A SEAL's Fantasy

“I don’t. I mean, not as a rule.” Lucas grimaced. “Just, you know, once in a while, to keep in practice. Like maybe when I know you’re doing something really dangerous. Just so I know to tell Ma to light an extra candle.”

Holy crap. Dominic shoved both hands through his short hair, the thick stubble scraping his palms. For one second he envied his teammates who didn’t have families. No nagging, no nosiness, no pain-in-the-butt interference.

“You get caught, you’re going to prison,” he finally said.

“I told you, I didn’t hack anything top secret. Nothing military, even.”

This time went unspoken.

“Then why are you claiming a mission went bad? Brody didn’t tell you that.”

“No, but he wouldn’t call at three in the morning to get Lotta’s number. I figured something was wrong, so I did some poking around.” When Dominic just glared, Lucas shrugged again. “You said something earlier about plenty of people speaking the language. Since the only ones you speak are English and Spanish, I pulled info on a few hot spots in Guatemala that might require specialized intervention.”

Pride and irritation surged in equal measures. It was a good thing Lucas was as honest as the day was long.

“You are a pain in my ass,” Dominic muttered. “That mission is top secret.”

Top secret. And still underway. He clenched his teeth against the stirring of the hair on the back of his neck, warning serious shit was going down. Brody was supposed to be in Guatemala right now, blowing the hell out of a drug lord’s compound, taking down his cartel and ending his reign of terror.

Not making phone calls in the middle of the night.

“When’s he calling back?”

“He didn’t say.”

Of course he didn’t.

“You okay?” Lucas stepped forward, looking concerned. He shot a glance at the big house, then back at Dominic. “Do you want me to do some more searching? See what happened?”

Lucas thought he could poke his digital fingers into a U.S. Navy SEAL operation. One that took place outside of the country, and was classified as a top-secret government mission. Dominic gave a halfhearted laugh, scrubbing his hands over his face. Likely big brother probably could. But that didn’t mean he was going to.

“No. I’ll wait.”

“Want breakfast?” Lucas jerked his head toward the house.

Appetite gone, Dominic shook his head. He’d take the call in private.

“I’ll check in later,” he said, pulling his helmet back on. Even though he was on private property, if he didn’t wear it, his mother would have a tizzy. He didn’t bother with the straps, though. Just kicked his bike to life and roared off. Three minutes later, he shoved open his cabin door, threw his leather coat over the back of a chair and strode into his bedroom.

Yep. There was his cell phone. Right where he said it was. He snagged it off the dresser, checking even though he knew there would be no message, nor a return number. He debated for two seconds.

As far as the Navy was concerned, he might be on leave, but Dominic knew he was now on duty. Whatever was going down would take his skill, his talent and his absolute attention. He’d been up all night, barely slept the one before. It wasn’t a part of his SEAL training that allowed him to sleep at will and awaken instantly, but his years in the Navy had honed that talent. He knew if the phone rang, he’d be immediately alert, even from the deepest sleep.

He didn’t even glance at the neatly made bed as he headed for the kitchen.

He grabbed a box of cereal, a quart of milk and a huge bowl.

It might not be pancakes, but it beat the hell out of field rations.

He was on his second helping when his cell lit up.

It didn’t finish the first ring before he had it to his ear.

“Castillo.”

“Trouble, Auntie,” Petty Officer Brody Lane said in a low growl. His use of Dominic’s call sign instead of his name made it clear this was military business. “You at home?”

“Yeah, took leave. No point sitting around like a pansy on light duty.”

“You up to handling a problem?”

Shit.

“Name it.”

“The Candy Man grabbed Sir.”

Son of a bitch.

Lieutenant Phillip Banks. Call sign Sir.

Dominic’s gut clenched, adrenaline rushing hard. His fist hit the wall before he even realized he’d lifted his hand. He didn’t have to like the guy to be furious. Furious and, yeah, a little scared. Part of training for the mission had been studying detailed information about the Candy Man, as Pedro Alvarez Valdero had been tagged by the team. The man was a cold-blooded sociopath, his morals as low as his ambition was high. He specialized in drugs, torture and various forms of corruption.

