SEALed With a Twist Read online

  Mandy patted her twice on the cheek and smiled. “You need to learn to share. Preferably without first being drunk as a skunk.”

  And Skye found herself doing something she’d thought, with the double shocks of Grant’s return and her grandmother’s funeral hitting on the same day, was completely beyond her.

  She smiled back.

  An hour later, Skye stood at the center of the living room and did one last visual check of the villa. Throw pillows fluffed and positioned—check. Bar set polished, bottles topped off to equal volume before arranged by size and flavor—check. Fresh cut glass tumblers upside down, gleam flawless—check and mate. A bowl of fruit was arranged on the kitchen island and there was champagne chilling in the refrigerator. Whoever was spending the night in such splendor would enjoy all the bounty the resort could manage. They could retire to the expertly cleaned bedroom with the 600-count sheets Skye herself had smoothed onto the king-size bed or, if the residual party vibes were too compelling, they could enjoy champagne and strawberries on the patio by the private pool with the sound of the waves crashing to shore in the near distance.

  Oh that pool…

  Skye’s spot check screeched to a halt when her gaze tripped across the pool, water glimmering in the setting sun bright enough to cast its reflection through the patio’s French doors.

  She drifted through the villa as though tugged along by Mother Nature’s tracker beam. Hibiscus Court, the apartment rental complex Skye lived in on the not-so-luxurious side of town, didn’t bother with a pool amongst its questionable amenities. Guess when you lived on an island, having a chlorine-filled hole in your yard was coals to Newcastle-esque.

  Skye loved being in the water. Her mother had often boasted Skye knew how to swim before she knew how to walk. My little Ariel, she’d say, waiting at the top of the pool ladder to wrap Skye up in a heated towel as she climbed out. My thwarted mermaid.

  The memory rang so clear with her voice, Skye half checked over her shoulder to make sure her mother hadn’t materialized right there in Barefoot Bay. But no. Shannon Thornquist hadn’t tried to contact her only daughter since she’d run off with her younger lover when Skye was twelve.

  Skye hadn’t gone into the water since, not until six months ago when family duty had crushed her heart so badly, she’d drowned her sorrows in tequila shooters and nearly herself shortly after in the resort pool.

  Nothing like being the joke of the rehearsal dinner to make you feel stellar self-esteem.

  Her toes scraped the sharp stone that lined the pool’s edge. Off balance, she teetered on the pads of her feet until a step of retreat steadied her. She barely remembered walking to the edge, too caught up in too old memories. Last thing she needed on the second worst day of her life was to be caught frolicking in the pool by one of Casa Blanca’s wealthy guests. Crappy way to end her swimming dry spell too.

  Done with its slow tease, the sun dropped suddenly over the ocean’s edge, as if Neptune opened his mouth and gulped it whole. Fading beams streaked across the pure blue of the pool’s surface, lines of flickering fire that lit Skye’s reflection with a muted gold filter.

  Funny she should spend so much time today thinking about her transformation. No matter how she changed her hair or spackled her face, she always saw herself underneath it all.

  Simply Skye.

  She’d wiped out and painted over every outward trace of Thornquist breeding she could find, but makeup and hair dye couldn’t remove what was rooted at her core. A core honed and refined in no small part by her now dead grandmother.

  Some legacy, Grandmother.

  If she had any lingering doubts about her transformation, well, Grant Sisti’s lack of reaction drove that puppy home once and for all. He’d seen her naked—and done more than look too—and yet failed to recognize her in her new guise.

  And why should he? She was no longer the pampered, heartbroken, and desperate debutante he’d fished out of the resort pool and—and—(oh, just say it already, Thornquist!)—and fucked silly three times in one night. She didn’t want the oh-so-talented security stud to recognize her if that stupid, easy girl was all he’d remember.

  So why not then? Why not dive into this pool, here and now, and wash it all away?

  She toyed with the button on her shorts, her mind spiraling through the weight on her heart as brazen crazy gained traction in her gut.

  Why not dive into this pool, here and now, and wash it all away? No one was here to see. Likely, the reception would wind on for hours yet. The place was hers and, with Mandy taking on third west, Skye had nowhere else to be.

