A Seal's Touch

Ah, there it was. Motherly pity. If she’d stopped at fixing the leaky kitchen faucet and replacing the furnace filters instead of reframing the crawl space vent, she might have actually escaped, pity unspoken.

Oh, the pity would still be there. Just not there, out loud. After all, Cat was single, childless, with nary a date on the horizon to fix that.

“Mom, I’m not tagging along with you and Mrs. Powell.” Before her mother could say anything, Cat held up one hand. “First off, you both like fighting over who drives too much for me to take that away from you. Second, I don’t gamble and don’t want to see a show. Third, I have to work this weekend.”

“Work?” Lucia pursed her lips, too ladylike to spit out the pshaw Cat knew was on her mind. “You know, if you were your own boss instead of working for that tyrant Marco, you’d be able to take time off. You’re a smart girl, a hard worker. Why haven’t you gone out on your own yet?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?

Oh, she could run her own company. And she’d be good at it. She was an excellent carpenter, a fair plumber and a decent electrician. She knew how to get respect from the crew, how to handle costing out jobs and what to send the accountant.

She’d learned all that at her father’s knee. She’d idolized him, admired him and wanted nothing more than to be like him. When her sisters were learning to flirt and wear makeup, she’d been learning the ins and outs of construction.

But she didn’t want her own business.

She wanted the family business.

Knowing her mother wouldn’t like that answer, she simply shrugged.

“Business is good,” was all she said. And it was. Real estate had bounced back over the past couple of years, but it still wasn’t near the peak it’d been during the bubble. Most people weren’t buying new, they were adding on, refurbishing or remodeling.

“You should be dating eligible men on weekends, not working. If you don’t date, how are you going to find your soul mate, Catarina? You waste your life swinging a hammer instead of dating, you’ll find yourself old and shriveled, alone in your twilight years without the joy of marriage or grandchildren to keep you warm.” Lucia stopped only long enough to take a breath before continuing her lament on her youngest daughter’s failings.

Familiar with the list, by the time it reached her choices in footwear, Cat could only sigh. She had four older sisters, each one of them fitting perfectly into Lucia Peres’s idea of what was acceptable. Three of them had provided grandchildren, two worked at the flower shop with Lucia and all four were unquestionably female, right down to their pierced ears and lipstick fetishes.

And then there was Cat.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“You can’t be fine,” Lucia insisted as she tucked another flower into the vase. She stepped back to give the arrangement a narrow-eyed look then nudged a flower down an inch before shifting that look to her daughter. “You work too much, so you’re a slave to the business.”

Cat pursed her lips to keep from pointing out that her mom was spending Thursday evening with the dining room table covered in silk flower arrangements, undoubtedly to be used as window displays for the flower shop. Maybe it was only slaving if she used real flowers?

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“You don’t look fine. You look tired. Why are you not using face cream, Catarina? Or better, makeup? A nice bright lipstick would show off that lovely smile.”

“I was up late,” Cat returned in excuse. She’d ended up finishing the payroll reports for Marcus.

“When was the last time you went on a date?”

Did a beer after shift with the crew count? Unless they were all naked and ingesting the beer off each other’s bodies, Lucia would probably say no.

“I date.”

But her mother kept on going.

“You’re wasting your youth with that silly business. And it’s not even yours, Catarina. You’re wasting your youth on someone else.”

“I’m not wasting anything. I’m using my youth to build up experience and knowledge so when I run my own, I’ll be a success.” Cat paused. “Like Daddy.”

Lucia gave a heavy sigh, her eyes sad as she set the flowers aside to take Cat into her arms.

“Of all my daughters, you’re the most like your father. But you need to be you, Catarina. You need to live your life. Live your dreams.”

“I am living my dream,” Cat declared.

“Don’t you have dreams of children? Of a family?” Her mother threw her hands in the air. “Or, your father forgive me, of regular sex?”

Regular sex?

With a silent laugh, Cat let her mother’s lecture wash over her while she shifted her gaze to stare through the window at the Powell house.

Yeah.

She had dreams of amazing sex.

Mind-blowingly amazing, panty-meltingly hot sex.

But all of her dreams revolved around the only man she could imagine was capable of that kind of sex.

