For the Love of a SEAL Read online

  For the Love of a SEAL

  The Hearts of Valor Series by Dixie Lee Brown

  Heart of a SEAL

  Honor Among SEALs

  For the Love of a SEAL

  Table of Contents

  The Hearts of Valor Series by Dixie Lee Brown

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Teaser Chapter

  About the Author

  For the Love of a SEAL

  Dixie Lee Brown

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL LIAISON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Dixie Lee Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fundraising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Liaison and Lyrical Liaison logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: April 2019

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0650-9

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0650-4

  First Print Edition: April 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0653-0

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0653-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter 1

  “Hey, Sorenson! You’ve got a visitor!”

  Blake’s focus automatically swept to the gravel parking area. He spotted the green Kia partly concealed on the downhill side of the office. How had he missed someone arriving? He scowled before returning his attention to the map pinned with magnets to the open door of the hangar. His friend and sometimes-boss, James Cooper, leaned over the second-floor banister in the newly constructed office of Sorenson Aviation and yelled toward the hilltop hangar loudly enough for everyone on Skyline Ridge to hear.

  What bug has crawled up Coop’s ass now? It made no difference. Blake didn’t have the time or desire for a conversation with anyone right now.

  “Gotta go, Coop. You’re the one who keeps sayin’ we’re behind schedule.” Blake removed his sunglasses from the neck of his T-shirt, settled them on his nose and could just make out the broad shoulders and muscled pecs of the former Navy SEAL as he braced both arms on the railing.

  “True that.” A sly grin appeared on Coop’s mug as a figure stepped from the doorway behind him and sashayed toward the stairs. “Still…might be worth your while.” He licked his index finger, touched it to an imaginary target in front of him and let out a long, slow sizzling sound.

  The three-man delivery crew, who’d been loading supplies into Blake’s Bell 206 helicopter on the pad to the right of the open hangar door, abruptly fell silent and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Blake’s visitor. Harv Farrington, performing a preflight check on the chopper, let out a wolf whistle just about the time Blake’s gaze landed on the smoking-hot brunette descending the stairs, her light blues fixed on him.

  The flight maps he’d been poring over momentarily forgotten, he swiveled to get a better look. Long legs, tanned and toned, started from red damn stilettos and went up…and up…and up, until his scrutiny was blocked by the hem of her hip-hugging blue denim skirt. Her flat stomach and slim waist were accentuated by the silky white, button-up shirt meticulously tucked into the waistband. Sleeves rolled to just below her elbows gave her the illusion of being just one of the guys, which he wasn’t buying for a second.

  Two buttons left undone at the neckline of her shirt teased him with more tanned skin, disappearing between glorious mounds of what were surely pure heaven. Fine hips dipped and swayed with every step she took.

  Blake shifted uncomfortably, aware every man within range was equally as mesmerized by the show. He didn’t have a friggin’ clue who the woman was, but, by damn, she was here to see him, and that automatically made her off-limits to this collection of womanizing fools. He cleared his throat, and when they glanced his way, gave them his best don’t-you-have-something-to-do frown.

  The loading crew grumbled but resumed stacking the last few boxes into the cargo hold. Harv replied with an unconcerned grin. He crossed his feet at the ankles, calling attention to his screwy tiger-striped cowboy boots with gold stars on the toes, and leaned one shoulder against the side of the chopper.

  Asshat!

  Blake’s attention flicked back to the vision in red, white and blue. Hmm…gotta love a patriotic woman. The graceful column of her throat peeked from behind locks of dark-brown hair, so silky looking he could almost feel his fingers sliding through—fisting. Damn. Again, he shifted. This time because his wayward thoughts were intercepting his blood supply and sending it to regions south of the belt.

  As she reached the ground floor and started up the well-worn path toward the hangar, he scrutinized her unsmiling features and, for the first time, noticed the rosy tint of her cheeks. The attention of the men, watching and drooling over her every move, appeared to make her ill at ease, but surely she was used to attention from the opposite sex. Still, the empathy he felt for her forced him to smile as she approached.

  “I’m Blake Sorenson. What can I do for you?”

  Harv grunted, and Blake caught enough of the man’s smartass retort to grasp what he’d like to do for her. The woman winced, her face turning a darker shade of pink, as though she’d gotten the gist of Harv’s insolence too. Damned if Blake’s hackles didn’t rise to her defense. She covered her embarrassment well, though—he had to give her that. The sexiest dimples dusted the corners of her mouth as she threw the switch on a megawatt smile that went clear to her expressive eyes.

  “Mr. Sorenson, I’m Tori Michaels.” She stretched out a graceful hand, her fingers tipped with drop-dead red nails that matched her lipstick.

  Blake clasped her hand. “First, the name’s Blake, and second, would you excuse me for one minute?”

