Daring Her SEAL (3 page)

He leaned against the edge of her desk and fished an envelope out of his jacket. “We're married. Read for yourself.”

She opened it and pulled out a fancy-schmancy certificate with black calligraphy and plenty of gold foil. Once upon a time, the thing had probably been elegant as hell, but now it was full of creases from repeated folding. Hot sauce decorated one corner. Obviously, whatever it was, he highly valued it.
Not.

The letter was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Brandon and she got a bad, bad feeling in her stomach. “This is dated three weeks ago.”

He shrugged. “I was in a foxhole. The postal service doesn't deliver out there.”

She read on and froze. “How can we possibly be married?”

“I imagine it was that part where the minister asked us if we ‘did.' Shoulda lied, babe.”

“That was a fake ceremony.” She set the papers on her desk. Levi had to be joking for some sick, twisted, unfathomable reason. They couldn't be
married
. They were the two least compatible people on the planet, not to mention she'd sworn off marriage after watching her parents' union explode so spectacularly.

And if those weren't good enough reasons, she had a performance review in four weeks, and a congressional hearing to attend in two. She'd blown the whistle on a team of DEA agents who'd treated their Central American posting as party central under the mistaken assumption that they could do whatever they wanted with impunity, so it definitely wouldn't look good if it came out that she'd been involved in a fake wedding ceremony in Belize. A ceremony where the
real
bride and groom were supposed to be a notorious drug kingpin and his girlfriend, but they'd been a no-show because they'd been arrested and carted out to international waters by an undercover SEAL team. She could practically see the headlines now: DEA Agent Is Wedding Proxy for Drug Lord.

Levi lifted his broad shoulders in another shrug. “Apparently, the minister didn't get the memo and someone in the registry department agrees with him—and sent us that commemorative piece of paper.”

“It has to be a prank.” God knew, the SEALs loved a good joke. This one seemed kind of elaborate, but sometimes the guys had too much thinking time on their hands. “Did you call the registry department and verify this? Or do you believe anything someone writes on a piece of paper?”

“The registry department,” Levi said tightly, “apparently had a close encounter with a tropical rainstorm two weeks ago. Most of the roof went and the filing system took a direct hit. No one is answering the phones because half the staff is on leave while the government rebuilds. The half of the staff that is still working has neither the time nor the inclination to wade through thousands of waterlogged pieces of paper looking for a certificate that might or might not be there.”

Ouch.

“Since it's easy to blow someone off when there's two thousand miles between you and them, I planned on going down there since I had some leave coming to me,” Levi continued. “Because I assumed you'd want this taken care of.”

For once, she had to agree with him. “If this is true, I want a divorce.”

Immediately.
How fast could you get divorced in Belize?

“I wasn't looking for a life sentence, either.”

No. It had to be a fake, a joke, anything other than real. “We can't possibly be married. Whatever you did, fix it.” She slapped the papers against his chest.

“How is this
my
fault?” He got that stubborn, badass look on his face, but to hell with him. He didn't scare her and she was tired of his crap.

“You're here. You're the one telling me we're married. Prove it to me.”

He yanked the hem of his T-shirt up, revealing flat abs and, God, a perfect six-pack. “You want to skip straight to the honeymoon? Good idea.”

* * *

“Y
OU
PIG
. D
O
NOT
get naked in my office.” Ashley pokered up the second he flashed her.

Ice queen didn't like his approach? Too damn bad.

She didn't get to tell him what to do. This mess wasn't his fault. Of course, if he was being honest, it wasn't hers either, but he didn't feel like being fair right now. Hell, he'd just discovered that he was married to a woman who wanted to murder him. It hadn't been a good week.

He leaned in and delivered his ultimatum. “Put in for vacation time, because we need to go down there and sort it out.”

If looks could kill, he'd be dead, planted and decaying. Vacationing with him was apparently
not
on her bucket list, but she'd just have to get over it. If he had to deal with this, so did she.

“It can't be legal. We didn't fill out an application or sign anything. This isn't my fault.”

And that automatically made it his?

