SEALed With a Twist Read online

  And when he touched her…

  Lord, was she in trouble.

  It’d been that way since the night she’d slept with him. A night when she’d been given a glimpse of something she knew she’d never have again, not from any other man. And it wasn’t the orgasms or Grant’s physical prowess in bed. It was how he’d lifted her up and carried her away from her deepest humiliation, from a lifetime of being less than, and made her feel like the most important woman in the world.

  Treasured even.

  Precious.

  “It might’ve been a one-night stand for you, but waking up to find you gone killed me.”

  Grant’s shock at her words was no less than hers for having said them. He reared back liked she’d slapped him. “The hell you say.”

  But the gate had been breached and half a year of emotional trauma ripped out of her, raw and unrestrained. “That night—that was the worst night of my life. I was a joke, a punchline, and everyone at that bloody wedding knew it. So, yeah, tequila and the pool. If I was already publicly humiliated, best to make it really memorable.”

  “But then you were there, laughing like I was the best time you’d ever seen. You jumped in the pool and…plucked me up like I weighed nothing.” She latched onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. “Cripes, I’ve never known anyone as strong as you,” she mused, fingers tracing the lateral muscles that bunched under her touch. “You took me out of that…horror show and made it…” she sighed heavily, “so much better. And god, the sex was amazing. Don’t look so smug. I may not have a lot of experience, but even I know three orgasms in one night isn’t customary. And then you were gone.”

  She’d felt so ashamed and at the same time, so devastated by his absence. “After all that, you made me feel like some filthy cliché,” she said in a small voice. “I was fighting the first hangover of my life. Sick and…so very ashamed for...so many reasons. I had to get out of there before anyone saw me.” She bristled now, embarrassed at how naïve she’d been. “I get it now. I understand how such things work. But Grant, whether you meant to or not, you broke my heart.”

  The hand cradling her head slid around to cup her chin. “Skye,” he murmured. “I didn’t know.”

  Drained from her emotional purge, Skye merely nodded. “I know.”

  He struggled with something for a moment before exhaling hard. Releasing her, he scrubbed both hands over the scruff on his face and considered her over the tips of his fingers.

  “That night,” he began. He hesitated. “I—fuck—I was dealing with some shit too. Still am, for fuck’s sweet sake. You were blitzed. Totally shitfaced.” His face softened as if seeing her again. “And so beautiful. Stunning and tragic.”

  She winced at the description. “I sound irresistible.”

  “Utterly,” he said with simple sincerity. “And I—” His eyes clouded and he ducked his chin to gaze out toward the water. “I needed to forget for a while. I took advantage of that. I took advantage of you.”

  The admission cost him. More, she saw the memory of what had driven him then continued to claw at him. ““What happened to you?” she asked softly. When he didn’t answer, she risked pushing a bit more. “You’re different. You’ve changed.” Now he looked at her.

  “You come with me right now, back to the villa, and I’ll show you how much I haven’t.”

  She’d be lying if she said the idea didn’t tempt her. “Don’t do that,” she gently admonished. “Tell me what you wanted to forget that night. Tell me what haunts you.”

  “Tell me why you were drunk in that pool,” he countered. “Tell me what you’re hiding from now.”

  “Grant,” she said. Only his name, but it hung there between them, weighted with meaning that didn’t require articulation.

  “Let it go, Skye,” he demanded, brusque in a way that was meant to be obeyed.

  Unfazed, she tilted her head to catalog his nuances. To anyone looking, he probably came off cool and aloof. A seasoned warrior at rest, perusing the beach with watchful eyes, never fully off-duty, but enjoying the bright side of life.

  But all of it was a skillful mirage. The leveled lines of his shoulders remained locked tight, braced against whatever turmoil broiled right beneath his surface. His jaw was set, an acute angle that restrained some unholy impulse.

  Beneath all that was…pain. His beautiful irises were dull and flat, deadened by the damage he kept locked away. A knot twisted in her plexus, making her chest feel concave with empathy. She wanted to hold him close, overwhelmed by an instinctive urge to protect this man no one else seemed to notice was quietly falling apart.