If he’d grabbed Banks, that meant the mission had failed. The team wouldn’t leave until they got the lieutenant back. And, of course, completed the mission.

“You want me to get him out?”

Brody’s laugh was a soft gust.

“We got that covered. It ain’t gonna be fast, though. While we deal, we need someone to defuse the repercussions.”

Repercussions. Dominic stood at the window, glaring out at the soft morning sun as it bounced off the trees. The Candy Man was known for forcing cooperation by kidnapping and torturing his victims’ family members.

“I thought Sir was repercussion-free,” Dominic said quietly. Not that he was close to the guy, but he was sure someone had said the guy’s parents had died, leaving him all alone with his uptight self.

“Tap your repercussions.”

Castillo Security? If searching out Banks’s family required those kind of resources, did Dominic really need to defuse the situation? Wouldn’t the team have Banks out before it was an issue?

A heartbeat later, Dominic closed his eyes and bit back a groan.

Yeah. It was already an issue or Brody wouldn’t have dropped the order.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Top priority.”

“Who do I report to?”

The silence was only broken by static.

Then the line went dead.

Dominic knew it wasn’t a bad connection.

It was Brody’s way of telling him they’d just crossed over into black-ops territory. This particular mission wasn’t sanctioned, hadn’t been green-lighted—or probably even heard of—by the powers that be.

If he got in trouble, he was on his own.

If he needed help, he’d have to find it himself.

And if he screwed up, he’d be tidily disciplined.

The military was funny that way.

Dominic dumped his bowl into the sink, only taking a second to rinse it. He knew Rosa would be by to clean before shutting the cabin up until his return, and dirty dishes pissed her off.

He grabbed his duffel, checked his wallet for cash and pulled his jacket back on. As he straddled the Harley, he punched a button on his phone.

“Lucas, I got a job for you.”

* * *

GLEAMING JUST AS brightly as the glittering curtains and glistening stage, Lara Banks stood tall. Shoulders back, chest out and chin high. Sequins decorated the lush curves of her breasts and her shimmering skin reflected the multicolored lights.

Turquoise feathers floating around her thighs matched the ones on her headdress, a vivid contrast with the fuchsia lamé bikini bottoms and the gloves that stretched from her fingertips to the elbows she held bent at a forty-five-degree angle to hold up the feather fan at just the right angle to contrast with the rest of the girls in the line.

The music’s tempo changed, and Lara swept the fan down to her knee. The vivid purple ostrich plumes tickled her bare flesh as she swished the fan high again and hitch kicked with the rest of the chorus line. She breathed through her nose, her cheeks stretched in a smile so wide her cheeks hurt. As hard as it was to dance in high platform heels, some nights her face ached more than her arches.

She could have taken a position farther back on the stage. She’d still have had to smile, but not as big. But stage left, smack-dab in front of the audience, meant she had to show not just her teeth, but a whole lot of enthusiasm. But the first position paid more, and the enthusiasm didn’t have to be real.

Once she’d loved dancing. It’d been her life, her everything. She’d reveled in the training and embraced the discipline it took to make the body move in ways to which it wasn’t naturally inclined. She’d donned her first tutu at three, tap shoes at eight and, dammit, a showgirl’s headdress at twenty-two.

She’d given up her childhood for dance. Dating, the mall with girlfriends, even proms had all been happily sacrificed for dance. When push came to shove, she’d chosen dancing over her family. Not that they cared. It’d been eight years since she’d had contact with any of them, and she still wasn’t sure if they’d noticed she was gone.

But life, being the big ole kick in the butt that it was, had made sure that all her passion, all her sacrifices hadn’t mattered. A car accident four years ago had resulted in a bad break of her left femur and the end of her stint on Broadway. Fate and its wicked sense of humor had followed that up by sending her Mr. Perfect. And he’d been just that...perfectly charming, perfectly seductive, perfectly reasonable when he’d convinced her to drain her savings account and run away with him to his casino in Reno, where she’d choreograph his latest headlining show. Talk about a break.

It’d only taken her a week and all but her last hundred to realize he’d been full of shit. Well, that and walking into the room of the hotel he’d claimed to own and finding all of her stuff—and him—gone, and the bill waiting under the door. The only things he’d owned were a great ass, a charming smile and a BMW.

