Ruined by the SEAL

By: Zoe York

 (ASSIGNMENT_ Caribbean Nights Book 2)



Beach, beer, sleep.

After months of rehab and fighting his discharge from the Navy SEAL teams, he needed all three badly. And at his first deep inhale of the salty Caribbean air, he’d been surprised to discover that deep down, this crazy plan his SEAL buddy Will Parry had sent him on felt right.

He could smell the sunscreen and feel the ice-cold beer in his hand already.

Hello, Sugar Island. He’d bought the beer at the airport, from two smiling men selling them from a cooler next to the customs hut. A hut. At an international airport.

But any place that handed out beer to new arrivals sounded about right to the tired and grumpy toddler trapped inside Mick’s grown-man body.

Sugar Island wasn’t the Caribbean nation’s real name, of course. Miralinda just had that nickname because of the historical sugar plantations that had been so valuable to the French colonists that settled here in the early seventeenth century.

One of those plantations—and the titanium rod in Mick’s leg—had forced a change of plans. He couldn’t play beach bum forever, but he had enough savings to spend the rest of the winter under the Caribbean sun, and thanks to Will’s grandmother, maybe by the time the summer arrived, he’d have a new career.

Villa Sucre—Will’s inheritance—was going to get a new lease on life. They were going to turn the tired, no-longer-functional plantation into an executive training facility. Give wealthy business owners a legitimate, tax-write off reason to visit the island, and maybe teach them a few survival and team-building skills while they were at it.

Mick had the easy job. Show up, secure some construction permits, and lie on the beach until Brayden Lucas, the third Musketeer in their crazy plan, arrived on the island. A fellow SEAL, Lucas had two more months of active duty, and then he’d join Mick to begin construction.

They’d have three months to get the place operational, and then Will would join them and hit the ground running with the first flight of training groups.

It was a crazy plan.

It was a good plan.

And best of all, it allowed Mick to chill the fuck out for a while, first—if he could remember how.

His taxi stopped smack in the middle of the circular drive, right in front of the entrance to the faded white colonial two-story mansion. Three chickens lazily pecking their way across the drive added a certain ambience Mick wasn’t expecting as well.

As soon as Mick stepped out of the cab, he could hear the music.

Pulsing R&B, the good kind that would make him want to dance if he wasn’t like an oversized elephant in a club. Someone had decent taste in music. He paid the driver and added a generous tip, refusing his offer to stick around. “I’m not heading out again today, no matter what. Thank you very much for the ride.”

The driver handed over a business card. “I live in Petite Ciotat, so if you need anything—a ride somewhere, or an emergency rescue—just call.”

All he needed at the moment was a nap.

“I’ll be fine.” He grinned as they shook hands, then he stepped out of the way and stretched, easing the ache in his leg and his back.

Inside he found dust.


The wide plank floor was covered in it, and as he walked down the central corridor in the direction of the thumping bass-beat, he left a trail of footprints.

Not a problem. He wasn’t the trespasser, although he had the sinking suspicion that the owner of the music wouldn’t see it that way.

He glanced into each room as he passed. A living room up front, although it probably had a fancier name than that. A dining room. On the other side, a massive room that had probably been a ballroom.

Every room had drop sheets covering the scant amount of remaining furniture. Neatly typed pieces of paper hung next to each entrance way, detailing what work needed to be done. At the bottom of each note was a dire warning. All work must be approved by Cara Levasseur.

Oh, honey, you’ve got such a rude awakening coming your way in ten, nine, eight…

He found her in the kitchen, high on a step stool, cleaning the inside of a cupboard. He noticed her legs, first. Long. Curvy. The warmest shade of brown he’d ever seen. Bare. She was wearing shorts, and they were, in fact, short.

Her legs were spectacular.

Above that she had some lacy shirt thing, but it was mostly obscured by long, wavy ringlets falling down her back. The wild mix of blonde and brown curls did a strange thing to his insides. Or maybe it was that her hair and her perfect legs both pointed right at her jiggling bottom.

Someone liked to dance.

His countdown to a rude awakening died inside his chest. This wasn’t going to be fun. He looked for the source of her music—a cell phone plugged into portable speakers—and pulled the plug out of the wall. The music dropped to a tinny whisper.

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