  No one else to be.

  Her grandmother was gone, the one person left who gave a good damn beyond Skye’s place in the will and the family’s public image. No longer would she chide and guide Skye through the thorny path of being a Thornquist. Her mother sure hadn’t loved her enough to stay, hadn’t even hesitated to leave Skye behind when she got a better offer. If she was really this new woman, this new Skye, who ran away from a pampered cage when the bars got too narrow and the walls too tight, then why was she holding out on this last, almost literal, watershed?

  She spent seventeen years denying herself one of the few sheer pleasures she enjoyed, and for what? Some misguided loyalty to a woman who couldn’t make a damn phone call to her own daughter?

  Screw that.

  With a giddy rush of righteous defiance, Skye shucked her shorts. The resort golf shirt whipped up and over her head in the next second. She strode down the length of the pool, legs eating up the yards. When she reached the deep end, her hands stretched back to unhook the lace-trimmed demi bra, dropping it to trail on the stone flagons. Hooking her thumbs in the matching hipster panties, she stripped them down and off, leaving herself proudly, unashamedly naked.

  Poised on the rim, she took a breath. Her head canted west to watch the last of the sun’s lingering ray’s chase after their source material. There I go. She turned and faced the pool full frontal, her body a dark arrow shafted to launch across the clear bow of water.

  Here I am.

  Grant started when Quinn’s arm snaked over his shoulder to wrap around his neck from behind. “Ready for the best man toast?”

  They were into hour three of the reception. Grant had spent the last fifteen minutes debating the pros and cons of sticking the salad fork in his eye. He reached up to clasp the smooth flesh of her forearm and quipped, “not on your life, darlin’.” Quinn laughed in his ear as her chin settled into the groove of his shoulder. “Thought the whole point of a stripped-down wedding was to avoid things like throwing the bridal bouquet and the best man toast.”

  “The point was to get married before the Navy scuttles Jasp away again.”

  “Being Navy liaison at SOCOM should keep him stateside. Mostly.”

  “Call me gun shy, then.”

  “Call yourself whatever you want, I ain’t makin’ no toast.”

  “And now I’ve got the Ghostbuster’s theme on earworm. On my wedding day.”

  “Classic. And I’m good with the all lady crew. Equal slime for all. Bring it on.”

  “I’m sure feminists everywhere appreciate your endorsement, but I prefer not to be thinking about slime tonight of all nights.”

  “Long as you’re only sliming Queen, you’re good.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Quinn’s mouth purse in an offended moue. “That’s…a disgusting image.”

  He threw back another shot; the move dislodged her hold. Using his grip on her arm, he guided her around the front of the chair. He meant her to settle in the seat beside him, but Quinn, being Quinn, didn’t follow to plan.

  She perched on the arm of his chair, one lithe arm linked around his neck for balance. Automatically, his arm snaked around her waist to support her. “Pretty sad Ghostbusters innuendo there, pal. Especially for you.”

  She wasn’t wrong. He threw back another shot. “Even my stellar wit occasionally falters,” he groused, voice hoarse from the good b
urn of top-shelf liquor.

  “One thing I’ve learned about you boys is that you’re never not ‘on’. I’ve seen Jasper reconnoiter a Starbucks. It never turns off. He never turns off.”

  “Seems pretty turned off tonight,” Grant scoffed. She studied him while the silence built between them, a woman too confident to be made uncomfortable. Grant ignored her probing gaze. Even if he’d learned not to put anything past Quinn, she’d see only what he let her see. Like everyone else.

  “You miss him.”

  It was a well-aimed shot that streaked right under his guard. Grant choked on tequila, then turned his neck so they were eye to eye. Her dark-brown pupils were soft and open and didn’t change when he snapped, “Watch it,” his voice a whip crack that had quelled harden soldiers, but Quinn didn’t flinch.

  She held his gaze, sure and constant, which would’ve surprised him if he hadn’t already had a front-row seat to the steel that shored up Quinn’s sexy frame. She didn’t waver easily…or much at all. “It’s all right, Twist. I get the warrior code won’t let you admit it.”

