Jo,” Mia breathed as she opened hers.

Still, Sammi bit her lip as they all sighed and murmured their delight, each woman, including Blythe, showing the others her card and exclaiming over theirs.

“I’m so glad you like them.”

“Like? Oh, no, love.” Amy traced her finger over the delicate watercolor roses twining around the elaborately lettered Thank You before giving Sammi a beaming smile. “You are so talented. You could make a living painting cards, Sammi Jo.”

“You did for a little while, didn’t you?” Mia asked, holding her card, with its long, leggy irises, close to her chest. “Or was that only in college?”

She’d had quite a small business going in college, painting cards, wall hangings and the occasional stationary set to supplement what she made waiting tables. Most semesters her art had not only covered the cost of books, it’d given her enough to actually fit in with her friends instead of standing out like a country bumpkin. But once she’d come home and started working at the inn, she’d been too busy for painting, except the occasional gift.

“I dabbled,” Sammi said, shrugging as if she hadn’t hated to give up that dream.

“You could still dabble,” Blythe pointed out, carefully tucking her sunflower-covered Thank You back in its envelope.

“Maybe after you’re married,” Clara said. “I’ll bet Sterling would love it if you spent more time on your art.”

Sammi didn’t think Sterling was even aware that she painted. Thankfully, Mrs. Ross chose that moment to barrel into the room, saving Sammi from having to comment. As she began leading the women through their fitting, the talk bounced more naturally now, the women sharing their latest gossip while Sammi curled up on the bed, her robe draped around her feet as she enjoyed the vicarious fun.

“Sammi, has Sterling finalized your honeymoon plans yet?” Amy asked as she preened at her reflection in the mirror.

So much for fun.

“Honeymoon?” Sammi bit her lip. She didn’t want to tell them that Sterling had decided to put off the honeymoon for a couple of months until they were both less busy. So she went with, “Oh, no. He’s keeping it a surprise.”

“I so admire your patience, Sammi Jo.” Mia stood with her arms wide as Mrs. Ross pinned and tucked her sapphire dress to a perfect fit. “I was all over Conner about the arrangements months before the wedding.”

“You’re always all over Conner,” her sister muttered, earning a snicker from Blythe.

“How do you know what to shop for if you don’t know where you’re going?”

“Not everyone is a shopaholic, you know.” Holding up one lipstick and then another to the mirror to check the color against her dress and her complexion, Clara paused to roll her eyes at Amy. “Some people actually wear the clothes they already have instead of shopping for an entire wardrobe.”

“Says the woman with fifty lipsticks in her bag,” Mia responded laughing.

“Amy is right, though,” Clara declared as she tried on a pale pink lipstick, then wiped it right off. “Even if you dress from your wardrobe for the honeymoon, you’ll need something extra sexy for your wedding night.”

“Extra sexy?” Sammi repeated, frowning down at her robe-covered body. Under her practical cotton was more practical cotton. Why would she bother with anything else?

As if hearing her thoughts, the other women dove into a discussion on the merits of various lingerie styles when it came to the art of seduction. When the talk turned to sex play, Sammi had to force herself not to run, screaming, from the room. She pressed her hands against her churning stomach.

Just bridal nerves, she assured herself. It was natural to be nervous. Totally normal to freak out. She knew lots of women who’d been nauseous before their wedding day. Granted, they were pregnant. She didn’t think she could lay her nausea on that without the blessing of divine intervention.

After all, she and Sterling had never had sex.

Which wasn’t a big deal.

She’d seen enough evidence in her life that sex was better left off the table. People either put too much meaning on it, so that it became an obsession that screwed up their lives. Or the only value they put on it was the mileage they got out of bragging about it after the deed was done.

The only lingerie that suited her attitude toward sex was a flannel nightie or, maybe, a chastity belt.

Not that she’d say that aloud. They were all friends—good friends—but she just couldn’t talk about that sort of thing.

Except with Blythe. Sammi’s gaze cut over to the bubbly blonde being tucked and pinned into her dress. Blythe was like a sister to her. They told each other everything. But she hadn’t found a way to tell her best friend since first grade that she hadn’t slept with the man she was about to marry.