Taylor Powell.

2

FRIDAY EVENING, CAT, her tool caddy in hand, let herself into the Powell house. Leda had asked her to do a few repairs in the upstairs bathroom, so Cat headed right up the stairs, her boots rapping against the glossy wood. Leda and Cat’s mom had headed for Vegas around noon, but Cat had the key. And she knew her way.

She should. She’d run tame in this house most of her life. She’d taken piano lessons from Mrs. Powell for a month before they’d both realized that it was a lost cause. Then, knowing Lucia’s obsession with turning her daughters into ladies, instead of telling Cat’s mother that it was pointless, Leda had spent an hour twice a week teaching Cat to appreciate music even if she couldn’t play it herself.

It hadn’t been fear of her mother—well, not just fear of her mother—that had Cat going along with the lessons. Nope, her ten-year-old self had sat through hours of Beethoven, Bach and Tchaikovsky in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Mrs. Powell’s only son.

She’d lived for those glimpses of the fourteen-year-old Taylor coming home from baseball practice with his grass-stained knees and his crooked smile. For the offhand “hey’s,” the rare times he’d sit and chat. She’d ripped herself away from her obsession with power tools to learn baseball just so she’d have something to add to the conversation.

At twelve, she’d learned to work on engines so she could help him rebuild the engine in his ancient Chevy. When she was fourteen, she’d snuck out one night to follow Taylor on a date. She hadn’t been able to get an up-close look, but she’d seen enough going on in the backseat of that Chevy to send her budding hormones haywire. All she’d wanted, all she’d been able to think about for months, was getting him to do to her what he’d been doing to Marcy Carter.

But by fifteen, after a lot of reflection and watching of the bimbo parade across the street, she’d been smart enough to figure out that she wasn’t Taylor’s type. No amount of wishing would make it otherwise. She’d never be petite and curvy. She’d never be giggly or girly. She’d never be his girl.

So she’d settled on being his friend.

But...

At the top of the stairs Cat turned left instead of right, heading for Taylor’s old bedroom.

She and Taylor might just be friends, but they were friends with benefits. The naughty sexual benefits might all be in her mind, but that was beside the point.

She stopped in the open doorway of the bedroom and breathed deep. It smelled like the rest of the house: clean and slightly citrusy. But she liked to think that she was breathing in a little of Taylor. She dropped her tote by the door and stepped into the room.

Even though he hadn’t lived here since he’d left for college, Mrs. Powell hadn’t changed her boy’s room. Instead of sports figures or rock bands, the framed shots on Taylor’s wall were beach scenes and inspirational military posters.

A California king, his bed was too big for the small room but Taylor had hit six-two in his midteens, so Mrs. Powell had probably been thinking of her son’s height. Cat, however, thought of all sorts of things when she saw Taylor’s bed.

Picturing him lying there, his blue eyes bright as he reached out to touch her. His fingers would be a little rough when they skimmed under her shirt, sliding along her skin. He’d smile, that crooked grin of his making his dimple wink when he stripped her naked.

Cat ran her hand over the denim bedspread then, with her eyes closed, sat. Her cheeks tingled with heat but she still gave the bed a little bounce. She’d been doing this since she was seventeen and had started doing repairs for Mrs. Powell. Sneaking into Taylor’s room when nobody was home, bouncing on his bed.

She justified it by accepting that this was the closest she’d ever get to bouncing on Taylor himself.

Laughing at herself, Cat gave one last bounce on the trim blue spread before jumping to her feet and crossing the room. Before she grabbed her tote, though, she took a trip through Taylor’s past via the scarred bookcase next to the door.

Trophies for everything from track and field to shooting to debate. Framed photos of Taylor and his mom over the years. Adorable at twelve in his Sea Scout uniform. Sexy at sixteen with his first car, a beat-up Chevy. Hotter than hell a dozen years ago at his high school graduation; Leda’s smile wide enough to crack her face. And Taylor in Navy whites. Cat sighed, tracing her finger over the image of that gorgeous face. His brown hair shorn so short that those big blue eyes looked huge in his serious face. It was the only photo that didn’t feature his crookedly sexy grin.