  His hand clenched around the shot glass. Throwing it across the patio would only make things worse by bringing his head case out into the open for all to see. Quinn meant well, he knew it. But she had lousy timing.

  He had to lighten things up before he dumped her off the chair, flipped over the table, and totally lost his shit at Jasper’s wedding. “Don’t mock the code,” he kidded lightly. “Or I’ll have to do something super macho, like drink goat’s blood or give up my cushy villa to sleep on a bed of nails.”

  “Pretty sure I forgot to put O negative on the bar menu.” She patted his cheek as though his jaw wasn’t locked tight. Amazingly, it relaxed under her touch and his hand released the shot glass. “Easy, badass. Your cred is intact.”

  He squeezed her hip. She tilted her head till it rested against the side of his. His free hand reached out to pour more tequila, which he handed over to the bride. She tossed back the shot, her hair sliding against his ear as her head moved. With a satisfied “ah,” she put the glass on the table and settled back against him while his thumb idly stroked over the silkiness of her wedding dress.

  Quinn in her wedding finery was enough to set any man back on his heels, even if she was his best friend’s woman. A white, halter-neck wedding dress that squeezed her curves from neck to right above her knee in a way that made him think words like “sexy” and “elegant” at the same time. Any eyes not drawn to her admirable rack were locked on her sculpted legs.

  Quinn had set aside her preferred motorcycle boots for the occasion and instead set her pins on heels that nearly brought her closer to Grant’s 6’2” height. She had a wide smile that was dormant now when no bride should stop smiling on their wedding day.

  Something else that was Grant’s fault.

  “You blame me for it,” she murmured without moving. “For Jasper leaving the teams. Leaving you.”

  “Not for a fucking second,” he vowed, instantly. Yeah, he missed Jasper, but Grant knew his friend was exactly where he was meant to be—with the woman he was meant to have. “Jesus, Quinn. Get that out of your head. I couldn’t have built a better woman for him if I tried.” He transferred his grip to the back of her neck and squeezed. “You make my boy happy, sweetheart. Keep it up.”

  Her kiss hit the edge of his temple. “I knew you had a best man toast in you,” she whispered. “Hoo rah.”

  A chuckle escaped Grant despite his foul mood. She shifted up, looking beyond him. Grant knew her attention had been snagged by her renewed husband.

  “Go on then,” he urged. Her wide smile finally broke free. She stood up, then leaned back down to kiss his cheek before making her way back to Jasper’s side. Jasper glanced down then pulled her in close before returning to his conversation with his CO.

  Grant kicked back his chair and surged up from the table, making for the back exit. Wedding planners notwithstanding, no one would miss him, not even Jasper at this point. And if he had to make it through another hour of forcing happy, he’d reevaluate the stabbing potential of that salad fork.

  The sunset-timed wedding meant full dark had fallen by the time Grant made his way down the path that would take him around to his rented private villa. A private villa called Artemisia of all things had been reserved for Quinn and Jasper on his dime—his wedding gift to them—along with a sleek pleasure cruiser down at Mimosa Harbor, should the couple ever make their way out of the bridal chamber. What the hell was Grant sitting on obscene amounts of wealth for if not to spoil his friends on special occasions?

  He preferred to ignore the fact that he was heir to a robber baron fortune with a trust fund bulging at the seams from interest rates alone. The money wasn’t who he was, a lesson he’d learned early under his father’s strict hand. He used it for start-up funds for his practice and then again years later to buy his place on Coronado and a sports car, two rare outright indulgences. Otherwise he left it untouched, collecting percentages and adding zeroes to the bottom line without any direct effort from him. He set up some charities, enough to keep his soul from going completely black, and got quarterly reports from his money manager that he read religiously so he couldn’t get swindled. Otherwise, he liked to forget it was there. He led a life a Navy salary could afford and left only a chosen few the wiser as to his net worth. Even Jasper didn’t know how deep the Sistanovich pockets went.

  And Grant liked it that way.