“You can't make me go,” she continued petulantly. Fighting words. Yeah...she was pissed off, all right. He entertained the idea of unloading her gun, but he wasn't suicidal.

“I think I can.” He knew the look she got when she was thinking about taking him out, and chances were his teammates had been right. Given the right opportunity, she'd skip the annulment and go straight for the kill shot.

“Really?” She drawled the question and his blood pressure soared. “Walk me through it, big guy.”

Jesus. Maybe, just once, she could lay off the sarcasm and admit that he was right. It wasn't even like he
wanted
to be right about their just-married status. He'd have been deliriously happy to find out he'd been mistaken. “I'm not the one who has something to lose.”

She smiled and, okay, it was probably wrong that the mean look she got right before she went after him turned him on so much. He had a kink in his think that he should work on. Later. After he was single again. “Did you ask permission of your commanding officer before you went and got yourself married on a mission?”

“Nope, but I'm thinking the worst I get is an ass-chewing for being dumb enough to stand in for the groom.” His unit had already made it clear they'd never let him live the marriage down. They'd started calling him Wedding Ken and one wiseass had bought him a pair of matching his-and-hers ring pops. “But I can go out and announce to all of your colleagues that we're married.”

She didn't back down. “Awkward, but I'll live.”

One of the useful things about Ashley was that she froze when she lied. She probably didn't realize that she stilled, as if all of the brain cells in that downright enormous brain of hers diverted to creative thinking and forgot to keep her body in motion. The way she'd stopped moving when she'd dismissed his threat screamed concern. All he needed to do was push a wee bit harder and she'd be on that plane with him.

“I'll give them all the details, Dixon. With
photos.
You in a white bikini with
BRIDE
bedazzled over your perky little ass.”

“You wore matching swim trunks,” she pointed out, her magnificent boobs rising and falling as her temper picked up steam. The top button on her blouse was in serious danger of blowing, a development that he'd enjoy as he had nothing but admiration for her breasts, but she'd care. Maybe he'd let her know. In a minute. Or six.

“I passed your HR department on the way in.” He grinned, keeping half an eye on that button. “Shall I plan on making a pit stop there...?”

“What are they going to do? Throw me a bridal shower?” The button didn't budge, damn it, but a mocking smile curved her lips. Kissing the smirk away became his new plan B.

“After I pay a visit to Human Resources, you'll be drowning in paperwork. I'll be on your life insurance, your 401K beneficiary form, and your DNR. You'll spend
years
untangling our lives. Plus, it's not like we eloped to Vegas on our downtime. We got hitched on a tropical island that promotes kinky sex.”

She treated him to another eye roll. “I'm trying not to remember that part.”

Then she was going to love what he had to say next.

“I read the news this morning. The DEA is in the middle of a sex scandal, babe, and some of your agents in a South American country that shall not be named? They liked to attend cartel-sponsored sex parties and Fantasy Island won't look good in that light. When you take the stand in the Marcos case in two weeks, the defense lawyer will have a field day with you.”

He watched her gorgeous face as she chewed his words over. If Marcos's lawyer found out she and Levi had gotten married on a tropical island known for sex games, the headlines wouldn't be good. At best, her reputation would be shot. At worst, she'd be looking at a demotion or getting fired.

“You'd get in trouble too,” she countered. Right. They'd covered his lack of permission from a superior officer—and his lack of concern. His wasn't a career-ending move even if Command wouldn't be thrilled. He hadn't been on leave and he sure hadn't asked permission—but he also hadn't thought he was really tying the knot.

“And I'll get a slap on the wrist. You want to risk your next promotion? Because I heard you had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that you're over the moon about.”

“This is blackmail.”

He shrugged. Having had some experience with skirting the grayer edges of the law, he knew better than to admit anything out loud.

“You're willing to commit a felony to force me to accompany you?” Her voice rose, and the button on her blouse slipped further.

In answer, he blew her a kiss.

“You suck,” she bit out.

“One hundred percent, babe.” He definitely had her now. “I get the pleasure of your company for one week on Fantasy Island. You get radio silence about why we're headed out there and a bonus vacation at a swank resort.”

