A Seal's Desire

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

“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.”