  He strode down the paver-stone, tree-lined path to Blue Casbah villa. The resort owners had put together one hell of a resort, steeped in Moroccan ambiance while remaining Florida flavored, particularly in the foliage. He’d plundered more than a few luxury hotels around the world during the wastrel years before he broke away from the familial herd. Few could compare to the lush environs of Casa Blanca Resort & Spa.

  Grant rolled his shoulders as the villa came in view. Each step away from the reception felt like a year off a dead man’s reprieve. He was a shit for bailing on his friend. He knew it. He’d make up some explanation for Jasper if he asked for it.

  His mobile pinged with an incoming text alert. Speak of the devil.

  sit rep.

  Even being the best man Grant ever had the privilege to know or fight beside, Jasper McQueen could be a serious pain in his ass.

  Grant exhaled audibly through his nose and typed out a reply.

  fuck off.

  Don’t talk dirty to me on my wedding day.

  A wry smile twisted Grant’s mouth. you wish.

  quinn wants to start the dancing. needs you for the congo line.

  Congo line? Christ, more staid tradition from edgy Quinn. Next, she’d want him to start the chicken dance, after which lay only madness and binge drinking.

  sorry man. got a better offer. He had zero offers, but that wasn’t for Jasper to know on his wedding night. Grant had tried burying his emo fallout in the easy pleasure of the SEAL bunnies, but too many of those hookups started to ring empty and he needed no help there.

  Now, it felt like too much effort to bother trying.

  His phone pinged with Jasper’s reply. you bailing on my wedding?

  I wasn’t there for the first. you won’t miss me at the second. should know what you’re doing by now without me holding your dick. He reread the text, then backed it up to replace “dick” with “hand” and sent it before he could berate himself for wussing out.

  There was a longer pause this time before Jasper’s reply arrived.

  You need me, brother?

  Grant’s throat got tight. He’d do it, Jasper would. He’d put a word in Quinn’s ear and slip out on his own wedding if Grant gave him the slightest signal. Jasper’s well of responsibility ran that deep, but more, he was that good of a man—and a friend. He had Grant’s back, no matter what, and for that very reason Grant couldn’t let him know how fucked up his head had become.

  Nah. You’re off-duty from wingman duties tonight.

  I ask to be relieved?


  Yeah, when you transferred to SOCOM. That was a little too on point for comfort. Been doing without you six months now. Think I can manage another night.

  Another long pause, then, don’t piss me off, twist.

  Don’t ask stupid questions. and stop dicking with my mojo. dance with your wife.

  He turned off the phone to avoid Jasper’s reply and unlocked the villa with a card and a faint regret for the lack of a hard key in his hand. Some asshole decided to shove inside the room behind him, be tough to mount a defense with this flimsy piece of plastic.

  The default to combat readiness reassured Grant. Not that he expected to stumble upon violent crime here—recent Russian mob experiences notwithstanding. But with so many things getting past him—first that maid, then Quinn’s too-close-for-comfort téte-a-tête—it was good to see his edge might be wavering, but it could still cut a bitch.

  Quinn’d been right; men like him and Jasper were always on, which is why Grant automatically scanned the villa’s interior like it was a tango’s lair. A light had been left on in the living area and another over the kitchen sink so that an ambient haze hovered over the main rooms. He noted the fruit set up on the island block before breaking off to clear the bedrooms and baths. Satisfied no one else had breached the perimeter, he re-booted his phone on route to the patio. Surely, by now Jasper had been distracted away from bugging Twist.

  His phone immediately blew up with Jasper’s missed message.

  Even through the flat, emotionless language of a text, Jasper’s words were resolute. You will brief me on what this shit is about.

  Grant snorted. Like that was gonna happen. He pulled back the wide glass doors that led out to the patio and pool before typing out Whatever, man. kiss quinn for me.

  The reply came quick. fuck off.

  And now they were back on the easy ground where Grant was most comfortable. It was his job to dig into the emotions of his team, to make sure their heads were in a place where they could continue to complete their duty.

  Damned if he’d have any of them, even Jasper, do the same to him.