“Two things.” She held up a finger. “One, I always get even.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Two, blow my credibility with my team, and I
will
kill you.”

“Hey, you want me to go away.” Christ, she'd felt good pinned beneath him. Marriage didn't have to be all bad. “Well, in order for that to happen, you got to give me something, starting with a divorce. You're coming with me, babe,” he said, because he loved needling her and damned if this wasn't the first time in a long time he'd come out the clear winner in their battle of wits. Fighting with Dixon was tricky business.

She slammed her head against the back of her chair, fingers digging into the armrest. “Fuck.”

He winked at her. “Only if you ask nicely.”

3

F
ANTASY
I
SLAND
LOOKED
GOOD
. Or maybe that was Ashley's unwilling company.

Ashley had pointedly ignored him on their flight from Virginia to Belize. They'd hitched a ride on a military carrier, so it hadn't been the kind of flight with peanuts and mile-high sex, which was too bad. She looked even better than the island, although he wasn't stupid enough to say that out loud with any degree of sincerity. She still wanted his head on a platter for the we're-married-for-real revelation he'd laid on her in Quantico. And, yeah, she was also sore about his making her come down to Belize. Too bad for her, because he liked pushing her buttons. She was cute as hell when she got mad.

She'd braided her hair back in a no-nonsense twist. The severe do, combined with her white T-shirt and khaki flight suit, shouldn't have been sexy. Unfortunately for him, he appeared to find everything about her attractive. She was like fire and he couldn't
not
touch.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this kind of curiosity about anything, but he felt it in spades around Ashley and never mind that dragging her out here topped the list of stupid things he'd done in his lifetime. Sure, he probably could have handled all this himself via a couple of quick phone calls—even if the registry department was waterlogged and
sans
roof—but what fun would have
that
been? So, instead, he'd blackmailed her onto the military transport and then called in a few favors for a helicopter to make the hop from Belize City to Fantasy Island. He must have left his brain in his last foxhole or stood too close to a mortar round. That was the only explanation.

As soon as the bird hit the landing pad and the rotors stopped, Ashley was out and striding down the path. She hadn't even bothered grabbing her bag. He knew she didn't want to be here, but he hadn't realized she'd literally be running to check out their marriage ceremony. She was breaking all known speed records for tracking down a divorce and he didn't think it was because she only had a week's vacation time to spend on the island.

“You left your stuff,” he hollered after her, ignoring the resort staff already moving in to grab their duffels. Problem solved, although he usually preferred to handle his own gear, and not just because he usually packed ammo instead of swim trunks.

She tossed him a saucy look over her shoulder. “Make yourself useful, Brandon.”

“You want me to be your porter?” Like that was happening.

Screw it. He grabbed his own bag and hoofed it after her. He'd keep his stuff where he could see it, especially since he had a Glock and a few other toys cozied up with his skivvies. Fantasy Island should be safe as Fort Knox, but he hadn't survived this long by taking chances. He owed Ashley that much, at least. The helicopter started back up. Guess their pilot wasn't planning on sticking around.

She was already halfway down the path, speed walking as if she was competing for gold. Or maybe she just wanted to beat him to the front desk. Didn't matter. She could win all the minor skirmishes she wanted, but he'd won their war. She was here. He fell in beside her.

“You're a bad penny,” she announced, not taking her gaze off the path in front of her. It was getting close to sunset, and the sunlight was filtering through the palm trees. Monkeys chattered away overhead, and the birds yelled back. Kind of like him and Dixon really. Plenty of noise but no real conversation.

He shot her a grin. “I do keep turning up, don't I?”

“What?” She gave him a hard look and he figured she was seconds away from elbowing him.

“Just thinking aloud,” he said, because that was the truth. “So you think they got the bloodstains out of the gravel yet?”

They both looked at the road where they'd taken down Marcos. Everything seemed normal.

Ashley didn't stop her mad dash for freedom. “You'd better hope
they
don't remember your pretty face or connect it with the disappearance of the Marcos bridal party.”

He honestly didn't expect it to be an issue. The staff had been rotated out since their last covert visit and people tended to see what they wanted to see anyhow.