  “Of course.”

  He immediately regretted the loss of her warm touch as he released her hand and strode toward Harv. The imbecile straightened and dropped his arms to his sides as soon as Blake pushed into his personal space, looking down on him a good three inches. The man always looked rumpled, as though he’d slep t in his clothes and left the house without benefit of comb or razer.

  “What the hell, Farrington? In case your mother didn’t teach you any manners, let me enlighten you. A lady just walked down those stairs. That means you don’t ogle, you don’t make disgusting noises, and you sure as shit don’t advertise your lack of good upbringing by embarrassing her. Not to mention, the lady is here to see me, which makes her my guest…in my hangar. Now…I’d be happy to remove your snarky smirk if you can’t manage it on your own. Capisce?”

  For at least ten seconds, anger and humiliation coalesced in Harv’s expression with no clear indication of which would win. Maybe Blake would get a chance to hammer his point home after all. Nothing would please him more than putting his new aircraft mechanic in his place. The guy always had something smart-ass to say and was late for work more times than not. Blake wouldn’t be sad if Harv decided to quit—except he was a good mechanic, and competent help was hard to find these days.

  When Blake had finally agreed to take the job with PTS Security after nearly six months of his friend, Matt Iverson, hounding him, his new bosses had searched long and hard for someone who met Blake’s demanding requirements. Bringing his experience as a military pilot and the assets of Sorenson Aviation into the mix, he’d reserved the right to approve the successful candidate. Harv had qualified handily as an aircraft maintenance technician, but Blake still wavered on whether he was a decent human being…or a jackass.

  Harv finally gave up the stare-down with a shrug of his shoulders. “You’re right. Sorry, Blake. It won’t happen again.”

  Pleasantly surprised, Blake backed off a step. Harv bent to grab the tools he’d used on the aircraft. Straightening, he glanced toward the woman. “I apologize, ma’am.” Barely acknowledging her nod, he whirled and strode toward the toolboxes on the back wall of the hangar.

  Blake jammed his fingers in his front pockets before turning back to her, hoping like hell he hadn’t embarrassed her further. No worries on that score. Anger now flashed in her eyes.

  “There was no need to dress him down on my account, Mr. Sorenson. I assure you I can take care of myself.” Voice as cold as an Arctic ice cap, her glare withered any manly reaction he’d suffered from her obvious charms.

  Well, hell. Back to last-name basis already. Damn shame. His slow appraisal swept over her one more time before he jerked the map from beneath the magnets that held it and spun it through his palms, forming a tight roll. “I’m sure you can. But I didn’t do that for you. That was for me. Now, what is it I can help you with?”

  For an awkward moment, it didn’t appear she would answer, obviously struggling with some internal conflict. That was okay with him, because he’d wasted enough time already. He needed to be in the air, en route to a secluded safe house, currently home to one of PTS Security’s clients, including the man’s wife and two children. Blake hated when the actions of supposed grown-ups created an unsafe situation for kids.

  Time to go, regardless of how forlorn Ms. Michaels looked. Forget the desperation suddenly pooling in her eyes or the way her fine ass distracted him from the business at hand. He had a job to do. Besides, women were trouble, fickle to the bone. Hadn’t he learned that the hard way when Celine filed for divorce, while he occupied a hospital bed, wondering if the doctors could save his torn and mangled leg?

  Grabbing his gear and the map, he nodded toward the apparently mute woman. “Nice meeting you, Tori Michaels. Stop by and chat anytime you’re in the area.” He eyed her one final time as he pulled the brim of his ball cap down to almost touch the rim of his shades.

  As he reached the halfway point to the helicopter, damned if it didn’t sound like she stomped her foot, stopping him midstride, and pulling an amused grin from deep within at the image her petulance conjured in his head.

  “Blake…wait, please. We got off on the wrong foot.” Frustration and apology rang true in her voice, but he could also hear her amusement.

  Well, the lady has a sense of humor. And she did call me by my first name. Grinning wider, he turned to face her, peering over the rim of his dark glasses.

  “I’m sorry. I’m a little sensitive about needing a man to stand up for me. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Could we start over? Hi. I’m Tori Michaels.” There came those damn dimples again, accompanied by a full-blown smile.

  Blake groaned his appreciation of the entire package—feisty though she might be. He’d have to be careful because her sincerity was dangerously appealing, and, apparently, he wasn’t immune. “There’s nothing I’d like more, but to be honest, I’ve got about thirty seconds before I need to be in the air. Actually, according to my boss, I’m already late. So, lay it on me in ten words or less. Or maybe you’d rather meet me for a drink sometime?” Just because Blake didn’t bet on love-everlasting didn’t preclude the occasional hook-up.

