A SEAL's Fantasy Page 2

  He watched the stripper walked away, her hips swinging a hot rhythm beneath her short skirt. For one second he regretted saying no. Then, as he shifted his weight, his body sang out a protest.

  A part of him, mostly the part cozied up behind his zipper, wanted to call her back. Not out of undeniable lust or anything crazy like that. More to prove he could still make her see stars and sing hallelujah, even if half of his body was bruised and the other half a step up from numb.

  As far as Dominic’s dick—and admittedly, his ego—were concerned, he was a man with many talents, all of which made women sigh with pleasure. He was better at sex when he was half-asleep, totally drunk and/or straight off a ten-day mission from hell than most guys managed to be even in their wildest dreams. He was damned good-looking—a blessing owed more to the fine Castillo genes than any effort on his part. He was a formidable SEAL, a savvy sailor and a weapon the U.S. Navy should be giving thanks for on a daily basis. Okay, weekly. He was wise—the team always looked to him for advice, hence his call sign, Auntie. He was smart and good with money.

  All but the first were characteristics his own sainted mother recited to any single woman she found worthy. And all, including the former, were reasons Dominic saw as vital to his goal of staying single. When a man was as blessed as he was, it’d be cruel to limit his gifts to just one woman.

  He watched Lotta slide into her Miata and frowned.

  Maybe a good time was just what Auntie ordered. A hot ride would be a nice distraction.

  It only took him a second to brush it aside.

  Resigned, he watched her headlights fade into the dark night and sighed. It wasn’t his bruises or irritation that made him a bad bet tonight, he realized. It was the same nagging feeling that’d been dogging him for the last couple of months.

  Dissatisfaction.

  What the hell was up with that?

  Dominic was a man who made a point to be satisfied. In every way, every chance he got. Some might say he specialized in it.

  So why the hell was he so damned bored?

  Bored, discontent and frustrated.

  All new emotions, and not one of them welcome.

  Needing to move, wanting the rush of speed, Dominic straddled his Harley, tugged on his helmet and rode.

  In the next three hours, he covered most of Sonoma. The wine country had a special beauty in the moonlight, but even that didn’t help clear his mind. Finally, annoyed and still clueless over what he wanted to do, Dominic headed for the Castillo Ranch and home.

  He cruised through the wide gate, its bronze C and R woven around the image of a horse, and throttled back. The sun was just making its appearance, casting a golden glow over the fields on either side, which meant the family was probably rising. Still, his nana slept late and her cottage was just around the bend.

  The ranch housed thirty family members and a handful of hands and provided homes for a few, like Dominic, who needed their own place but didn’t live there full-time. He came to a dirt road that cut through the emerald expanse of grass before curving behind a hill. His cabin was a few miles back. Remote, the way he liked it, and private. He spent most of his life sharing quarters. First with his brothers, now with his SEAL team. When he was home, he liked his space.

  But he didn’t take the turn. Instead, he barreled straight on down toward the main house. Ranch-style, it was big and sprawling, surrounded by gardens and manicured lawns. Lights glinted in the windows, especially, he noted, in the kitchen. Good. That meant Rosa was up, and likely making pancakes.

  Dominic swept his motorcycle back behind the house to the wide driveway. Before he could cut the engine, his brother flew out the back door.

  “Where the hell you been?” Lucas snapped, looking as if he was going to reach over and grab his younger brother right off the bike.

  Just to be contrary, Dominic took his time slipping off his helmet and ran his hand over the stubble of his military haircut. He hooked the helmet over the handlebar, then swung his leg off the bike, shoved both hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels.

  “What’s up?” he asked with a half grin. “I miss curfew?”

  “Don’t you answer your phone?”

  “Not when I leave it on my dresser by mistake,” Dominic said with a shrug. He didn’t carry a cell phone on duty, and he spent most of his life on duty. So unlike his brother, he didn’t hyperventilate without an electronic leash in his pocket.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for the last couple of hours.”