She’d thought about pointing out that there was nothing wrong with saving yourself for marriage.

But Blythe knew perfectly well that Sammi had had sex before. So she was going to want specifics on why Sammi hadn’t had it with the man she was about to commit the rest of her life to.

But Sammi couldn’t explain that it just didn’t matter to her. She wasn’t marrying Sterling for sex. Nor, as so many whispered, was she marrying him for his money or his family connections. She and Sterling didn’t need sex to make a good marriage. They had family ties, respect and common interests. They had a friendship, and that was way more important than sex.

The sound of her name amid naughty giggles pulled her from her reverie.

“I’m sorry, what?” she asked the group of wicked-eyed women staring at her. A group, she noted, that now included Blythe. Was there something about getting undressed together that made women best buddies?

“I asked if you prefer panties or thongs,” Amy said with a naughty smile. “Then Mia asked if you had a preference when it came to fabric. You know, heavy silk or see-through lace.”

How about cotton briefs and in the dark, with the lights off. Her face heating, Sammi cast a quick look around. Where the hell had Mrs. Ross gone? Why was the woman always around when she didn’t want her and never here when she needed her?

But apparently sometime during Sammi’s mental side trip through her nonexistent love life, the wedding coordinator had brought in a tray of delicate desserts and champagne.

And all of them, except Blythe, who’d tugged on her scrubs again, were sitting around in their undies, sipping champagne and nibbling bonbons.

“We’re trying to figure out your lingerie style,” Clara explained, actually pulling a leather-bound notebook from her messenger bag. “And are you going to want to branch out a little? Is Sterling into the kink?”

Sammi’s mouth dropped.

But no words came out.

It wasn’t their expectant looks that shocked her, so much as how perfectly normal they all seemed to feel asking such intimate questions. Not even in college had her underwear choices come into conversation. But now that she was marrying, everybody thought it was their business?

“Speaking of kink... Guess who’s back in town?” Taking pity on Sammi’s horrified expression, Blythe addressed the question to everyone—and in a friendly tone, too. “This guy is amazing. Think orgasms by the dozen. The man every other man envies. Sergeant Satisfaction, Captain Climax, General G-Spot.”

That’s all it took to bring an image to Sammi’s mind of a wicked smile, warm hazel eyes and toffee-colored hair with just a hint of curl. Even as a teen, the man had exuded sex appeal, so much that people rarely looked past it to see what a sweet guy he was.

To Sammi, he’d been a hero. He’d protected her from bullies when she was seven, then when he’d learned that they were harassing her because she couldn’t read yet, he’d taught her in secret himself. He’d made Sammi feel as if she could do anything. His unquestioning belief in her had been a turning point in Sammi’s life. Years later, he’d even helped Sammi get her job here at the inn. Talk about a hero.

“Laramie’s back?” Sammi said a second before Amy did. Everyone giggled except Sammi, who was wondering why Amy would know Jerrick’s bad boy. She’d grown up in Abilene, not Jerrick.

Blythe continued talking before Sammi could ask, and before she could analyze the tight feeling in her stomach over how Amy—or any woman under the age of thirty-five if the rumors were to be believed—would know Laramie.

“Long and lean, sexy as sin and hotter than Hades.” Blythe made a show of fanning her hand in front of her face. “He’s fueled the fantasies of every woman in town from the age of fifteen to fifty.”

“He’s fueled fantasies in a lot of towns, from what I hear,” Mia chimed in. “Laramie is a legend in West Texas.”

“I heard rumors about him when I was at college in San Antonio,” Clara mused, looking modest in her simple silk teddy. “Didn’t he go off to become a secret agent or something?”

“I heard he was a drug lord, although some people say he’s really DEA and that’s a cover.”

“No, no,” Amy interrupted. “He’s a cowboy. He’s riding broncs in the PRCA, you know, the rodeos. He was in Las Vegas last year for National Finals.”

Actually, he’d left Texas to join the Navy twelve years ago. By now, he’d probably achieved his dream of being a SEAL. But Sammi kept that to herself.

