A SEAL’s Desire Read online

  Not an easy task. Especially since she’d once had different plans.

  When she’d gone to film school, she’d meant to direct movies for the big screen. Massive, complicated productions that would make her audiences forget their problems for a few hours.

  She’d been only six when her parents died and she was placed in the foster care system. When Mika and Scott Price took her in, their home had seemed like the safe haven she desperately needed. They’d certainly done their best to teach a lost little girl to love again. Bit by bit, she’d trusted Mika and Scott with her heart, and by the time she was eight she had adjusted to her new life, new family, new school and friends.

  She still remembered the day the three of them had gone to the bank to open a savings account just for her.

  “For university,” Scott had said. “We’ll put some money in every year, and you’ll be all set by the time you go.”

  Two years later, Scott was gone, felled by a heart attack at thirty-nine.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mika said the day the social worker came to take Renata away again. “I just… can’t.”

  In her next placement, Renata made sure not to open her heart. Her new foster parents didn’t seem to notice. The following placement was at a group home. In the one after that, the couple’s marriage was falling apart. She kept her head down and spent most of her time in the room she shared with their young daughter, Patricia, reassuring her while her parents screamed at each other in their bedroom down the hall. Renata was thirteen when she was placed in her last situation with Mary and Danny Baybrook. It was far from the best, but it wasn’t the worst, either. Finally old enough to babysit and make a little money, she opened a new savings account, remembering what Scott had said about school. When she was fifteen, she looked up the price of university tuition and realized she was going to need a lot more money. Reluctantly, she’d given up watching kids and found a proper job waitressing, working every spare hour she had.

  “Right, then. We’re done,” Donny told her one morning as she was making her way out the door two weeks after her sixteenth birthday.

  “Done with what?”

  “Done with fostering. Had enough. Want the house to ourselves. Expect it’s back to the group home with you. Get your stuff packed when you’re back from school.”

  He left for work. Renata didn’t bother tracking down his wife, Mary. Didn’t bother going to school, either. She tramped back up the stairs, packed her things and walked out.

  She didn’t need foster care anymore.

  After couch surfing at friends’ houses for a couple of weeks, she found a live-in nanny position. In exchange for room, board and a modest stipend, she watched three kids after school, cooked and cleaned, and kept her weekend waitressing job. She hustled hard and did what it took to eventually get scholarships to a small but prestigious school. She’d loved Brian, Luke and Amy, and it had been hard to leave them behind when she graduated.

  What sustained her all those years were movies. Renata watched everything from kids’ videos to epic fantasy sagas. She knew someday she’d create stories that lifted people out of their lives and set them free from the tyranny of the pain of living in the real world.

  But first she had to get her girls through school.

  There were seven of the original twenty-three left. Paying students, those who matriculated after the Colina Blanca disaster, had steadied the school’s finances and would give Mayra and Gabriela long-term security in their jobs, but the seven remaining students who’d lost their families to the Colina Blanca disaster had been left with nothing. Five, six and seven years old when the mudslide wiped out their village, they remembered little else except the school. Mayra and Gabriela were their mothers, Renata a sort of distant aunt.

  Renata had promised to cover their costs through graduation. Like her, the girls would need to work and pay their own way through higher education. Many of the older students had done so already. In her emails and texts, she reminded the remaining girls that if she could do it, they could, too.

  Three more years. Three more years of paying a monthly stipend for each girl and her pledge to the San Pedro school would be fulfilled. She was proud of what she’d accomplished. Proud of the girls who’d overcome so much sorrow and loss to go on to lead productive lives.

  In three years, everything would change. Done with her extra monthly payments to cover the girls’ costs, she could tighten her personal budget until it squeaked and finally walk away from Martin Fulsom and his infuriating way of controlling her life. She’d walk away from reality television, too. Who needed reality, anyway?

  She’d grab hold of the career she’d always wanted and finally show the world what she could do. Take Hollywood by storm—

  Or maybe she’d take a little break first.

  Renata inhaled a deep breath, turned around and let the noise and hubbub of the wedding wash over her. The manor was a marvelous old building with hardwood floors and old-fashioned touches. The ballroom where they were celebrating was utterly beautiful. Renata often wished she could come here as a guest, don an old-fashioned gown and while away her hours in some gentle old-timey pursuit, not a care in the world.

  Reality television directors didn’t have extra hours in which to try old-timey pursuits, though, and right now she was working. No leisurely afternoons for her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d put up her feet and taken it easy. Or hung out with a group of friends. Or anything other than work, really.

  She made her way toward a knot of cameramen and crew members filming the celebration, her impractical, old-fashioned bridesmaid’s gown swishing around her ankles. She’d been touched when Eve Wright had asked her to be part of the wedding party. Until Eve had arrived at Base Camp, Renata had kept a distance between herself and the cast.

  When she reached the crew, she pointed at a couple who were awkwardly dancing: Jericho Cook, one of the four original men who’d come to Westfield ranch to start the community, and his extremely pregnant wife, Savannah. “Make sure you get that,” she told Byron, the youngest and most excitable member of the crew.

