So excited that yesterday
Accidental SEAL was up on Amazon. It was my wedding anniversary, my daughter's birthday, I picked up my youngest at the airport for my other son's wedding on Saturday, and my first in the SEAL series went live. Life just doesn't get better than that.
Starting today, and for the next 3 days,
SEAL Encounter will be free on Amazon. It chronicles the two primary characters in
Accidental SEAL, but comes just short of actually letting them meet. To do that, you have to buy the full length book. Have I hooked you yet?
About Accidental SEAL:
Christy Nelson embarks on her new career in Real Estate by
holding her first open house. Entering the wrong house, by accident, she finds the nude sleeping body of a young man.
Navy SEAL Kyle Lansdowne, on a mission to find his AWOL Team
buddy, is staying at his buddy’s home while investigating the disappearance. When someone breaks in, he takes
protective measures. He doesn’t expect to find that a beautiful young woman is
responsible for his teammate’s abduction.
What starts out as a meeting by accident becomes a hot
affair neither one is ready for. Kyle is conflicted about getting Christy
involved in his mission, but his hand is forced when he learns the same San
Diego gang responsible for his teammate’s abduction has kidnapped her.
Battling a cadre of dirty law enforcements hell-bent on
getting military equipment, especially state-of-the-art firepower, Kyle is
forced to admit that he would be willing to die to protect her.
Excerpt,
Accidental SEAL:
Chapter 1
Christy Nelson worked to keep her
breakfast down when Wayne Sommerville came lurking around her cubicle. He’d
pestered her every day since she’d been introduced as the newest agent at the
Patterson Realty sales meeting three days ago. His soft, flabby torso was
repulsive, and those distinctive hair plugs, installed at an angle on Wayne’s
shiny salmon-colored forehead, were distracting. Her gaze followed rows of
black dots receding into his dyed-black hair. A life-sized version of Mr.
King’s Chuckie.
Wayne winked at her again, and her blood
turned to ice.
His horse teeth and foul breath could
raise the dead. He’d made it clear he wanted to mentor her, but she suspected
he had more in mind than real estate contracts and short sales. He was
persistent, though. She’d give him that.
He draped his bulky frame against the
back of her chair. She wanted to duck for cover. The eerie need to protect her
neck put her radar on high alert as she visualized violence and fangs.
“I’ve coached quite a few of the new
agents over the years.” Wayne’s look lasted too long—hungry and inappropriate.
Christy didn’t trust one single hair plug.
“Well,” she said, resisting the urge to
escape, “I do need a good open house.
Now,
why did I say that?
“I’ve got the perfect one! Great little
short sale.” Wayne launched into his routine, oblivious to the fact she’d
become dizzy from the smell of the garlic fries he’d apparently had for lunch.
“The house is a little rough around the edges, but in a super neighborhood. The
sellers are about to lose it.” He threw her a mock frown. She could see him
singing a hymn, asking for money on TV.
Perhaps
a second career.
“No sign on the lawn yet and it’s not
even on the computer,” he continued. “You can snatch all those buyers for
yourself.” He leaned in and whispered like it was a national secret. “And I
could help you with the paperwork. You know, show you how it’s done.”
Male
alert. If he touches me, he’ll get a knee to his groin. She swung her chair to angle for quick
action.
He stepped back just in time. She
exhaled, grateful for the distance.
“Doing short sales is a real art,” he
added with a frown, stiffening. His shiny suit fit like one of those
unfortunate animals in a teddy bear factory, stuffed into its fur. The silver
glint of the fabric reminded her of fish scales.
Run, Christy, run. You could be the one who
got away…
She had never in her life paid a favor
with sex and wasn’t about to start. She would hold his new listing open, but
only if she could do it without owing him.
Besides, she had to do something to drum
up business. Her move to San Diego marked the beginning of her new professional
career as a Realtor. Being the top salesperson at Madame M’s lingerie boutique
on Maiden Lane in San Francisco had only barely paid the bills. She’d loved
Madame and had thrived as a sales clerk, but had recognized the time for a real
career and had trained in Real Estate, then moved to San Diego after her mother
had passed on and left her condo to Christy.
Though she’d been was comfortable selling
to the rich and powerful of the City by the Bay, Wayne, even if he was half the
success he claimed he was, made her nervous.
This
is a very bad idea. Just say no.
“Fine.” It sounded like it came from the
cubicle next to her.
But then she spotted Wayne’s dimples and
canines.
Oh.
My. God. I’ve just said yes.
Christy’s red Honda looked like a wet
cherry lollipop, shined and polished to perfection. Cute and shiny on the
outside, but hot and sweltering on the inside. Sitting in the cramped front
seat, she stopped and squinted to make out house numbers, comparing them to the
address Wayne had minutely scribbled on the back of his business card. Then she
found it.