“Guys like that are bad news,” Clara declared, dabbing her lips with a napkin before she rose to dress. “Nothing more than man-whores.”

“Laramie isn’t bad news,” Sammi defended, not able to let that comment go by. “He’s really a sweet guy.”

“Ooooh,” echoed every voice in the room.

“Not like that.” Sammi rolled her eyes. “I knew him when we were kids. He even got me the job here at the inn.”

Actually, he’d found Sammi trying to hitch a ride to the bus station with grand plans to run away. He’d convinced her that running wasn’t the answer over an ice cream sundae, then brought her to the inn where he’d convinced Mrs. Reed the housekeeper to hire her.

“That’s right,” Blythe remembered. “His mom worked here before she died.”

“I’ll second the sweet-guy vote. And it’s unfair to call him a man-whore,” Amy said. “I’ve never heard of Laramie costing women anything more than a little heartache.”

“A little heartache is a fair price for the kind of memories he’s credited for. I’ve heard he can go all night, rocking it like a jackhammer. And that smile.” Blythe popped a grape into the air, caught it between her teeth, then bit into it with a snap and a grin. “Panty melting.”

“Just what every woman wants. Melted panties.” Sammi frowned, wondering why everyone seemed to think sex was so damned important. Sex was messy and awkward, usually made up of mythical expectations and ridiculous requirements.

“You’ll see,” Mia said, giggling as she slipped into her Alexander Wang dress. “A few months of honeymoon sex, and I’ll bet you melt every pair you own.”

Since she didn’t figure sex—not even sex with a legend such as Laramie—could be worth a single pair, Sammi could only laugh.

“Not to worry. You’ll have enough panties to get you through a year of hot sex,” Clara assured her with a comforting pat on the shoulder. “The lingerie shower will ensure that.”

“A lingerie shower?” Sammi paused in the act of pulling on her jeans to frown. Her eyes shifted from one woman to the other. But they looked as surprised that she’d asked as she was to hear about it.

“You know, a shower for lingerie,” Amy said, her expression two shades away from condescending. “Next Friday afternoon.”

“I know what a lingerie shower is,” Sammi said, trying not to clench her teeth. “I thought we were having a couple’s bridal shower.”

“I’m throwing the couple’s shower,” Clara said, looking up from repacking her cache of lipstick. “We’re each giving you one. Amy, Mia and I.”

“Three bridal showers?” Three? Her mind echoed faintly. But why?

She shot Blythe a desperate look, but her friend was nodding along as if having three separate showers was completely reasonable. That or she’d bonded with the other women over sex talk.

“I’ve got your bachelorette party covered,” the traitor said, tucking her feet back into her high-tops. “And don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s a party hot enough to melt your unmarried panties right off.”

It was all Sammi could do not to cover her butt with her hands and tell them all to leave her panties alone.


3 (#ulink_0bf85a52-8d19-56da-b9cc-eeb04b22954c)

“SAMMI JO, DID YOU hear who is back in town?” Fiona Green set down the last of the boxes of vegetables she was delivering to wave a hand in front of her face. “Hoo, baby, it’s gonna be a hot couple of weeks.”

“Because Laramie’s back?” Sammi asked absently, paying more attention to the order she was checking than to the tenth announcement today of Laramie’s return. All around her the kitchen hustled and bustled through breakfast service, the cacophony of voices, dishes and cooking soothing after a night of lousy sleep.

“Laramie. The man is drool worthy. He’s the kind of guy who just looks at a woman and, poof,” Fiona blew on her fingertips, “her clothes disappear.”

“Uh-huh.” Sammi Jo grinned as she signed off on the delivery. “Good luck staying dressed.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“You do?” Sammi’s smile dimmed. Fiona had been a couple of grades behind her in school. How young did Laramie like them?

“No, but I know women who have. And they’ve told me.”

“Ahh.” Relieved, and late, Sammi said her goodbyes and scurried around two waiters, the line chef and a busboy, double-timing it to the dining room.

What was it with everyone’s obsession with sex?