  So Skye, with the lack of self-preservation no Thornquist breeding could fully wash out, led with her heart.

  “Something’s changed in you.” She tried for a smile but knew it was weak. “I can see it there, behind your eyes. You’re not hiding it from me; I think, for some reason, you’re not trying that hard to.”

  He started to reply, no doubt more assertions of how wrong she had him, but the alarm on her phone interrupted them. “Time to go,” she announced softly. “Mandy is treating me to a spa appointment.”

  She rolled onto her side and pushed against the yielding sand, feeling ungainly and awkward through the modified yoga pose that got her to her feet. Once steady, she gazed down at him, strong and imposing even posed at her feet, self-assured if strangely aloof.

  He stood in a rush with far more grace than she’d managed, as though the shifting sand was as solid beneath him as concrete.

  Annoying.

  Skye bent to gather her shorts and tee, pulling both on mechanically. Casting him a look from under her lashes, Skye searched her feelings, but they were too conflicted for her to settle on one. This was when being bold became uncomfortably risky. By the pool, in the dark of night, she could blame emotional trauma and the mistakes only the night would forgive. In bright sunshiny day, it was much harder to come up with excuses she could live with.

  “Stay safe, Grant,” she said, feeling lame but somehow as if it was the right thing to say.

  “If you can’t be safe, be fucking deadly,” he returned, then explained, “Something we say on the Teams.”

  “Well.” That was certainly…definitive. “Try to be both. Not that I want you to be deadly per se,” she floundered as what she’d said registered. “I mean, I do, if that’s what it takes to make you and your friends safe, but it’s not like I want other people dead.” She winced when humor flashed through his eyes. “Just—keep breathing. For my sake, if not your own.” She studied his stalwart face for a moment. “Because I have a feeling you really don’t care whether you do or not.”

  “But you do.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed without hesitation. “I do.”

  Those arms rippled as he again crossed them over his chest, a move she recognized as defensive but felt more aggressive coming from him. “Not sure what you want me to do with that, Skye.” And, by that flat, unyielding tone, he wasn’t too keen to find out.

  “Me neither.” She laid a hand on one bulging forearm. “But I care whether you live or die, Grant Sisti. What puzzles me is why you don’t.”

  She gave him a squeeze and left it at that, stepping back while swinging her bag up and over her shoulder as she started the short walk back to her putt putt.

  Before she was three steps in, Grant snagged her hand and pulled her up short. “Skye,” he said in a sibilant tone, too masculine to be a whisper, pitched for her ears only. She shot an inquisitive glance over her shoulder.

  Grant closed the distance between them in one stride. His hand skirted up her spine to squeeze the back of her neck. “Don’t try to get into my head,” he warned. “You won’t like what you find.”

  “Maybe not,” she allowed. Going with her gut, she twisted at the waist and leaned into his body, stretching up to briefly press her lips against his. “But I bet I’ll still like you.”

  Chapter Six

  As he pulled out from Pleasu
re Pointe to trail Skye for the ten-minute trip back to Casa Blanca, there was one thing Grant knew for sure.

  He had seriously underestimated Skye Thornquist.

  That’s who she was, of course. Sheltered youngest daughter of a literal colonial icon. She even had the trademark blue eyes that had made it into the Crayon box as “Thornquist bleu”. Soon as Grant put two and two together and got 20 billion, the threads of her identity coalesced into a tapestry he recognized. Her family traced their routes back to Plymouth Rock. From Puritans to rebels and on to emancipationists and robber barons, there was a Thornquist present at every major historical watershed in American history. They were steeped in democratic principles to such a degree, Skye probably actually bled blue.

  Compared to them, Grant’s family was gauche new money, not even 150 years old, and they would’ve been scorned back in the turn of the 20th century Golden Age when his great-grandfather had won the family fortune speculating on risky mineral stocks and African diamond mines. Back before Sistanovich was shortened to the more Anglo sounding Sisti so his great-grandfather could take himself a Vanderbilt bride, only a distant cousin, but enough to add the patina of respectability to their bloodline.