  “Here I am,” Dominic pointed out. “You can reach me now.”

  “Before me, your buddy Brody was trying to reach you.”

  “Brody?” Brody couldn’t have called. Petty Officer Brody Lane was on day two of a mission in Guatemala, taking down a drug lord who was pissing off the good ole U.S. of A. Lucas had met Brody a few times when he’d visited Dominic in Coronado or when Brody had tagged along on leave to the Castillo Ranch. “Dude, you want to play games, play them when I’m awake.”

  “No game. Your buddy called. He has a problem.”

  “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  “Maybe if you carried your phone, you’d know.”

  “Cut the crap and tell me what’s going on,” Dominic snarled, worry tight in his gut. Brody wouldn’t call unless the issue was major.

  Chest to chest, the brothers glared at each other. Then, with a look that said he was doing his little brother a favor, Lucas stepped back.

  “A mission went bad. Your friend didn’t say that. He didn’t offer any information except for you to call him as soon as you got back, no matter what time it was.”

  Crap. Hell, damn, crap.

  Dominic paced, his boots kicking up dirt as he stomped from one end of the bike to the fence and back.

  “How do you know he’s on a mission?” he asked finally. “It could be anything. Hell, Brody might be calling for bachelor party advice, seeing as he’s getting married next month.”

  Yeah, that was lame. Lucas didn’t roll his eyes, but he looked as though the effort cost him. Instead, he gave a jerky one-shouldered shrug and glanced away for a second. Just one, but it was enough to make Dominic growl.

  “Dammit. I told you to quit hacking military computers. That shit’s top secret.”

  “I don’t. I mean, not as a rule.” Lucas grimaced. “Just, you know, once in a while, to keep in practice. Like maybe when I know you’re doing something really dangerous. Just so I know to tell Ma to light an extra candle.”

  Holy crap. Dominic shoved both hands through his short hair, the thick stubble scraping his palms. For one second he envied his teammates who didn’t have families. No nagging, no nosiness, no pain-in-the-butt interference.

  “You get caught, you’re going to prison,” he finally said.

  “I told you, I didn’t hack anything top secret. Nothing military, even.”

  This time went unspoken.

  “Then why are you claiming a mission went bad? Brody didn’t tell you that.”

  “No, but he wouldn’t call at three in the morning to get Lotta’s number. I figured something was wrong, so I did some poking around.” When Dominic just glared, Lucas shrugged again. “You said something earlier about plenty of people speaking the language. Since the only ones you speak are English and Spanish, I pulled info on a few hot spots in Guatemala that might require specialized intervention.”

  Pride and irritation surged in equal measures. It was a good thing Lucas was as honest as the day was long.

  “You are a pain in my ass,” Dominic muttered. “That mission is top secret.”

  Top secret. And still underway. He clenched his teeth against the stirring of the hair on the back of his neck, warning serious shit was going down. Brody was supposed to be in Guatemala right now, blowing the hell out of a drug lord’s compound, taking down his cartel and ending his reign of terror.

  Not making phone calls in the middle of the night.

  “Whe
n’s he calling back?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Of course he didn’t.

  “You okay?” Lucas stepped forward, looking concerned. He shot a glance at the big house, then back at Dominic. “Do you want me to do some more searching? See what happened?”

  Lucas thought he could poke his digital fingers into a U.S. Navy SEAL operation. One that took place outside of the country, and was classified as a top-secret government mission. Dominic gave a halfhearted laugh, scrubbing his hands over his face. Likely big brother probably could. But that didn’t mean he was going to.

  “No. I’ll wait.”

  “Want breakfast?” Lucas jerked his head toward the house.

  Appetite gone, Dominic shook his head. He’d take the call in private.

  “I’ll check in later,” he said, pulling his helmet back on. Even though he was on private property, if he didn’t wear it, his mother would have a tizzy. He didn’t bother with the straps, though. Just kicked his bike to life and roared off. Three minutes later, he shoved open his cabin door, threw his leather coat over the back of a chair and strode into his bedroom.