She’d learned her lesson.

Don’t trust men. There was no such thing as a big break and when a pretty girl was broke, friendless and alone in Reno, almost every choice involved taking off her clothes.

She’d chosen to take hers off on stage wearing feathers and a ten-pound headdress, with twenty other women. And since she was a showgirl who only danced the early shows and not a principal, she only had to strip down to the equivalent of a sequined bikini.

It wasn’t Broadway.

But dance wasn’t her passion anymore, so she figured that evened out.

As she strutted along the edge of the stage, her gaze skimmed the audience with disinterested eyes. She couldn’t see past the front row, and most guys who ponied up the dough for up close and personal were card-carrying members of the pervert posse.

She found her mark, front stage left, shimmying in place while the principals gracefully mounted ribbon-covered swings, arching their topless bodies backward as the swings rose to sweep out over the crowd. Catcalls rang over the applause as the women shifted upward to dance on the slender bars of the swings.

One of the perverts jumped onto the stage and tried to grab a swing, coming away with just a handful of plastic flowers. The dancers didn’t miss a step as a burly man dressed in black wove through their still-kicking legs to grab the guy and haul him off the stage.

Lara barely resisted rolling her eyes as the security man dragged the idiot away. Then a movement in the front row caught her eye.

Her gaze shifted to the left.

Oh, my. A little breathless, and not from the dance steps, her smile dimmed a little.

He was gorgeous.

Dark, intense and emitting such a gimme vibe that she was grateful that the sequins of her bra kept her nipples from showing.

He was big. Big enough to loom over the guys in the seats around him.

He was sexy. The kind of sexy that made her knees weak and her tummy shake. The kind of sexy that made her want to promise anything, just for one taste.

But she’d learned the hard way that every bite, nibble or lick cost a girl. And there was nothing she was willing to pay anymore. The good times just weren’t that good.

Dance, she told herself.

Focus on the dance.

Next to her, Christi put in enough extra shimmy that the beaded fringe of her bra swung in circles. Lara was impressed. Used to working the late show, the statuesque blonde had a gift for swinging her pasties, but the costume top was a lot heavier than a tiny flap of fabric and a few dangling glitters.

Without thinking, Lara shifted her gaze to the sexy guy in the audience to see if he was impressed, too. But despite the blinding lights, she could tell his eyes were still locked on her. It was unnerving. Flattering. And one hell of a turn-on.

Let it go, she told herself. Thankfully, the music changed, and Lara led the chorus line in a swirling series of steps, upstage, then right, then back.

She’d seen plenty of gorgeous men in her time. Dancers didn’t have to be pretty, but many of them were. Especially the guys. Of course, most of them were only interested in the other pretty guys, but that was beside the point. They were still plenty hot.

So hot wasn’t worth wasting her thoughts on.

And sexy was pure trouble.

Now on the opposite side of the room, she felt safe looking at him again.

But oh, what a yummy mouthful of trouble he’d be.

It was probably the long, dry spell without sex that had her getting all wet and wild over a guy whose face she couldn’t even see clearly. Maybe she should break open her piggy bank and hit the toy store. An adult toy might take the edge off.

And, more importantly, keep her from thinking about doing anything stupid.

She had plenty to think about already. She had goals, big goals. Goals she was this close to making a reality. And those goals required every single one of her thoughts.

So, sorry, gorgeous guy. None for you.

2

“LARA!”

Half the women in the dressing room were nude, another quarter stripped to the waist, but nobody batted an eyelash at the lumpy grease spot of a guy standing in the doorway.

“What?” she answered, tightening the belt of her robe. Some of the other dancers smirked at modesty, but she didn’t care. For one, she figured her costume showed about as much of her body as she was willing to share with a bunch of people whose last names she didn’t even know. And two, Rudy had a habit of following up his impromptu visits with irritating attention. A lot of the women were cool with that, since his attention usually came with better dance roles.

But not Lara.

“You busy tonight?” he asked, leaning one bony shoulder against the door frame and staring past her at one of the blonde principals who was cleaning the rouge off her nipples.