  Sure, now the Sistis were too damn rich and influential to ignore or dismiss. That didn’t mean Skye’s father would approve of Grant’s combat-roughened hands on his daughter’s nubile flesh.

  Ahead of him, she signaled a left turn and pulled into the entrance to Casa Blanca resort. He followed behind her, the low rumble of his rented Porsche catching a few glances from passersby, but only that as it was far from the only high-end car on the property. Putting the car to idle, Grant watched Skye chat with the valet who took the motor scooter off her hands.

  Her smile flashed wide and she laid a sincere hand on the valet’s forearm, much as she’d done to Grant on the beach. He felt a surge of jealousy he probably had no right to. Not that he gave a shit. When she’d touched him like that, his skin taut and vibrating under her touch, her eyes had squinted against the sunlight and he found her scrunched up nose adorable.

  He didn’t want any other man to feel that soothing touch but him.

  That genuine grace was instinctive for her, so much a part of Skye’s makeup, she likely didn’t even realize how it emanated from her every move, pulling people into her orbit. On the beach, he’d watched her before making his approach, seen her hit the water’s edge, intermingling with a few people there as kids got underfoot, helping one boy unearth some shells and having a brief convo with his mother before Skye returned to her beach blanket.

  He was used to women of her pedigree keeping themselves separate from the “common” folk, but not Skye. She wasn’t evaluating the cost of the women’s suits or the quality of the kid’s toys. At a glance, most of the people on Pleasure Pointe looked to be locals or Floridians on Mimosa Key for the day. The wealthy tourists who stayed at the resort tended to stick to the posh marina and the manicured beaches on the other end of the Key.

  He wondered if Skye had come here for that reason, staying far away from anyone who might recognize who she really was.

  He wondered how she’d managed to survive in that world for so long.

  Before he’d set out to find her this morning, Grant had spent time thinking about his water nymph who’d turned out to be his one-time lover. With her identity clarified, he’d picked apart their interactions with military precision, breaking down his contact with her the way he would a failed tactical plan, looking for weakness and searching for insights to make the next engagement more successful.

  Because he intended to be successful with Miss Skylark Thornquist again and damn soon.

  Six months ago, he hadn’t bothered asking for her name. She was a bridesmaid, so it was a safe bet she was part of the Thornquist klatch, but Grant hadn’t allowed himself to think beyond that. He’d joked earlier about a debutante wet ball gown contest, playing his Twist role even when on coms with the rest of the security team. When he’d seen Skye drunk dive into the pool, it’d been like she was following his script.

  He’d gotten her out but when he’d shifted her into his arms and felt the curves and pert breasts trapped under the couture, Grant’s intentions turned…murky. And then she’d tucked herself under his chin, looped her arms around his neck, and sighed against his neck…and Grant got pissed.

  He’d thought Skye was a trusting fool, a privileged princess who assumed the world was there for her convenience. She was ripe for someone to take unholy advantage, and he’d decided to teach her a lesson, give her a reality check on the kind of man in whose hands she’d so willingly put her faith.

  He wasn’t worthy of the hem of her dress much less to be trusted to do what was right with some drunk, gorgeous girl he hadn’t even spoken two words to. He’d plucked out the ear wig and made a beeline straight for his room.

  But, he remembered, she wasn’t as drunk as he’d originally thought. And when they got to his room, she started to take off her clothes, then went after his clothes, and she’d done it with such eager glee, such unfettered desire, he couldn’t stay pissed. Instead, she caught him up in it, made him feel more like his old self, and even if it was short-lived, he’d felt so fucking grateful, he would’ve given her the moon if she asked. Begging him to make her forget seemed a small payback for that, so he’d happily buried them in the raw and dirty sex they both needed.

  And no one, absolutely no one, had come after her.