When they made it to reception, naturally Ashley wasn't done fighting him. Since he'd booked the reservation, he ponied up his credit card—and she promptly whipped out hers. While they argued over who got the privilege of paying the bill, the stuffy guy at the front desk shoved wet towels and champagne drinks with ridiculous red cherries in their direction, as if cotton and alcohol could fix their relationship problems.

Not a chance in hell.

And honestly? It kind of bothered him that Ashley wouldn't let him take care of her. Fantasy Island's room rates were sky-high, and he didn't know if she had that kind of cash. He'd planned on blackmailing her—not bleeding her dry.

“You embarrassed the check-in guy,” he pointed out when they were finally being whisked away to their villa in a golf cart. Stuffy Guy had eventually stepped in and solved the argument by taking
both
their credit cards.

She gave him the look he'd decided to christen Code Yellow. If it worked for Homeland Security, it worked for him. She wasn't ready to shove him out of the moving vehicle (Code Orange) or shoot him with his own weapon (Code Red), but neither was she volunteering to strip naked and fulfill all his sexual fantasies (Code Green). “We're going to have one of those modern marriages, where everybody pulls his or her own weight. Got it?”

Somehow, he didn't think that was really a question. “I made you come down here. I pay.”

“It's not that simple, Brandon.”

“Maybe you should call me Mr. Brandon. We could take the nineteenth century approach to our marital union.” He kind of liked the sound of that but she huffed in response and drilled holes into the back of their driver's head.

“Actually, I'm gonna call you Blackmailing Bastard,” she announced. The driver clearly didn't care for their hostilities, because the golf cart hurtled along the path as though it was shooting for liftoff. Guess the guy wanted to dump them ASAP and Levi could hardly blame him.

When they reached the villa, Ashley bounded ahead while Levi grabbed the bags and discreetly tipped their driver. He had no idea how come his charming bride hadn't cut
that
sexist gesture off at the pass, but he'd take it. As soon as he stepped inside, he spotted the enormous gift basket parked in the middle of a rose-covered bed. A single, really large bed.

Damn it. He hadn't had the best of connections when he'd called the resort to book a last-minute room. Apparently, the words
married
and
recently
had gotten mistranslated along the way into
I want hot sex in the honeymoon suite
.

Ordinarily, he'd have been fine with the misunderstanding—he had no problem with a little opportunistic sex—but this was Dixon
.
Having actual intercourse with her was as likely as peace in the Middle East or the zombie apocalypse. They'd have to compromise, however, and hopefully she wasn't a bed hog, because given what this place was costing him, he was
not
sleeping on the daybed, the floor or anyplace else that didn't offer a million-dollar mattress.

“Someone thinks we're on our honeymoon.” She poked the basket and he had no idea how to interpret the strange look on her face. Ashley being Ashley, though, he figured she'd tell him exactly what she was thinking and then follow it up with multistep directions on how to do exactly what she wanted.

“Technically not wrong,” he pointed out. “What did we score?”

She smiled. Slowly. Yeah, he might be newly married but he already knew he was in trouble here—and that was before she started pulling stuff out of the gift basket as if she was unloading cans of Campbell's from a grocery bag.

“We've got edible panties. Edible boxers.” She arched an eyebrow. “Which probably offers more calories than your average woman consumes in a day, so you'll excuse me if I'm not feeling hungry.”

She might not be, but he suddenly was. He dropped down onto the bed, shoving rose petals out of the way. “Are you playing show and tell?”

“You first.” She snorted. “Some of this stuff should come with directions or an operating manual.”

“Novice.” He flicked her knee with his fingers.

“Because you're an expert with—” she squinted “—chocolate body butter?”

Not yet, but he could be. Licking the stuff off Ashley's body suddenly didn't seem half bad.

“We also have a pair of his and hers nipple clamps.” She waved something around that looked like a medieval torture device in miniature. Or an eyelash curler. Apparently he
hadn't
seen everything in his bachelor days. “You could be a gentleman and volunteer to go first.”

“Not a chance in hell.” Not that he didn't like the mental image of him touching her nipples, but pain wasn't his thing. “Your boobs are too pretty to mark up.”