  She slipped through the crowd that thronged the manor. Some of the women in the community ran the Jane Austen–inspired lodging, and all of Base Camp’s weddings were held here. There’d been six so far. Seven now.

  Three to go, Renata thought. It was late January, and the show would conclude at the end of May, which left her wondering what would happen next. Would Fulsom keep her on three more years to document his work, the way she used to do? Her gaze slipped to the newest member of the Base Camp crew. Clem Bailey. He’d joined the show just over a month ago and wanted her job badly. Had almost succeeded in taking it. She’d gotten her revenge—showing Fulsom what a manipulative misogynist he was. Did Fulsom care?

  That remained to be seen. No word had come down about who would direct the show from now on. She’d expected Fulsom to kick Clem off the moment he’d learned the man had been let go of his previous job for sexual harassment.

  So far Fulsom had kept his opinions to himself.

  Sometimes Renata thought no one cared about values or duty anymore. Fulsom certainly didn’t, or he wouldn’t repay her years of loyalty by foisting a man like Clem on her production. She’d taken Fulsom’s ridiculous idea—a television show about ten men building a sustainable community—and his ridiculous rules—they had to build ten sustainable homes powered by green energy, grow enough food to make it through the winter, marry and produce three pregnancies within a year—and made the show a smash hit. Sending Clem to “fix” it was cruel.

  That was life, though. Cruel.

  “Nice wedding, huh?” a man’s voice asked.

  Renata hesitated before she nodded. She interacted daily with all the inhabitants of Base Camp, the ten men who’d initially joined the experiment and seven women who’d been recruited along the way as wives—plus Avery Lightfoot, one of the earliest women to join them, who was still single. Greg Devon unsettled her in a way that
the other men didn’t, though. It wasn’t that she caught him looking at her sometimes, or his relative quietness in this group of unruly people, or even the scope of his knowledge—the man was an encyclopedia when it came to information about renewable energy. Something else niggled at her. A feeling that he knew something about her. Or that she knew something about him. Something she couldn’t quite remember.

  “Saw you looking out the window,” he said. “Are you worried this winter will never end?”

  “Should be close to over by the time you marry.”

  Greg’s eyes narrowed at the reminder of his upcoming nuptials. “Let’s grab a drink.”

  Normally Renata would decline, but tonight a drink sounded good, and she followed him through the crowd as he fetched her a glass of wine. He chose a beer for himself and shouldered his way back through the throng until they reached one of the tables set up around the outskirts of the room for guests who didn’t choose to dance.

  Renata sat with him, although she kept her attention on the room at large. She was still nominally the director of Base Camp. Co-director. She spotted Clem across the room leering at the daughter of a local rancher. The man was a menace. What was taking Fulsom so long to remove him from the show?

  “Do you have any ideas on that front?” she asked Greg to distract herself. “Finding a wife?” The clock was ticking, after all. He’d drawn the short straw this afternoon. Now he had forty days to marry—or lose all of this. Renata had a feeling Greg would do whatever it took to secure Base Camp.

  “I know who I want to marry,” Greg said darkly. Renata, surprised, turned just as he plucked a seedpod from the floral centerpiece, balanced it on the table and flicked it with his finger. It sailed between two champagne flutes and landed inches from her elbow. “Goal,” he added with a sardonic grin. He took a drag of his beer. “If only getting her to the altar was that easy.”

  Renata picked up the seedpod and turned it in her fingers as she considered this. Greg knew who he wanted to marry? She swallowed against a surge of disappointment. As one of the participants in the show, he had to find a wife. She’d known that for months but hadn’t let herself think about it. Now she had to, which meant she had to admit to herself she had the teeniest, tiniest crush on Greg.

  Not that she’d ever let him know.

  Greg lined up two water glasses on his side of the table, and Renata couldn’t help focusing on his hands. They were strong, with square palms and muscular wrists. Over the months she’d interacted with him here at Base Camp, they’d often caught her attention. A man could do a lot with hands like that.

  She raised her gaze to Greg’s face to distract herself from that thought, trying to ignore the twist of desire low in her body. She’d spent every day of the last eight months in constant contact with ten of the most virile men she’d ever met in her life. It was to be expected that sometimes she would respond to their proximity. That was all this was—a bodily response.

  Or so she’d told herself many a time. It wasn’t true, though. Not even a little bit.

  She hoped like hell Greg couldn’t read her mind.

  “Take your shot.” He indicated the glasses.

  Why not? She balanced the seedpod on end on the tablecloth and flicked her finger. It sailed through the glasses as easily as his had. She’d always been good at contests, with a natural dexterity and athleticism she might have had more opportunities to nurture if her life had turned out different.

  Greg raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

  She shrugged.

  “Two out of three?” he challenged.

  She gestured to the champagne flutes. “Be my guest.”

  He took a shot. Scored.

  She took a shot and scored as well.

  “Shoot-out,” he said. “First unanswered goal wins.”

  She nodded, getting into the game. He scored again.

  So did she.

  Greg grinned. “Folks, I think we have a contender.”

  “Wrong sport.”

  “What do you know about sports?” He scored again.

  “A lot.” She took the seedpod back, balanced it. Flicked.