  No one had wondered what had happened to Skye Thornquist that night.

  Grant found that unforgiveable.

  And the truth was, he’d taken advantage of her back then. He’d made her come, three times if he remembered right, two of those before he did, but that didn’t exonerate him for it. Now they were back in each other’s space and the attraction between them crackled like nothing he’d ever felt before. They had the kind of chemistry that usually only existed in a summer blockbuster with aliens or robots and cool explosions that substituted for relationship development.

  Now he was fully up-to-date on their intertwined past, he intended to get back in there one way or another. And this time, he’d know a helluva lot more than her name.

  “Hands off, puppy,” Grant muttered, as the valet flirted with Skye. But she was already breaking off, headed in to the spa with a call of “thank you, again,” that floated back to Grant’s ears. He’d clocked that on the beach too, her automatic move to break off and escape before anyone could stick.

  He doubted she was aware she did that either.

  He watched Skye until the doors swished shut behind her, then drove the Porsche up to the valet and tossed him the keys.

  He made quick work of the walk to Blue Casbah where he switched out of his jeans into shorts and tee before he set off for a run. He could’ve crossed the long bridge off the Key and headed into Naples for some actual gym time, but didn’t like being that far away from Skye, not when his Spidey senses were tingling whenever he thought about what made her come back to Casa Blanca, change her look, and work as a maid, for fuck’s sake.

  But he also needed the physical exertion to settle himself, get some perspective on what the hell he was doing. Feet pounding the sand, he set a steady pace and let his mind drift into the removed space he inhabited when he trained.

  Grant found the quiet of that space soothing. His job left him not often alone. Even home on Coronado, someone was always dropping by his house for a beer or a swim. Sometimes a place to crash. Occasionally a shoulder to unload on or the simple comfort of another person who could understand their demons without having to be told. That’s what came from having an open-door policy for your guys. Now the demons he wrestled were his own, and Grant didn’t want his team involved with that, but couldn’t exactly tell them to shove off either. Not without putting himself in their crosshairs. And once a SEAL had the target in sight, there was no calling them down.

  The timing of Jasper’s wedding fit nicely into Grant’s need for distance from his
team. A legit reason for bailing, but it left a bad taste behind. It wasn’t like him to run from conflict, not since the last time he’d failed a patient and that tragedy had ended in the total restructure of his life.

  What better place to reset his bearings than a tropical paradise? But rather than sort out his head, he’d felt more twisted and primed than ever since landing back in Barefoot Bay.

  The dreams were more frequent here, more acute, lingering long after he woke, which was new and…horrible. And he was a shitty friend for not coming clean with Jasper this morning about all of it. He had to get his ass over Queen’s relocation or he was going to lose his best friend for good.

  Grant couldn’t hide all his cracks from his best friend, cracks others so far had missed—or more likely ignored for convenience sake. Queen had the advantage of not having seen Grant for a while. Made it easier for him to suss out Grant’s bullshit. Likely what made their morning visit such a delightful treat.

  Switching from sand to pavement, Grant ran on. Some part of him monitored heart rate and muscle strain as his sinews and tendons stocked up lactic acid till they burned. But his mind worked the problem, switching from his relationship with his best friend to the mystery that was Skye.

  She didn’t have Queen’s history with him, and yet she’d slipped right under his guard to zero in on the damage that kept waking him at night with uncanny aim. Looking at her, you wouldn’t think she’d have it in her, but Grant knew first-hand how breeding could camouflage an inner strength and conviction better suited for something…else.

  Something more.

  What a pair they made, him and Skye, both of them walking away from wealth and privilege. He’d gone into a brutal world of physical hardship and combat, but it was rewarding too, or had been until his failure with Maverick. She’d…what? Become a maid? Dyed hair and heavy makeup couldn’t hide Skye’s breeding. “Worst disguise ever,” he muttered to himself. It’d be laughable too if he hadn’t fallen for it himself, even with her buck naked before him, even sensing something was off, he hadn’t recognized her.