  “I’d like to interview you for an article in Everyday Heroes magazine. It’s a special edition for Memorial Day.” Obviously ignoring his alternative suggestion, words tumbled from her enticing lips…until she stopped abruptly.

  Maybe she’d finished what she’d wanted to say, but more likely, it was the disappointment and outright hostility heating his blood and putting a scowl on his face that’d highjacked her pitch. He’d never been able to disguise his animosity. “Jesus! You’re a reporter? Honey, I don’t do interviews. You’re wasting my time and yours. Damn shame.” He gave her a mock salute before he whipped around and continued toward the chopper.

  Hell if that isn’t a waste. Just my luck. He could swear he felt her eyes drill into his back with every stride he took to reach the waiting aircraft. She’d have to do better than that. He shrugged off his curiosity and forced the hotter-than-hell reporter from his mind.

  The forest surrounding his new home on Skyline Ridge, a mere three miles from Cypress Point on the Oregon coast, never failed to soothe his soul, and today was no different. He’d moved from Las Vegas, where the terrain was different, and trees were an afterthought. When Matt Iverson, or MacGyver as he’d been tagged by the other members of his SEAL team, suggested Blake go to work for PTS Security, he’d considered the offer for months before accepting. That the owners, MacGyver, Coop, Luke Harding and Travis Monroe, were all former SEALs was no small thing Blake had in common with them. They were all good guys who possessed some mad skills. Once he’d come to the truth that those men, who’d become his friends as well, would have his back just like he’d have theirs, his decision was made. Still, there was no way in hell he was moving to San Diego, where his prospective employer was headquartered. He wanted mountains and seclusion.

  He’d gone nuts over this place, all one hundred and thirty-two acres. Not because of the five thousand-square-foot monstrosity that was now his home. Or the tiled floors throughout. Or the four bedrooms. Or the fireplace in nearly every room. Or even the pretentious stone moat. Rather, it’d been the evergreen trees that he could see from every single window in the circular…or octagonal…or whatever the hell shape the house was. He liked that it was three miles from the nearest small town, a mile and a half of that on a private road. And he liked that all he had to do was take off in his planes or the Bell to have an unparalleled view of the Pacific Ocean.

  Blake had started building his hangar and clearing the bare minimum of trees for a runway the day the sale closed.

  This morning his world was bathed in sunshine, yet a fog bank hung offshore to the west, not yet burned off. The delivery men had finished loading the supplies and, apparently, taken off in their truck, leaving it blessedly silent, except for the rustling of the wind through the trees. Blake stowed the bag containing his gear in the cargo area, slid the bay door closed and climbed in the front, already going through the checklist permanently etched in his brain.

  Check switches: position for start.

  Fifteen years as a pilot in the Navy SEALs, thirteen of those as a Special Forces team leader, had b urned a lot of things into his memory. Some he’d rather forget. Others, like preparing a craft for takeoff, came more naturally than breathing.

  Anti-collision light: on.

  It’d been a damn good life, until it wasn’t. He’d crash-landed a few choppers in his day, but there’d only been one he hadn’t walked away from. Picking up stragglers from another SEAL team about to be overrun, he’d pushed his luck a little too far. He was still haunted by the rocket grenade screaming toward them—the shudder of the aircraft as it clipped them—two of five Navy SEALs who’d narrowly escaped being captured alive, perishing on his watch.

  Main rotor: brake off and clear.

  Four of them had made it out alive, including Blake. MacGyver had been one of them. His injuries had been minor under the circumstances. The other two men were also injured but ambulatory. Blake’s leg had taken some shrapnel as the chopper blades came apart, and it hung mangled and useless below the knee. MacGyver had carried his sorry ass four miles through enemy-held territory to the last take-out point.

  Engage starter: check oil pressure.

  Blake’s leg had looked like ground hamburger when he’d finally gotten a chance to look at it, but it’d healed far better than any in the medical profession had expected. It was only when he was really tired he still walked with a slight limp. The scars would always be with him, on his body and in his head. But hell…he’d been luckier than some.

  Main rotor turning: release at fifty-eight percent.

  He and MacGyver had formed an unbreakable bond in those four miles. Turned out it was easier to open up to another human being when faced with his own mortality. Blake had helped MacGyver and some of his buddies a few months ago when they needed a hand. Thus, the offer to work for their private security company. It was a part-time gig for him, which was perfect because he also ran his charter service from his home atop Skyline Ridge.

  Stabilize at flight idle for one minute.

  He’d bought his one hundred thirty-two acres of trees with a VA loan and the equity from his place in Vegas. He earned a good living with the charter business, enough that he’d added a six-passenger Beechcraft Bonanza to his list of assets since the move. Anything he made working for PTS Security he squirrelled away for a rainy day. His needs were simple.