Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) by Anne Marsh Page A

military—because not only do they defend our way of life, but they make damn fine-looking men. Although Ro’s no longer active duty, he’s still one hard-bodied son of a bitch. His broad shoulders fill my doorway and those legs of his could double as a national monument. It’s not just that he’s big—everywhere—it’s that he moves like a lethal weapon, all tight control and leashed power. If shit went down, he’d be right there between me and trouble, and that body of his promises that nothing and no one would touch me.
    “Wow,” Lilah whispers.
    Nope. She’s not wrong.
    If marriage were just a matter of looks, Ro and I would be hitched for the next sixty years or so. His looks aren’t open for debate. He’s hot. Worse, he’s hot in that real man way all the Hollywood pretty boys can’t quite manage. He prowls into the room with the confidence of a man who knows he can handle whatever life throws at him—likely because he’s survived far worse. War heroes don’t earn their stripes because they hug the couch. He has a small scar by the corner of his left eye, and his hands are battered.
    When we were newly weds, I pestered him until he sent me a picture of himself in uniform. He sent something that resembled a professional mug shot. He stared at the photographer, all clean shaven and remote in his Navy dress uniform. I emailed him back and suggested a do-over with a few buttons undone. Show some chest, maybe pose lying down. A gal can fantasize, right? He never wrote me back, which was the first of many clues that we were through. Today’s Ro is more casual. His worn jeans cling to his legs, outlining powerful thighs and practically begging me to ogle the poor man. He wears a faded Search and SEALs T-shirt and a pair of steel-toed work boots. His sunglasses are tucked into the neck of his shirt, and the thick dive watch on his wrist is the kind of hardware you could launch a nuclear war with.
    “Ladies.” He nods his head at us and then stands there. He’s not nervous or ill at ease. He’s going to wait me out, and there’s no way to hurry him or rile him up. He’s a fucking iceberg man.
    On the other hand? I like him so much better when he’s silent. Then we’re not fighting and I’m not feeling like shit because I’ve gotten it wrong, disappointed yet another person.
    He drops down beside me in a crouch. His thigh brushes my shoulder as he leans forward and runs his fingers over the stack of swatches. “Is this a bad time?”
    Lilah makes a choking sound. I don’t have to look at her to know her fingers are inching toward her camera. She totally wants to fire off a few shots.
    Ro’s already got her number, though. He looks at her. “No pictures.”
    He doesn’t make threats or explain consequences. He just utters those two words in a calm, authoritative voice and Lilah falls in line like one of those dogs he trains.
    She holds up her fingers and crosses them. “Pinky promise.”
    A reluctant grin tugs the corner of his mouth. I try to remember the last time I saw him smile. If I eliminate the moments immediately before, during, or after sex, smiling episodes were kind of few and far between. “Think that’s scout’s honor.”
    He reaches over and rearranges Lilah’s fingers, then hooks his own pinky around hers. “Deal,” he says simply.
    She looks at their intertwined fingers. “Crap.”
    “Yeah?” He lets go and sinks back onto his heels between us.
    “I don’t suppose you believe crossing your fingers behind your back negates a promise?” She sounds hopeful, which just proves that even the most efficient of Gal Fridays is capable of delusion.
    Naturally, he shakes his head. Ro lives and breathes by a very simple code of honor. He does what’s right, no matter what it costs. He’s always been willing to do that, and he never goes back on his word.
    “You’re out of luck,” I tell her.
    She sighs. “But he’s so fucking serious. It’s cute, Hindi.”
    “And he’s