Page 32 of Stealth Mission

“We are good at that.”

I have a feeling he and his team have plenty of secrets.

When I turn to walk off, he calls, “SEAL or Delta Force?”

With his accent it comes out—Zeal or Delta Vorce…

The question makes the hairs on my nape rise. I turn back toward him, but don’t reply.

His grin returns, cocky this time. “Never mind. I know. Watch your back, frogman. If Sylvester thinks you’re sniffing around his woman…”

He makes a slicing motion across his throat.

In a flash, angry heat sears through me. “He can bring it. And by the way, she’s not his woman.”

With a shake of his head, Vik mumbles, “Ballsy motherfucker.”

Fuck right, I am. Sylvester is the one that needs to watch his back. I tip my chin. “What can I say? Once you get a taste of danger it’s hard to walk away.”

“You want another job, you come talk to me.”

I shove my phone into the back pocket of my suit trousers—the same pair I had on last night—as I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’ve already got my hands full.”

“You don’t even know.”

I’m not sure what he means but I soon have a clue.

His expression darkens. “Have you talked to the mayor about Sylvester and Marianna?”

“What’s the mayor got to do with that situation?”

“Marianna’s the mayor’s daughter. And Sylvester’s the man she’s promised to.”

Chapter Thirteen

My eyes might be tired, but they are not lying. The paper came from my notepad. But that’s definitely not my handwriting.

Let me know you’re okay when you get up. I’ll be by to put in some lights on the outside of the house later. W

Following the brief message are a series of numbers—his U.S. based phone number.

Wow.

For so many reasons.

I must have been out like a blown lightbulb to not hear Walt moving around inside my house.

I drop my head to the kitchen table. Yesterday was…crazy with a capital C.

Walt was the icing on the cake. Another capital C.

My god, that kiss. A capital K.

I’m still turned on. Capital T and O.

I groan and rock my head back and forth. I have a buzz and I didn’t even drink. When I sit up, the chair squeaks on the floor. It’s my kitchen, but it looks different. Things are brighter. My pulse is racing, too.

It’s not from the coffee. I hardly had any.

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