  Yep. There was his cell phone. Right where he said it was. He snagged it off the dresser, checking even though he knew there would be no message, nor a return number. He debated for two seconds.

  As far as the Navy was concerned, he might be on leave, but Dominic knew he was now on duty. Whatever was going down would take his skill, his talent and his absolute attention. He’d been up all night, barely slept the one before. It wasn’t a part of his SEAL training that allowed him to sleep at will and awaken instantly, but his years in the Navy had honed that talent. He knew if the phone rang, he’d be immediately alert, even from the deepest sleep.

  He didn’t even glance at the neatly made bed as he headed for the kitchen.

  He grabbed a box of cereal, a quart of milk and a huge bowl.

  It might not be pancakes, but it beat the hell out of field rations.

  He was on his second helping when his cell lit up.

  It didn’t finish the first ring before he had it to his ear.

  “Castillo.”

  “Trouble, Auntie,” Petty Officer Brody Lane said in a low growl. His use of Dominic’s call sign instead of his name made it clear this was military business. “You at home?”

  “Yeah, took leave. No point sitting around like a pansy on light duty.”

  “You up to handling a problem?”

  Shit.

  “Name it.”

  “The Candy Man grabbed Sir.”

  Son of a bitch.

  Lieutenant Phillip Banks. Call sign Sir.

  Dominic’s gut clenched, adrenaline rushing hard. His fist hit the wall before he even realized he’d lifted his hand. He didn’t have to like the guy to be furious. Furious and, yeah, a little scared. Part of training for the mission had been studying detailed information about the Candy Man, as Pedro Alvarez Valdero had been tagged by the team. The man was a cold-blooded sociopath, his morals as low as his ambition was high. He specialized in drugs, torture and various forms of corruption.

  If he’d grabbed Banks, that meant the mission had failed. The team wouldn’t leave until they got the lieutenant back. And, of course, completed the mission.

  “You want me to get him out?”

  Brody’s laugh was a soft gust.

  “We got that covered. It ain’t gonna be fast, though. While we deal, we need someone to defuse the repercussions.”

  Repercussions. Dominic stood at the window, glaring out at the soft morning sun as it bounced off the trees. The Candy Man was known for forcing cooperation by kidnapping and torturing his victims’ family members.

  “I thought Sir was repercussion-free,” Dominic said quietly. Not that he was close to the guy, but he was sure someone had said the guy’s parents had died, leaving him all alone with his uptight self.

  “Tap your repercussions.”

  Castillo Security? If searching out Banks’s family required those kind of resources, did Dominic really need to defuse the situation? Wouldn’t the team have Banks out before it was an issue?

  A heartbeat later, Dominic closed his eyes and bit back a groan.

  Yeah. It was already an issue or Brody wouldn’t have dropped the order.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Top priority.”

  “Who do I report to?”

  The silence was only broken by static.

  Then the line went dead.

  Dominic knew it wasn’t a bad connection.

  It was Brody’s way of telling him they’d just crossed over into black-ops territory. This particular mission wasn’t sanctioned, hadn’t been green-lighted—or probably even heard of—by the powers that be.

  If he got in trouble, he was on his own.

  If he needed help, he’d have to find it himself.

  And if he screwed up, he’d be tidily disciplined.

  The military was funny that way.

  Dominic dumped his bowl into the sink, only taking a second to rinse it. He knew Rosa would be by to clean before shutting the cabin up until his return, and dirty dishes pissed her off.

  He grabbed his duffel, checked his wallet for cash and pulled his jacket back on. As he straddled the Harley, he punched a button on his phone.

  “Lucas, I got a job for you.”

  * * *

  GLEAMING JUST AS brightly as the glittering curtains and glistening stage, Lara Banks stood tall. Shoulders back, chest out and chin high. Sequins decorated the lush curves of her breasts and her shimmering skin reflected the multicolored lights.