  Greg took a swig of his beer as the seedpod cruised straight between the water glasses.

  “With that posh English accent of yours, I figured maybe you’d know a little about polo, but…” He made his shot.

  “My British accent isn’t that posh.” Americans had no idea when it came to accents. Greg’s was hard to place, but Renata knew from the show’s records he came from a small town near Portland. A rural town. What had it been like to grow up in a commune?

  He never talked about it.

  Greg set down his beer and leaned forward, his elbows braced on the table, looming over the water glasses that made up the goal she was aiming for. “You won’t make this one,” he said menacingly.

  Renata flicked the seedpod.

  Made the goal.

  Then leaned over the table just as he had and tried to adopt his menacing expression and tone. “You, my friend, are the one who won’t make this one.”

  Greg’s lips twitched. “I’m frightened.”

  “You should be.”

  His shot cruised right through the flutes and hit the bodice of her gown with a soft thwack. Renata glanced down at the iron-gray fabric. Turned back to Greg. Picked up the seedpod, balanced it on the white tablecloth, flicked it and hit him square on the chin—after it sailed between the water glasses.

  “Goal.”

  Greg didn’t move—until he did. His right hand gripped her wrist so fast she didn’t have time to pull back. They leaned over the table like arm-wrestling contestants. Renata’s heart beat a fast tattoo as a swoop of sensation washed through her, a fast rush of lust followed by a long, slow burn that left her much too aware of him. It wasn’t the first time today such a thing had happened. Greg had taken her hand earlier—before the wedding—and left her just as breathless.

  She had to make it stop.

  “Don’t you know you’re playing with fire when you come at me like that?” he asked.

  “You don’t scare me.” He hadn’t until now. She’d never expected her body to react so strongly to him, and it unnerved her to think he could penetrate her defenses so easily. She was used to being in control, but she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t kept an eye on him during her time here. Greg was handsome. A man with a thick shock of dark hair, deep brown eyes and a way of sitting back and watching what went on around him with a ghost of a smile that implied he was enjoying some inside joke. He was rarely the center of attention in this group. Boone Rudman tended to take charge. Curtis Lloyd was the jokester. Jericho Cook the poster-child whose model-level good looks fooled people into overlooking his intelligence. Greg hung back, but he was an intriguing man. He reminded Renata of someone, but she’d never quite been able to put her finger on who.

  He was capable. Accomplished. Sure of himself. Dedicated to his work and to Base Camp. He was the kind of man she’d want to be with if she wanted to be with any man. He’d be a good husband. A good father—

  She didn’t have time for that now, though. Romance was for some distant future when she’d gotten her girls through school and made her mark on the film industry. As for children—

  “Good. I don’t want to scare you.” Greg’s fingertips brushed her palm as he let go, and Renata’s breath caught. She missed his touch as soon as it was gone.

  She needed to lay off the wine.

  Greg was watching her again. “What?” she demanded, thoroughly flustered and angry at herself for it.

  He shrugged. “Nothing. Just enjoying the view. You’re a beautiful woman, Renata.”

  Renata snorted. This kind of flirtation she knew how to handle. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten my question.” She was back in director mode, her voice sharp, brooking no evasions. “Who are you going to marry?”

  Greg grinned again, and something inside her fluttered. She wasn’t the fluttering type, damn him.

 
; “You sure you want the answer to that?”

  Renata swallowed. No. Come to think of it, she really didn’t want the answer. But it was her job to ask the question.

  “Renata?”

  She nearly blessed Byron for the interruption, but she’d never let him know how much she appreciated it. The only way to keep an unruly crew in line was with iron control. “Yes?”

  “They’re cutting the cake. I can’t find Clem anywhere. Do you want to come and—”

  “I’ll be right there.” She stood up as Byron darted off. “Remember, we’re tied,” she told Greg. No way was she going to let him think she was conceding their contest.

  He stood, too. She was tall, but he was taller, and the frank pleasure he seemed to take in that fact unnerved her all over again. He moved around the table to place a hand on her back and guided her through the crowd. Another tingle ran through the network of her nerves.

  “We’ll get our rematch another time,” he promised. When they reached the table where the happy couple was prepared to slice into an enormous frosted confection, his hand dropped to hers, and he squeezed it, then slipped away.

  Renata watched him go.

  The next forty days were going to be hell.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  When a commotion woke Greg just after one in the morning, he thought a prowler must have been caught on Base Camp land. After their root cellar had been broken into and most of their food stolen some months back, they’d set up patrols through the night, but Westfield was a large ranch, and there were only so many men. They couldn’t all stay up every night.

  The bunkhouse door swung open, and Jericho stuck his head inside. “Savannah’s in labor. We’re heading to the hospital now. Clay, Nora and Riley are riding with us.” All around Greg, the single members of Base Camp, who slept on mats on the floor here, sat up, fully alert.

  Greg stumbled out of his sleeping bag. Angus was already on his feet, jeans half-on. Walker was rising silently. Avery sat half in, half out of her bag, blinking sleep from her eyes. Walker touched her shoulder as he passed, heading to stow his bedroll away. Avery got to her feet and padded to the bathroom, stopping to grab some clothes.