“Why?”

“Dana called in sick,” Rudy muttered around a cheekful of tobacco. “You want her spot in the ten o’clock show?”

Lara grimaced. Her new textbooks had cost twice what she’d budgeted and rent was due in five days. The only way she was going to make it through this month was if she survived on ramen noodles and cold cereal for two weeks.

Of course, given the size of her costume, keeping the calorie count down wasn’t a bad thing. But she had class tonight. It was her last semester, which brought her within kissing distance of her goal. And nothing, not even affording fresh vegetables, got in the way of her goals.

“Thanks, but I can’t,” she said with just a hint of regret.

She’d survived on less for longer.

And, hopefully, she wouldn’t be worrying about barely making it paycheck to paycheck soon.

“Mistake,” Rudy said, his gaze cutting to her.

“What’re you doing in here?” Flo pushed past Rudy, cast a glance over the undressed state of her various dancers, then shoved the man out of the way. Once a dancer, now a stage mom, the statuesque redhead wore a beehive straight out of the fifties and blue eye shadow to match. “Get. I’ll report you to Roberto, you sneak in here one more time.”

“Didn’t sneak. Came in to offer Lara a spot at ten. She refused. Stupid.” He looked past Flo to give Lara a derisive look, then shook his head and walked out.

The door ricocheted as it slammed closed.

“He’s right.”

Lara glanced at the redhead, then shrugged. Apparently that wasn’t a good enough answer, because the older woman stomped over, shooing dancers out of the room as she came. By the time she reached Lara’s locker, half the room was empty and the rest were moving fast.

“I have plans,” Lara said before Flo could poke at her.

“How long have you been here?” Flo asked, paying more attention to the costume she was inspecting for tears than to the woman she was bitching out.

“Two years.”

“And you’re not principal yet?” Flo adjusted the costume on its hanger, then pushed it aside to check the next one. “You’re good. Better than most of the girls. You’ve got the moves, the talent. Your body is solid, sexy. Your looks stand out, even on stage.”

As uncomfortable with the compliment as she was with realizing that the women left in the room were listening, Lara just shrugged and grabbed her street clothes out of her locker.

“So why aren’t you headlining?”

“Maybe because I don’t want to?” Lara said, tugging on her thong, then yanking up her jeans.

Christi gave Lara a sympathetic pat, then scurried around Flo and headed for the door.

Lara grimaced. She wasn’t oblivious to the whispers that her answer caused. Nor was she blind to the expression of relief on more than one face. Dancers might put on the we’re-all-friends facade, but it was as false as their stage lashes. And usually just as brittle. The chorus went out for drinks together; some even roomed with each other. But every single one of them knew that it was every woman for herself. If stepping over one to get up the ladder was what it took, then watch your scalp for stiletto gouges.

“That’s the third time you’ve been offered extra. Rudy won’t be giving you too many more shots.”

Dammit.

Since Rudy wasn’t likely to make another appearance so soon, Lara didn’t hesitate to drop her robe. She pulled on her bra, the flowery lace stretching over her ample Ds as she slipped the satin straps up and snapped it closed. Unlike most of the women who were dressing, she didn’t bother to check her half-dressed appearance in the mirror. She knew her boobs were full and high. At twenty-four, she had no worries about drooping. Her stomach was flat, and since she didn’t have time to shower before class, it still shimmered with body glitter. Her long legs were poured into tight denim and as she pulled a light blue sweater over her head, the soft fabric draped and flowed to her hips.

“Roberto knows I need Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays off after eight,” she finally said. “I’ve got a commitment, and he’s fine with it. Rudy’s just playing a power game.”

“Roberto might be the choreographer,” Flo agreed, referring to the man in charge of the showgirls at the Silver Dust Casino, “but everyone knows that Rudy has plenty of power. Enough to trip you up if you aren’t careful.”

Balancing on one foot while she pulled on a knee-high stiletto boot, Lara sucked in a deep breath. She didn’t need Flo’s warning to know she was tiptoeing along the edge of blowing her job.

She’d run across plenty of Rudys in her days. She’d been dancing professionally since she was seventeen. Broadway in New York or casinos in Reno, it didn’t matter. There were always power-hungry egomaniacs with hard-ons out to screw you over.