Cat sighed. Then, rolling her eyes at the silliness of her crush, reached down to grab her tote. Time to get to work.

Leda wanted the drip fixed in the bathroom sink and the broken tile by the tub replaced. So Cat pulled out her pipe wrench and started work. And if she let her imagination roam to dreaming about Taylor naked in that shower, hot water spraying over his muscular body, dripping down that hard flesh, so what?

It just proved how good she was at her job, multitasking while on the verge of a climax.

* * *

“LIEUTENANT POWELL, DO you have anything to add to your report?”

“No, sir.” Taylor stood at attention, back straight, chin high and eyes straight ahead.

He felt the stares of the chief warrant officer, of the captain, of the O5 from Naval Intelligence. He heard papers rustling, the click of the keys as someone took notes.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been called in for a personal debriefing. It wouldn’t be the last. That didn’t make it any easier.

No question about it, life was ugly.

Sometimes his part in it made it better.

Sometimes it made it uglier.

Taylor accepted that.

Debriefings only put a spotlight on the good, on the ugly.

“Lieutenant, you engaged with a minor subject. You left said subject for dead, is that correct?”

Still at attention, Taylor didn’t spare a look for the NI weasel. But he did take great pleasure in mentally flipping the guy the bird.

“The enemy was armed,” he repeated. Again. This time he added, “Said enemy had a finger on the trigger and one of my teammates in the crosshairs. According to intelligence provided by NI, everyone inside the installation was to be considered a terrorist. Standard—”

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” the captain interrupted. “You’re not here to justify following orders or for doing an exemplary job.”

Right.

Even though it felt like it.

But Taylor was too well trained to let his thoughts, or his dislike of the NI weasel, show.

“I’m not concerned with justification,” the weasel said. “Lieutenant, given the severity of what you faced, have you requested a medical exam?”

“I wasn’t injured. Sir.” Since it was his only option for expressing his opinion of that idea, Taylor snapped out the sir with as much disgust as he could.

“And if you were ordered to report to NCCOSC?”

Damn and double damn. No way Taylor wanted to deal with the Naval Center for Combat & Operational Stress Control. He didn’t deny that they did some good, but he didn’t need it.

All he said was, “I follow orders. Sir.”

Without looking, he could tell the guy wasn’t done. But once again, the captain interrupted.

“That’ll be all, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

Without hesitation, Taylor turned heel and strode out. He didn’t breathe until he’d cleared the room, shut the door.

He let his shoulders relax, yanking off his cover. He smacked it on his thigh then slapped it back on his head, tugging the brim low.

With a brief nod to the officer manning the desk, Taylor double-stepped it into the hallway. He didn’t make it two feet before he was hailed by his commanding officer.

“Yo, Wizard.”

“Sir.” Taylor gave Irish an easy nod before tilting his head toward the door at the end of the corridor. “I’m done here. So I’m officially on leave now, right?”

Taylor waited for Irish to do him a favor and dismiss him. But after a long stare, instead of nodding Taylor away, the commander pointed at one of the wooden chairs lining the hall.

“Not quite yet.”

“Another debriefing?”

“Nah. Just a little guy talk and a friendly warning.”

The tone as much as the words themselves told Taylor that he didn’t have to stand on ceremony. He grabbed a chair, flipped it around and straddled it, using the back of his hand to shove his brim up so he had a clear view.

“Talk.”

Irish, in uniform, doffed his hat and sat opposite, leaning his elbows on his thighs.

“NI is on a fishing expedition. You know it. I know it. The brass knows it. So I’m not going to bother pointing it out.”

“I appreciate you not mentioning it.” Taylor’s lips wanted to twitch but he was a strong man. He kept control of them.

“I’m a good guy that way.” Irish shrugged.

“That’s what I always say.” Taylor waited for the laugh, but Irish’s face didn’t budge.

That’s when he remembered the friendly warning part of Irish’s comment.

Crap.

He waited.

Irish looked down the hallway to the left.

Then he looked to the right.

Taylor just looked at him.

When Irish looked back, he tilted his head toward the office Taylor had just left.

“The NI ass-hat has an agenda.”

