Navy Seal To The Rescue

Lila’s stomach clenched when Corinne hesitated. Oh, she knew that hesitation.

“It must be the day for fathers. Did mine leave a message when he called?” she asked quietly. Knowing she was going to need a few moments to get herself together before meeting Rodriguez, Lila dropped onto a vivid pink bench in front of a surf club and waited.

“Three, actually,” Corinne said, her words tight with discomfort. “He’d like for you to return his call.”

“Like me to?”

“Well, more like he demanded that you call. He’s arranged a party at the navy base he expects you to attend. Some sort of celebration for your brother.” Corinne cleared her throat, then blew out a breath. “He said something about your duty to play hostess, expectations to the family name and, um, maybe something about snits.”

Oh, how she’d like to tell her father just where he could shove his snit. Lila had to grind her teeth tight to keep the words from spewing. But the main drag in a small Costa Rican town was hardly the place to mouth off.

“I’ll deal with it later,” she promised instead. “Right now, I have me a chef to woo.”

With that and a goodbye, she tucked her phone away and turned the corner toward Casa de Rico. Lila grimaced when she stopped in front of the restaurant. Heaps of trash spilled out of the alley beside the building, which probably accounted for the smell. The windows were slicked with the same dingy grime as the once-white exterior, giving the whole place a gray coating of neglect. The hand-lettered sign propped into the window claimed that Casa de Rico was open for business, but the silence pouring from the open door didn’t indicate that there were many takers.

She’d take that as a sign of management issues and not the chef, she decided, lips quirking. Which would make convincing Rodriguez to change employers all that much easier.

Still, the beachfront location was ideal. But Lila was pretty sure location and the views were the only things the Casa had going for it. The roof was patched in places, and the railing along the balcony so rusted that it reminded her of a rickety old lady wearing black lace. The landscaping was limited to a few scrubby bushes and, again, that beach view.

Which couldn’t be discounted, she had to admit. It was a pretty gorgeous view.

Wanting—needing—to absorb it a little more before she went inside to scope out her target in his natural atmosphere, she stepped around the side of the building and started down the wooden walkway. When she reached the soft sand, she stopped to step out of her kitten-heeled slides.

In the act of slipping off the second shoe, she had to grab on to the bleached wooden railing to keep her balance.

Because the view just got a whole lot more interesting.

A man stepped out of the surf, water sluicing off muscles that made her want to raise her hands in praise.

Hello, gorgeous, was all she could think.

Gorgeous, hot and sexy, all rolled into one very muscular, very intense package.

The guy was ripped. From his broad shoulders to his lean calves, he epitomized manly perfection. She knew she was staring, but she’d been raised to believe that a work of art deserved appreciation.

And oh, boy did she appreciate him.

Enough to offer a big smile as he slowly made his way across the sand to his towel.

Her lips twitched when he glared in return.

She was too amused to take offense.

As a woman who’d garnered plenty of ogling over the years, she supposed she could understand his reaction. And while it wasn’t like she’d strolled down and grabbed herself a handful of his undeniably pinchable butt, she’d definitely fantasize about licking those drops of water off his flat belly.

But it was lunchtime, and as yummy as he looked, the guy obviously wasn’t on the menu. And she had a job to do.

But her gaze—as unwilling to leave as the rest of her—lingered for a few more seconds. She’d never seen a more visually appealing man. Or, she acknowledged, her eyes flicking over his scowl again, a more discouraging one.

Ah, well, she decided with a philosophical sigh.

At least she’d gotten to enjoy the view.

* * *

Sun, surf and sex.

Once upon a time, Travis Hawkins would have called that heaven.

Now?

Now, he was convinced it was hell.

He strode out of the silken warmth of the Caribbean, his feet sinking in the wet sand. Wincing, he adjusted his stride when the sand turned to powder, taking the weight off his throbbing knee.

He noted the sexy little blonde standing on the edge of the beach. She’d poured her petite curves into a pair of white pants that stopped short of her ankles and a silky red tank that fluttered intriguingly in the light breeze. With her hair clipped up and back, he couldn’t tell its length, but he was imagining it was long. Mostly because he had a thing for long blond hair.

Just like he had a thing for confident women. He could tell this one was just that from the way she stood there, dangling her shoes from one hand while the other shaded her eyes. The better to check him out, he supposed. No harm there. He was checking right back.

And what he saw was intriguing.

But he wasn’t in the market to be intrigued.

He was in the market to decompress. To make decisions. To figure out the rest of his damned life.

Once upon a time, he’d take the blonde up on the obvious interest on her pixie-like face. He’d have strode on over for a little conversation, a little flirtation. He’d gauge the ground, assess the heat level and if it felt right, he’d have swept her off her sexy little feet and into his bed.

But his sweeping days were over. Hell, all the fun was over. Despite the multiple offers he’d gotten from locals and tourists alike, he wasn’t in Puerto Viejo to score.

Travis shifted his weight, carefully balancing on his left foot to ensure he didn’t land on his face when he bent over to grab a towel. Pain exploded away, a lightning bolt of misery spearing out from his knee to his hip, down to his toes.

For twelve years, he’d served his country. For ten years, he’d been a SEAL. He’d served with distinction, with honor, with dedication. He’d been welcomed into two different SEAL teams, where he’d played an integral role of dozens of successful missions.

He’d served through pain, sweat, challenge and terror.

He’d freaking loved every minute of it.

He scrubbed the towel over his face, sopping up the moisture pouring off his too-long hair.

One nasty storm, one bad jump from a plane taking a flaming nosedive into the ocean, and his career was over. He was finished.

Freaking finished.

Travis’s jaw worked as he glared at the sexy reminder of what he’d lost still looking his way. He deliberately turned away from the blond temptation to stare out at the ocean.

Medical discharge.

Was it ironic or tragic that the ocean he loved, the sea he served, had ended the career he’d revered?