She knew it didn’t matter if you were the best, if you were the brightest or if you had the most talent. She knew promises didn’t mean a thing and that trusting anyone was an invitation to be screwed over backward.

This was the third casino she’d danced at since being dumped here in Reno three years ago. But dammit, it was going to be her last.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, zipping her other boot, then grabbing her purse and backpack out of the locker before slamming it shut.

She gave Flo a smile, rare for being real, and shrugged.

“I know what I’m doing, and I’ll be fine,” she repeated. “I don’t play by any guy’s rules. Doesn’t matter how much power he thinks he has. He can’t mess with me.”

Two minutes later, Lara had to sigh and wonder why life always sent her words back to bite her. Did she flip life the bird and tempt fate? No. Did she ignore hard-learned lessons and traipse down the same stupid path time and time again? No, no, a million times no.

But life clearly didn’t trust her.

Lara walked down the long service hall toward the employee exit. The door was usually manned by a guard or two, big burly guys posted to keep the lowlifes away and make sure nobody played grab ass with the girls when they left.

Tonight the door had been left unguarded. And she was the only dancer leaving between shows.

Rudy might not be able to punish her officially for not taking his generous offer. But like petty men everywhere, he found a way to slap at her.

Message received.

And, she determined, her chin high, ignored.

She tugged her denim jacket on over the purse she’d draped from one shoulder to the opposite hip, automatically tucked her keys between her knuckles. She shoved the heavy door open.

She didn’t make it three steps before catching the attention of the creep cadre, as she had disdainfully dubbed the men who littered the back alley of the casino. Dealers, dopers and desperate losers gathered in clumps. A dozen sets of eyes cut to her, then over her shoulder to the empty doorway. The nasty smiles made her stomach knot. But only because dealing with the creeps might make her late. At least, that’s what she told herself. She wasn’t a fan of lying, but sometimes a little fib kept a girl from turning tail and running.

For every step she made, the creeps slinked one closer. Her fingers tightened around her keys while she shifted her backpack off her shoulder so it dropped to the crook of her elbow, better for swinging.

“Yo.”

Lara ignored the call just as she ignored the disgusting suggestions and lewd propositions. Her feet wanted to run, but she knew better. Jackals loved it when their prey showed fear.

“Lara Banks?”

She kept moving, her steps a little faster now. Twenty feet to the end of the alley and the road. Crowds, tourists, cops. She was almost there. Footsteps sounded like thunder as they came closer; the catcalls and rude comments were so loud now they echoed in her head.

Her breath hitching a little, she anchored her fist around the strap of her backpack and prepared to sprint to the end of the alley.

Before she made it three feet, a hand grabbed her shoulder.

Without thinking, Lara spun, swinging her pack with all her strength.

The only reaction the guy showed was a slight huff as it slammed into his belly.

She wouldn’t get any help from the creep cadre. They were more likely to pull out their cameras and film the attack.

Fist high and ready to scrap her keys across his face, Lara froze.

It was him.

The guy from the front row.

Her stomach did a slow, twirling sort of dive, leaving fear behind and coiling into a deep, intense lust.

He was even more gorgeous up close.

And he was a creep who accosted women in an alley, she reminded herself.

Figured.

* * *

WELL, WELL. APPARENTLY little sister Lara had gotten all the looks in the Banks family, Dominic decided. And all the style. She had the same mahogany hair and green eyes as her brother, but the resemblance stopped there.

Her hair was short, a wicked angle that highlighted sharp cheekbones and exotically long-lidded eyes. And her mouth...oh, baby. Her lips were full and rosy, erotic enough to put a porn star to shame. Of course, that impression might be the result of watching her strutting her incredibly sexy body onstage for an hour.

He dropped his gaze to take in that body up close. It was definitely one worth getting personal with. She was tall, in her heels just a few inches shorter than he was, with most of her height in those long, sleek legs. The kind of legs made to wrap around a man and take him for a wild ride. Her jacket obscured but didn’t hide the lush curves of her breasts. His fingers itched to move that denim aside and get a better look.