“Besides SEAL baiting?” Taylor murmured, thinking back on the debriefing. To the leading questions, to the pointed use of information. “They gonna institute post-operative health checks?”

“Not sure.” Irish glanced toward the door then shrugged. “I don’t think NI is looking for anything that simple.”

Taylor didn’t, either.

Considering what that meant, they were both silent for a moment.

“So that was the friendly warning?”

“Nope.” Irish shook his head. “We’ve got a para-dive training operation coming up. We’ll be operating out of Coronado. So if you have any projects you wanna take on, now’s the time.” After a beat he continued. “Or if you need downtime, more than a few days’ leave, it’s good timing.”

Damn.

Was he that obvious?

No, he realized, he wasn’t obvious. Irish had been on the mission. So he was likely on the same page.

Taylor stared at his boots, letting his mind empty of everything but the feeling of support from his commander. By extension, from his team. They were trained to have each other’s backs in battle, to know that they were covered on a mission, that they always had support. But knowing it extended to everyday life, to the ugly and beyond...

“I’m fine,” Taylor said again. But this time he meant it. “All I need is a little time, a little distance. I’ve got the next few days’ leave. I don’t need more than that.”

“Good enough.”

Standing, they shook and turned their separate ways.

All of a sudden Taylor stopped and turned around.

“Yo, Irish?”

The commander stopped walking and glanced back over his shoulder. “The friendly warning?” Irish grinned. “You’re on shaky ground with the ladies. They figure you lied about your date, that you’ll show with a bimbo du jour instead.”

“Seriously?” With a huffing sort of a laugh, Taylor shook his head. “Don’t the women have anything better to do than worry about my sex life?”

“They couldn’t care less about your sex life. It’s your love life they’re interested in.” Irish patted one hand to his heart. “Such potential, so much to offer. You’re being wasted, you know. It’s a crying shame.”

Shit.

“I’ll figure it out,” was all he said, though.

An hour later he’d put the mission effects, the ass-hat, the matchmakers and the debriefing out of his head. Nobody looking at him would see a SEAL, lonely hearted or otherwise. All they’d see was a man in a leather jacket and worn jeans flying by on a tricked-out Harley.

Taylor loved what he did.

His life was his career. Being a SEAL was who he was. What he was. All he wanted.

But sometimes it sucked.

Fury, pain and misery all balanced on a knife’s edge. If they tilted one way or the other, he knew he’d lose it. And lose it in an ugly way.

The wind pounding against him loud enough to drown out the sound of his Harley, Taylor raced along SR 75. He barely noticed the beach, the other cars, the time. Instead, he focused on the speed. On the feel of the motor roaring beneath him. On nothing.

Right now, all he wanted to think about was nothing.

It might have been an hour later, it might have been five. But by the time the sun was down, the nasty edge was gone. He didn’t care where or when, he just knew he’d left it behind somewhere.

Without thinking, without questioning it, Taylor got off the highway, downshifting as he maneuvered his way through his old neighborhood. A part of him always expected to ride into a hazy circle of shimmering smoke. The kind that sci-fi movies always showed when someone flew back through time.

Suburbia, USA, with its tidy, tailored lawns lining rows of tidy tailored houses behind sidewalks that hosted kids on bikes, dogs on leashes and a few power-walking octogenarians. It looked the same now as it had back when Taylor had been one of those biking kids. Sure, the Chos had moved five years back, but the Pereses were still across the street. Mike Barnes had moved to Connecticut but his parents still lived on the corner.

Taylor pulled his bike into the driveway and cut the engine. On his way to the front door, he lifted his hand to Mr. Blaine when the old man waved from his front porch.

Home.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

There was no place like it.

“Yo,” he called out as the door swung shut behind him. “Ma?”

He heard a thump then a muffled bang, but no response.

“Ma?” His long legs ate up the stairs, two by two as he did a quick mental review of his last CPR certification, tried to remember if his mother was on any meds and scanned his brain for the nearest location of her HMO.

He barreled past his childhood bedroom and skidded into the doorway of his mother’s bedroom. Even as a quick glance assured him it was empty, he heard another thump coming from the hall bathroom. But this one was accompanied by cussing.