She made a face he'd seen a dozen times in the field. He razzed her and she gave it right back. “Flatterer. You just like me for my boobs.”

“And I'd like to keep mine in one piece,” he said, grimacing slightly. Contrary to what she seemed to believe, he actually did have limits. Plus he truly did like more about her than her lovely anatomy. She was a damned good agent. He respected the way she single-mindedly went after her targets and showed no mercy. She knew her way around a gun. And she didn't hesitate to get dirty. Really dirty. There were four good reasons right there to like Ashley.

“And here we have our pièce de résistance—” She pulled an enormous purple dildo out of the bottom of the basket. “Apparently the resort staff isn't sure there's enough of you to keep me happy and have thoughtfully provided us with Purple Monster. Catch.”

Karma was a bitch. Levi caught the dildo automatically, then looked at what he had in his hand. Yep. Twelve inches of battery-operated love machine. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Examined the toy again. It definitely merited a second glance because he was pretty sure fitting that much latex in anyone was an anatomical impossibility. Still, his brain did its best to imagine all sorts of scenarios involving Ashley, twelve inches of purple penis and himself.

“Enjoy,” she said wryly. “I'm going to get a drink at the bar.”

* * *

P
LENTY
OF
ADJECTIVES
described Levi. Infuriating came to mind. Along with stubborn, pain in her ass, aggravating, and...sexy. Her SEAL was hot. When he flashed her that devilish grin, she was torn between hitting him—and kissing him. Which was going to be her little secret. The look on his face when she'd tossed him that dildo had been pretty priceless. Too bad her phone had been across the room, because a picture of him holding the purple monster would have been ideal counter-blackmail material—which she needed desperately because he was a sneaky, conniving, underhanded bastard. He hadn't given her a choice about coming here, and that pissed her off. She wasn't his beck-and-call girl—or his wife, no matter what a piece of paper might say—and the faster he understood that, the better.

Fortunately, the bar was right where she'd left it on her last visit to Fantasy Island. Although her flight suit and boots weren't resort wear, she needed to get out of the villa.

Maybe she should head back to the front desk and see if she could score a second room, because putting some space between her and her irritatingly hot SEAL seemed prudent. Plus if he was going to insist on paying for their stay here, she had a golden opportunity for some good, old-fashioned revenge. She'd run up so many room charges that his credit card would demand a cease-fire. She could host an open bar and clean out the gift shop—if there was anything left to buy after all the welcome gifts that had been stockpiled for them in the room.

God. She couldn't hold back a laugh as she recalled his expression when she'd unpacked the basket. She'd half suspected that he'd ordered the stuff just to get a rise out of her, but the purple dildo had surprised him.

Not that she was usually into toys—and the twelve inches of that particular device were just
too
optimistic—but she could have been convinced.
No
. Bad libido. No convincing, no weakening, and
no
flirting with the enemy.

She'd gotten her boots off, her pants rolled up and her feet in the sand when Levi showed up a half hour later. Frankly, she was surprised he'd taken as long as he had. The man enjoyed torturing her and he definitely enjoyed a beer, so her presence at the resort's tiki bar was win-win for him. He was hard to miss where he stood in the bar's entrance, scanning the place for her. Six feet of hard, brawny SEAL made quite the impression.

And the way he sauntered across the bar toward her made her want to fan herself. The man was hot. He practically prowled, his movements powerful and self-assured as he came toward her. When he dropped onto the swing seat next to hers, the close-up was even better and since he hadn't opened his mouth yet? She could still enjoy the view. Almost immediately, he started whistling obnoxiously, his hip bumping hers every time he rocked his swing forward.

“Go away,” she said.

Naturally, he grinned and moved closer. Maybe she should try negative reinforcement. If she demanded he sit in her lap, would he run toward the opposite end of the island?

“Not feeling friendly?” He made a face and yanked the lime out of the longneck the bartender slid over the counter. He took a long pull, the muscles of his throat working. Not that she was staring or anything, but ignoring Levi just wasn't possible.

“I'm not in the mood for your shit,” she admitted.