Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) Read Free Page A

a better chance of moving the island.
    “You’re late returning to the dive shop.”
    She bites her lip. Inhales. Exhales. It’s like she’s trying to torture me. Her bikini top slips further, and suddenly there’s way too much Marlee pressed against my bare chest. I should have left my T-shirt on.
    “Are you the repo man?” Of course she thinks Charlie’s worried about her returning the equipment—Marlee’s sense of self-esteem is seriously underdeveloped.
    “Apparently I’m your white knight.” I roll off her. There’s just enough room on her mini-island for me to lie next to her, although my feet are still in the water, and my head’s getting wet. We really should get going. She makes a small noise. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed, cheering my rescue plans on, or just clearing her throat. “Unless you want me to leave you here.”
    “No,” she says quickly. I probably should be offended that she thinks I’d actually abandon her, but at least it tells me that she’s unaware of my stalking sideline. If she knew how often I kept an eye on her, she’d know I’d never leave her.
    I give the rip another assessing look. From where I am, swimming through isn’t a good idea. I may be a former SEAL, but Marlee isn’t. Plus, she has to be tired after hours of paddleboarding. I sense her eyes on me as I examine her board. It’s definitely temporarily hosed—I pull out my duct tape and the knife and go to work.
    She sounds less pissed off now—maybe she’ll appreciate the rescue after all. “You carry all that stuff with you?”
    I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Comes in handy.”
    While she starts talking (and talking and talking) about how she ended up here, I tape her board back together. Then I set it in the water.
    “On.” I point to the board. “I’ll tow you to shore.”
    She doesn’t move. See, she’s trying to make herself say that she doesn’t need help. That she’s got this and she doesn’t need to put me out or inconvenience me. Since I’m already soaking wet and I’ve swum out here to get her, that’s bullshit and I’d rather get her back to the shore and safety. She can help me out by following orders.
    “On,” I repeat. “Unless you want to camp out here overnight?”
    She hesitates but does it. Marlee’s smart, and since she’s out of options, she’ll take my help. I adjust her grip on the board, slide into the water, grab the board’s leash, and kick off. We’re gonna have to swim parallel to the rip for about a quarter mile before I can bring us back to shore and my truck. Ten minutes—fifteen minutes tops—and she’ll be safe. By then, the sun will be all the way down, but my night vision is fine.
    “I’ll be shark patrol,” she announces, and I fight the urge to snort. Inhaling water won’t get her to shore any faster. Instead, I set a fast, hard pace, pulling us through the water with steady strokes. Lights from the occasional passing car flash through the palm trees crowding the beach, and it’s dark enough now that I can’t see the bottom anymore. I’ve swum in worse, though, so it’s no BFD.
    Marlee’s words wash over me, a stream of commentary on the water, the sunset, our relative position to shore, and the four hundred different (and unacceptable) reasons for how she ended up stranded on a shrinking island. I’m not one for small talk. If I don’t have anything to say, I’m silent. Marlee clearly takes a different approach to life. Since she also doesn’t seem to need a conversational contribution from me, I swim, she talks, and together we make our way to shore.
    “Oh, thank God,” she breathes when my feet hit bottom. I pull off my fins and wade for the beach, still towing the board with Marlee on it. Part of me is kind of disappointed that we’re done so fast. Apparently, a ten-minute swim is a new high in my admittedly pathetic dating life. I grunt noncommittally when she thanks the divine powers a second and then a third time,