  Turquoise feathers floating around her thighs matched the ones on her headdress, a vivid contrast with the fuchsia lamé bikini bottoms and the gloves that stretched from her fingertips to the elbows she held bent at a forty-five-degree angle to hold up the feather fan at just the right angle to contrast with the rest of the girls in the line.

  The music’s tempo changed, and Lara swept the fan down to her knee. The vivid purple ostrich plumes tickled her bare flesh as she swished the fan high again and hitch kicked with the rest of the chorus line. She breathed through her nose, her cheeks stretched in a smile so wide her cheeks hurt. As hard as it was to dance in high platform heels, some nights her face ached more than her arches.

  She could have taken a position farther back on the stage. She’d still have had to smile, but not as big. But stage left, smack-dab in front of the audience, meant she had to show not just her teeth, but a whole lot of enthusiasm. But the first position paid more, and the enthusiasm didn’t have to be real.

  Once she’d loved dancing. It’d been her life, her everything. She’d reveled in the training and embraced the discipline it took to make the body move in ways to which it wasn’t naturally inclined. She’d donned her first tutu at three, tap shoes at eight and, dammit, a showgirl’s headdress at twenty-two.

  She’d given up her childhood for dance. Dating, the mall with girlfriends, even proms had all been happily sacrificed for dance. When push came to shove, she’d chosen dancing over her family. Not that they cared. It’d been eight years since she’d had contact with any of them, and she still wasn’t sure if they’d noticed she was gone.

  But life, being the big ole kick in the butt that it was, had made sure that all her passion, all her sacrifices hadn’t mattered. A car accident four years ago had resulted in a bad break of her left femur and the end of her stint on Broadway. Fate and its wicked sense of humor had followed that up by sending her Mr. Perfect. And he’d been just that...perfectly charming, perfectly seductive, perfectly reasonable when he’d convinced her to drain her savings account and run away with him to his casino in Reno, where she’d choreograph his latest headlining show. Talk about a break.

  It’d only taken her a week and all but her last hundred to realize he’d been full of shit. Well, that and walking into the room of the hotel he’d claimed to own and finding all of her stuff—and him—gone, and the bill waiting under
the door. The only things he’d owned were a great ass, a charming smile and a BMW.

  She’d learned her lesson.

  Don’t trust men. There was no such thing as a big break and when a pretty girl was broke, friendless and alone in Reno, almost every choice involved taking off her clothes.

  She’d chosen to take hers off on stage wearing feathers and a ten-pound headdress, with twenty other women. And since she was a showgirl who only danced the early shows and not a principal, she only had to strip down to the equivalent of a sequined bikini.

  It wasn’t Broadway.

  But dance wasn’t her passion anymore, so she figured that evened out.

  As she strutted along the edge of the stage, her gaze skimmed the audience with disinterested eyes. She couldn’t see past the front row, and most guys who ponied up the dough for up close and personal were card-carrying members of the pervert posse.

  She found her mark, front stage left, shimmying in place while the principals gracefully mounted ribbon-covered swings, arching their topless bodies backward as the swings rose to sweep out over the crowd. Catcalls rang over the applause as the women shifted upward to dance on the slender bars of the swings.

  One of the perverts jumped onto the stage and tried to grab a swing, coming away with just a handful of plastic flowers. The dancers didn’t miss a step as a burly man dressed in black wove through their still-kicking legs to grab the guy and haul him off the stage.

  Lara barely resisted rolling her eyes as the security man dragged the idiot away. Then a movement in the front row caught her eye.

  Her gaze shifted to the left.

  Oh, my. A little breathless, and not from the dance steps, her smile dimmed a little.

  He was gorgeous.

  Dark, intense and emitting such a gimme vibe that she was grateful that the sequins of her bra kept her nipples from showing.

  He was big. Big enough to loom over the guys in the seats around him.

  He was sexy. The kind of sexy that made her knees weak and her tummy shake. The kind of sexy that made her want to promise anything, just for one taste.