The house appeared nicer than he’d
described. The advertised price, he said, was the lowest in the neighborhood,
going back ten years. Hopefully she’d pick up a young couple out looking for
their first home, complete with good credit and a wad of cash from Mommy and
Daddy. Wouldn’t it be great to make a sale on her very first day on the job?
She parked in the driveway, popped the
trunk, and brought out three sandwich signs with the Patterson Realty logo, on
loan from Wayne. He was out with his family today. She hoped the Somervilles
didn’t stop by since she’d feel uncomfortable looking into the eyes of Wayne’s
wife, a woman he probably cheated on and would again, if he got the chance. One
of Christy’s other rules: no married men. She wasn’t about to change that,
either.
A perfumed late spring breeze blew softly
against her face and neck, sending a thrill up her spine. The air ripened with
possibility. This was her favorite time of year.
The walkway looked freshly swept. After
placing one sign in the front yard, she stacked the other two beside the front
door and inserted Wayne’s key. While the lock accepted the new shiny silver
metal, the tumblers stayed in place, frozen.
Way
to go Wayne. Waste my time and give me the wrong key!
Irritation bubbled, ruining her cheerful,
spring-induced mood. She yanked on the front handle and pushed against it out
of frustration. It opened.
“Anybody home?” Her voice wavered like
that of a small child. She waited. No answer.
Christy stepped inside, onto a striped
cotton rug lying cockeyed behind the front door. The smell of fried food hit
her. She walked across the wooden floor of the living room, her stilettos
clacking. She cracked open a window. Air scented by fresh blossoms poured in,
diluting the smells of ordinary life. She grabbed the newspaper tossed on top
of an ottoman and folded the crinkling pages under her arm, aiming for the
kitchen to find a trashcan. She passed the dining room table, which was strewn
with a map of the area, a couple of felt-tipped pens, and a letter-sized yellow
lined tablet. She collected these items as well and made her way to the
kitchen.
Christy threw the tablet and newspaper
onto the tiled countertop and placed her hands on her hips to assess the scene
before her. She squinted at several days’ worth of dishes piled high in the
sink. Next to it, a large stainless steel bowl sat encrusted with dark green
and purple leaves at the bottom, evidence of a salad—several days old.
Maybe Wayne had neglected to tell the
sellers about the open house. She decided it was entirely possible. “How can
you expect to sell a house this way?” she muttered, then sighed and removed her
jacket, slinging it over the back of a clean-looking kitchen chair. She decided
to take a tour of the place, checking for other things to clean or straighten
before she’d be ready to hold it open.
But this house was such a mess, an uneasy
darkness chilled her. She tiptoed down the carpeted hallway, feeling like an
intruder, past empty rooms, to a closed door at the end.
Probably
the master bedroom.
Something about the whole scene was
strange. These people left without cleaning up dinner from several days before,
in a hurry. She’d been told short sale houses rarely showed pride of ownership,
but this felt absolutely creepy, like she’d stepped on someone’s grave. The
hair at the back of her neck bristled as she gripped the doorknob. She lightly
tapped with her other hand, and then opened the door.
A naked body lay on the bed.
Holy
crap.
Hesitant to look at first, she pushed
through her fear. She saw movement.
Tanned skin, a muscular male chest that rose and fell. Earphones were wired to
a phone balanced on his open palm. The man was very much alive, and healthy.
Her eyes drifted further down to a dusting of dark brown hair that led to an
impossible-to-miss erection. His penis stood at attention, like a deep
rose-colored light standard under a matching fireman’s hat of deeper pink.
Blood pumped to her ears, making them
ring, as her heart raced. A wave of anger coursed over her at the realization
she had been the victim of a very sick joke perpetrated by Wayne and one of his
disgusting friends.
Christy silently closed the door and
tiptoed back down the carpeted hallway, her three-inch heels wobbling on the
thick, padded surface. Her knees knocked against each other as she picked up
speed, her anger building. She grabbed her jacket, keys, and purse, and crossed
the living room, headed toward the front door. She was almost free.
Christy wouldn’t give the prankster the
satisfaction of knowing she had even seen him. She wanted to stomp her foot and
kick something through the window. This was Wayne’s doing.
That
sonofabitch and his lopsided plugs will pay for this.
She pulled the door handle and was
rewarded by the smells of a warm spring day bleeding through the inch-wide
crack she’d created. An enormous hand and forearm came from behind her and
slammed the door shut. She saw a familiar blue-green tattoo of some animal
tracks on his muscled forearm just before his other hand gripped her mouth.
Callused fingers pinched the sides of her cheeks. The grip hurt.
Sharon Hamilton
Life is one fool thing after another.
Love is two fool things after each other.
