Ruined by the SEAL

By: Zoe York

The jiggling stopped. She whipped her head around, giving him a totally no big deal that you caught me dancing look. Her face was just as spectacular as her legs. Heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and large, bright eyes surrounded by flawless mocha skin. “Can I help you?”

“Good afternoon. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Not a problem.” She hopped down, her hair flying off in all directions as she strode across the room and pressed a button on her phone, turning off the now-quiet music. Then she held out her hand. “Cara Levasseur. I wasn’t expecting any tradespeople this afternoon.”

Her accent was slight. He found himself straining to catch more of it.

He shook her hand, surprised by how firm her grip was. “Mick Frasier. And I’m not a contractor.”

He’d never been one to avoid conflict. He had the high ground of surprise here, and he should use it to his advantage. There was a letter in his bag that he should whip out now so he could blithely watch as she scurried out the door.

Seriously? Second thoughts because she’s pretty?

She wasn’t just pretty, though. He wanted to think there was a look in her eye, an innocence…

But that was ridiculous.

So even though it took him a few beats longer than usual, he squared his shoulders. He was a cold-hearted bastard. Requirement of the last job, and apparently, useful in the new one, too. Besides, he was fucking tired and needed to lie down before he fell over. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Ms. Levasseur. You’re renovating a house that doesn’t belong to you.”

Her green eyes darkened, like the bottom of the sea churning up as a storm approached. Appropriate. “Excuse me?”

“This estate. I’ve been sent here by the owner.”

“What are you playing at? The owner has passed away. I represent the Miralinda Historical Society.”

“Mrs. Gwendolyn Parry?”

She gave him a wary look. “Yes.”

“I represent her grandson.”

The wary look turned ice-cold. “I think you’d best explain what you mean. Does he mean to establish a claim against Villa Sucre?”

She pronounced it veeja sucre, the blend of spanish and french snapping through his fatigue and sparking something inside him. Something that hungered to hear her say more. Anything, really. Maybe while he closed his eyes and the ocean crashed nearby. He’d blink up at her every so often to appreciate her mouth, wide and lush. It was gorgeous even as she pinched her dusky pink lips together in disapproval. He wondered what else she said that sounded like sex on the wind.

He’d never find out. Shoving aside his sleep-deprivation-induced island-girl fantasy, he unzipped the outside pocket on his bag and pulled out the letter Will’s lawyer had drawn up and handed it over.

She eyed him, and the paper, reluctantly, then snapped it away. She cocked her hip to one side and her head to the other as she slowly read, then glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. Her entire being doubted his veracity.

“This can’t be true. Why are you here and not this…Will Parry?”

“I’m acting as his agent in this regard.”

“A Parry unable to make time for Villa Sucre. No surprise there. And you expect me to believe this is authentic?”

No matter how seductive a woman’s voice, she didn’t get to suggest his best friend was anything but honorable. “I have no doubt it is.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you and the absentee Will Parry, but his grandmother bequeathed this estate to the Miralinda Historic Society. We received a similar letter from the same law office, months before the date on this letter. We did our due diligence and as you can see, we’ve begun restoration.”

He frowned. None of this made sense. “There’s gotta be a mistake.”

“I’m afraid if there has been, it is in your visit to this island.”

“Hey!” He was fuming like a bull now, his nostrils flaring and steam practically coming out his ears, but she was just so damn sure of herself. “What if the error lies in your understanding of the situation?”

“That seems unlikely, given that we’ve known for the better part of a decade that the late Mrs. Parry would donate the estate to avoid a substantial death tax on the property.”

“Death tax?” Jesus Christ, this was getting better and better. He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly end of the work day.” And it was Friday to boot. Fuck. “I’ll call Will, and have him follow up with this lawyer, and I’m sure you’ll want to do the same. But that’s probably going to take some time, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…”

▶ Also By Zoe York

▶ Last Updated

▶ Hot Read

▶ Recommend

Top Books