Very female, very un-motherly cussing.

In a blink his tension dissipated, his worry faded.

He knew that cussing.

When the next round included anatomically incorrect suggestions with farm animals, he grinned. Yeah. He knew that cussing really well.

Hands in the front pockets of his jeans, he sauntered down the hall. Stopping in the bathroom door, he paused for a second to smile in appreciation of the sweetly curved ass encased in denim so worn it was white at the seams and had a hole starting just above the back pocket.

The legs were about a mile long. The kind of legs that went beyond wrapping around a guy’s waist. Legs that long would reach his shoulders.

He almost groaned when his eyes reached a pair of black leather boots similar to the ones he wore on duty. Was there anything sexier than legs like that in black boots? Sure, knee-high black boots with a little shine and skinny laces would be hotter, but boots were boots.

“Hellooo,” he murmured.

“What?” The hips moved, the back arched and the owner of those sexy legs lifted her head so fast he heard it hit something under the sink. Cussing again, this time with more heat, the body did a quick one-eighty. Sitting on the floor, rubbing her head, the woman glared at him with enough heat to start a fire.

“Taylor?”

“Cat?” he said at the same time. He automatically started to reach out and help her to her feet, but at the last second couldn’t. Touching her so soon after that image of her legs wrapped over his shoulders didn’t seem like a smart idea.

When the hell had Kitty Cat gotten hot?

Unable to resist, his gaze took a follow-up tour of the front view. Her hair, too gold to be brown, too dark to be blond, was tied back, highlighting a face too strong to be called pretty. Eyes the color of the ocean at sunset stared back under sharply arched brows. The rounded cheeks, a slight upper bite and the scar on her chin were all familiar.

The way her faded green T cupped her breasts was new, as was the sweetly gentle slide from breast to waist to hip where the T met denim.

Oh, yeah. Kitty Cat was definitely hot.

“Hey there, Mr. Wizard,” Cat greeted after checking her fingers to see if her head was bleeding. “How’s Mrs. Powell’s pride and joy?”

“As good as ever. How about the Kitty Cat? How’re you doing?”

“Same ole, same ole,” Cat said with a shrug that did interesting things to that T-shirt of hers.

Things he had no business noticing.

Locking his eyes on her face, Taylor asked, “Where’s Ma?”

“She’s with my mother. They’re on another one of their wild trips to Vegas.” Cat tossed the pipe wrench into her toolbox, the loud clang knocking loose the last of Taylor’s odd and inappropriate lust. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“I’ve been out of the country.”

“Saving the world again?” Cat teased, getting to her feet. “Did you come home to wash your cape and tights?”

Taylor grinned.

There she was, the cute kid across the street again. She’d been making superhero jokes since he’d earned his SEAL trident.

“Gotta do my part,” he said easily. “But all that superhero stuff works up an appetite. I figured I’d cop a meal from Ma. You know, some home-cooked goodness.”

As he’d told Irish, all he needed was a little time, a little distance. And home.

Throw in his buddy Cat and his mom’s cooking and everything in life was just fine.

* * *

HE LOOKED SO damned yummy.

For the first time in her life Cat wished she could cook more than her soup, salad and sandwich trilogy. For Taylor, she might actually consider throwing away her hard-and-fast rule about never playing the little woman.

Maybe.

If only for a weekend.

Thankfully, her lack of kitchen skills meant she didn’t have to face tossing aside her principles. Instead, she could order pizza.

“You sticking around for a while?”

“Yeah.” Grinning at the surprise on her face, Taylor reached out to tug at a long strand of hair that’d escaped her braid when she’d been checking her head for damage. “Why not? I’ve got a bed here. I’m sure there’s lasagna in the freezer and Ma has ESPN.”

“Sure,” she said, laughing. “You’re going to hang here alone, eating leftovers and watching sports instead of hitting the town with a hot date? You know, celebrating yet another successful mission.”

He shrugged, but Cat saw something flash behind his eyes. Was that pain? Before she could get a closer look, his cell phone chimed.

“Problem?” Cat asked when he frowned at the message.

“Maybe.” He stared at his phone for another second then thumbed it off.

“Can I help?” she offered automatically.