She tried to wrap her mind around it all.

First the bridesmaids—and in the stuff of nightmares, Mrs. Ross. Then her newest guests had asked to change rooms three times, all in search of a bed that gave the best bounce. If that wasn’t enough, her favorite sitcom had launched a new storyline about—yes, of course—sex.

Added to that, all the staff could talk about was the fact that Laramie was back in town. Two of the maids appeared to be wearing lingerie—while another had asked for the day off to go to the spa for a body buff and glow. Last night, even the kitchen staff had debated what foods were best to seduce the man.

Sammi Jo felt as if she should warn poor Laramie. Or she would if she wasn’t so irritated with everyone putting all of the sex thoughts in her head—and a little afraid that with this theme, she’d see her mother sashaying through at any time in Daisy Dukes and pink pumps.

And then there were the cheating rumors. Those she’d rather ignore, but the sidelong glances and pitying looks she’d garnered over the past few days warned her that the issue couldn’t be avoided.

Which meant she had to talk to Sterling.

Sammi glanced at the clock on the wall, winced and hurried through the staff entrance to the inn’s dining room. The morning sun already shone bright through the wide, arched windows. It was gratifyingly full for a Thursday morning. The dining room boasted twenty tables clothed in white with matching china and pretty carafe centerpieces. The window’s arch was echoed in the entry, where Sammi Jo had switched out the hostess stand for a mahogany piecrust table. The overall effect was elegantly cheerful, she thought as she moved through the tables, pausing to check with the head waiter to make sure nobody needed her help.

“Good morning,” she greeted when she reached the table next to the window. “I’m sorry I’m late. We’re a little short staffed in the kitchen.”

“I was afraid I was going to have to eat alone,” Sterling said with a wink as he set aside his iPad.

Sammi slid into her seat, smiling at her fiancé. Dark eyes contrasted with his wheat-blond hair, and while maybe his lips were a little thin and his chin a smidge weak, he had a clever personality and a Yale polish that made quite a package.

She was glad that he was so much more than a walking, talking erection with roaming hands and a one-track mind. Then her smiled dimmed. Maybe it was only with her that his mind never hit that track? They were to be married in three weeks. She knew he was interested in sex; there were too many rumors to pretend otherwise. But if she asked, what if she found out something she didn’t want to know. Like, what if he was a closet deviant? What if, after they married, he’d want to wear her new underwear and have her spank him with chilled vegetables? Was that worse than him not wanting her at all?

In reality, she didn’t want him. Not in that way, she admitted, twisting her fingers together in her lap.

“Sammi Jo? Is everything okay?”

No, she wanted to scream. She had no interest in sex, she didn’t like sex and she thought life was much tidier without sex. Yet, the only thing she could think about now was sex.

Her lips trembled, but Sammi managed to hold back the crazed rush of babbling nerves.

“I’m sorry. I’m just distracted by work. Don has us short staffed again, and we’re having some tech issues at the front desk. Add in the wedding hoopla, and I’m a little frazzled.” She swirled her hand in the air to emphasize her words, hoping he’d put her odd tone down to being overwhelmed. “I wish we could have something a little more low-key.”

Something that didn’t require Mrs. Ross, for instance.

“I know, I know.” Sterling set his coffee down, dabbed his napkin to the corners of his mouth, then gave her the smile that made him such a good salesman. Earnest and charming, with just a hint of persuasive guile. “But Sammi, this wedding is about more than us. It’s about the image we present to the community. Look at it as a networking opportunity. The guest list is impressive, the gifts will likely be cash and the entire event will make good press. That’s good for our businesses.”

Seriously? She was working double time to prepare the inn for its debut as a wedding destination, hearing honeymoon advice from the gardener and being nagged to death by Mrs. Ross over stupid details she didn’t care about while being overridden on the ones she did. And all for the good of their businesses?

Stomach tight, Sammi wanted to lean across the table and tell him that she’d had enough. Sterling wasn’t the one dealing with the wedding planner from hell. If he wanted to improve his damned business, he could take out an ad.

