Page 4 of Tempted by a SEAL

Chapter 1

Navy SEAL Hunter “Hook” Murdock grimaced as he took a swig of the lukewarm soda, muttering a curse under his breath. He shifted on his barstool, irritation seeping through him as laughter and conversations filled the air around him. He wasn’t normally one to crave an ice-cold Coke, but damn. What the hell did the Brits have against ice cubes anyway?

He had half a mind to ask for a pint instead, but he never drank on the job.

And this one was just getting started.

Sweeping his gaze across the crowded pub, he caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar—dark, shortly cropped hair that was just starting to look scruffy, the one-week-old growth of beard leftover from his latest op, the hint of an anchor tattoo on his bicep peeking out beneath his sleeve, and a second tattoo of a snake curling up his muscled forearm.

As if his appearance wasn’t enough, the scowl on his face scared off most people.

If he wanted the company of a beautiful woman for the night, he could turn on the charm like the best of them—flash a smile, flex his biceps. Whisper a few meaningless words about how beautiful she was.

Not that he’d be picking up a woman in the middle of conducting surveillance.

His eyes scanned the noisy pub again, filling with Londoners after a day’s work. Suit jackets were coming off. Sleeves getting pushed up. The greasy smell of fish and chips permeated the air, glasses clinked behind the bar as orders were rushed to be filled, and his stomach rumbled.

Damn he was hungry. But food could come later.

The young female bartender walked back over to him, leaning against the bar so that he could see the cleavage spilling out of her low-cut top. “Can I get you anything else, love?”

“How about a cup full of ice?”

She laughed, her breasts bobbing up and down as she stood. “You Americans.”

He bristled as she walked away to help another customer. Maybe he could just wear a damn American flag to draw even more attention to himself.

Jesus Christ.

Most of his SEAL team was on a C-17 transport plane back to the States after conducting their latest op in the Middle East—rescuing the daughter of an American Senator who’d been taken hostage. Hunter’s Delta SEAL team had joined the Alpha SEALs from Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek to conduct the rescue mission. The two teams made an intimidating show of force and were among the best of the best—elite, highly trained, and heavily armed. Although one of the SEALs had been injured, the op had otherwise gone off as planned.

Patrick “Ice” Foster, the leader of the Alpha SEALs, had been laid up in a hospital in Landstuhl, Germany but was finally back in Virginia on the road to recovery. He’d even gotten himself hitched to his girlfriend after the incident.

Ice was married. Imagine that.

Crazy what the threat of imminent death could lead a man to do.

Not that Hunter had anyone waiting for him back home.

Or that he wanted anyone to be.

Hunter’s gut had churned as he’d watched the other SEAL team load onto the Black Hawks outside the terrorist camp in Afghanistan with Ice’s limp body being dragged by two of the other men. That type of shit was something no one wanted to see.

Hunter and his Delta team had provided cover, sweeping the perimeter of camp as they shot at stray insurgents. Watching the other team get the fuck out of dodge.

Between the two SEAL teams, they’d taken out multiple terrorists as they infiltrated the camp. Come under heavy fire. Rescued the American hostage.

But that didn’t lessen his taste for revenge.

Or his need to track down any and all others affiliated with the terror group.

The latest intelligence from the Pentagon indicated another woman may have been taken hostage—a British archeologist who’d gone to Afghanistan to conduct research. She’d been able to enter the country posing as an aid worker but hadn’t been heard from in several days. Her American colleague had reported she’d never returned to the aid group’s housing after they’d gotten separated at a market in Kabul.

The latest SITREP, or situation report of an unfolding incident, indicated the archeologist’s suspected kidnapping may have been orchestrated by a couple of British citizens who’d turned over her information for a pretty penny—make that a pretty pound in this case.

He smirked.

Hunter had been in London on R&R when word from the Pentagon came in about the terrorists’ ties to Kensington. He’d abandoned his plans to finish sight-seeing and flirting with British women during his much-needed time off and had set up shop in a hotel down the street.

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