“You’re right,” she agreed, absently rubbing the knot in her shoulder. “I’m a little overwhelmed. Added to all of that are the new software changes your father wants implemented and the insane things my bridesmaids are saying. I suppose it’s just been a rough couple of days.”

Sterling reached out to lay his hand on hers again, this time giving it a quick squeeze.

“You worry too much, Sammi Jo. Let the wedding coordinator do her job and don’t let your bridesmaids drive you crazy,” he suggested, his smile a little less easy now. “As for the computer, I actually need to use it and your office this morning.”

“I’m scheduled to do office work until noon. Your father expects me to have the new computer software installed and all the files transferred before the first of the month,” she said before taking a sip of her sweet tea.

Sterling’s smile slid away to be replaced with a dark scowl. Sammi sighed. All it took was the mention of Robert Barclay to put that look on Sterling’s face. Oh, she knew Mr. Barclay could be difficult, but she was sure in time father and son would overcome their differences. It’d been her attempts to build that bridge when Sterling had moved back home last year that had brought her and Sterling together.

Someday, Sterling would appreciate his father for the great man that he was. As far as Sammi was concerned, Mr. Barclay had saved her life. It was thanks to Mr. Barclay that she’d gotten out of the trailer park and had made something of herself.

She owed him a lot.

The least she could do was try to help smooth things out between him and his only child.

But sometimes, the smoothing was a lesson in frustration.

“If you don’t want me using your computer, just say so.”

His words were stiff as he turned to greet the perky brunette waitress as she set a basket of minimuffins and pastries on the table. Darla refilled his coffee, asked Sammi if she wanted more tea and took their order before sashaying away again.

Sammi waited until she was out of earshot.

“I don’t have a problem with you using the computer,” she said quietly. “I can finish up my work this evening after my shift.”

Sterling took a moment, but finally gave a brief nod.

“So what silly ideas are the ladies coming up with?” His tone was somewhere between placating and cheerful, but the expression on his face made it clear he wasn’t happy. “Are they fussing about the dress choices?”

Sammi started to tell him about their silliness over Laramie, but found herself leaning closer instead and saying, “There are rumors that you’re having an affair.”

Again. The unspoken word hung in the air for a moment as Sterling blinked, then gave a deep sigh. He looked around as if to ensure nobody was listening, then reached over to pat her hand.

“First off, we’re not married yet. Whatever we do between now and the wedding is our own business, isn’t it? Besides, we’ve talked about this, Sammi. We’re perfectly compatible in so many other ways. Just not that one. Why is this an issue?”

How did he know they weren’t compatible sexually if they’d never had sex? Sammi pressed her lips together to keep from asking. Because he was right. Theirs wasn’t a love match. They were friends—good friends—with respect and affection for each other. They’d agreed that their marriage was going to be more of a partnership than anything else.

Still...

“We’ve also talked about how essential respect and consideration for each other is, and why it’s important to both of us to do our best to keep up appearances. We’d agreed that for all intents and purposes, we would give the impression of a love match.” Despite the nerves clenching tight in her belly, Sammi managed to keep her words steady. “Rumors that you’re sleeping with a cocktail waitress three weeks before the wedding are at odds with that impression, don’t you think?”

Sammi held her breath, carefully watching his expression. Because those rumors would be nothing compared to the ones that’d explode if Sterling called off the wedding. She could just see the pitying looks and knowing nods. Those were the kind of rumors that could ruin a woman’s life.

After a long moment, Sterling’s remote expression shifted into a rueful smile.

“You’re right. Totally right. That was my bad.” He shrugged. “I promise, you won’t hear any more gossip like that.”

Sammi could only stare, and wonder. Did he mean he was done fooling around and that once they were married he’d only have sex with her? Or did he simply mean he’d be more careful about the gossip?

Before she could ask, they were greeted by a booming voice.

“Sterling, you old dog. And Sammi Jo. Aren’t you a pretty thing.” As big as his voice, Ben Martin grabbed a chair from an empty table and, without asking, joined them. “Gotta talk business, my friends. I hear you’re looking for a discount on some long-term ads in the newspaper.”

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.





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