Hot as Hell (Deep Six 0.5)(16)

“All clear?” Michael asked him, turning toward the table to re-arm himself and don the rest of his gear.

“You betcha.” Bran nodded, his eyes quickly taking in Harper’s bare feet and the fact that Michael’s hair was sticking up every which way, proof her fingers had been buried there not too long ago. When the guy’s teeth flashed white against his dark beard, she felt her cheeks heat. Luckily, he refrained from commenting on the obvious and instead went with, “The TTP holding O’Leary hostage came out of the offices. I think they thought if they used the ambassador as a human shield, they’d be able to escape the embassy. They were quickly taken down.”

He made it sound easy. But Harper was smart enough to know it had probably been anything but.

Michael did, too. Evidenced by his next question. “All the guys okay?”

Bran winked. “No worries. We’re all as pretty as we ever were.”

“And the ambassador?” she asked. Because even though the yellow-bellied ol’ fart had been happy to throw her to the wolves, O’Leary was still her responsibility.

“Safe,” Bran said, and she heaved a sigh of relief. “The building is clear. And the wounded Marines are being evaced. It’s over.”

Michael moved to stand beside her and, as always, his heat reached out to her in a soft caress. “That’s good,” he said, handing over her shoes. She dropped them to the floor, quickly stepping into them. “So then we’re ready to blow this popsicle stand, yeah?”

“More than that.” Bran’s grin widened. “We’re ready to blow this whole friggin’ country. Word from Washington says the embassy will be shut down immediately, and all personnel are to report back stateside. You know what that means, paisano? We’re outta here!”

Michael’s smile lit up his whole face, and he and Bran exchanged high fives. Then he turned to her, his expression sobering as he held out his hand. “Harper, I think you might want to keep your eyes closed while we exit, okay?”

She swallowed, knowing there were things out there she didn’t want to see—namely, the numerous bodies of the Taliban fighters that the Navy would no doubt take out to sea and deep six, Osama Bin Laden–style. Couldn’t leave them behind to be buried so that other radical militants could make shrines of their graves. Lacing her fingers through his, she screwed her eyes shut and nodded her readiness to be led from the room.

But he didn’t guide her toward the door. Instead he leaned close, his warm breath ruffling the hair near her temple. “So what do you say? You want to try being civilians together?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” she asked, her heart so full of hope and anticipation it was a wonder the silly, lovesick organ didn’t burst wide open. “I say lord, yes!”

And when she stepped out of the panic room with Michael at her side, she knew she was stepping into the future she’d always dreamed about…

Order Julie Ann Walker’s second book

in the Deep Six series

Devil and the Deep

On sale July 2016

Click here!





Read on for a sneak peek of

Devil and the Deep

Named one of the most anticipated

romance novels of 2016 by BookPage!





Prologue


June 9, 1624…

Blood!

The silent cry rang inside his head as sweat slipped down the groove of his spine like a snake oozing along a vine. His cracked rib protested every laboring breath against air thick with humidity and the sickly sweet aroma of fallen vegetation that rotted in the baking sun. And his heart…

His heart screamed for the blood of his enemies.

Bartolome Vargas, King Philip of Spain’s most decorated sea captain, instinctively reached for the short sword he kept in a scabbard on his belt, malice swimming through his veins like a living creature. But his searching fingers found no blade, just dry, cracking leather. Two weeks ago, his trusty cutlass had been swallowed by the same ravenous seas that had gulped down his beloved galleon.

Just as well.

If he attacked the trio of Englishmen who had rowed to shore, he would reveal himself and the remaining thirty-five members of his crew. Reveal that this small, deserted island held the secrets to what had become of the mighty Santa Cristina and the vast treasure she carried in her big belly.

Crouching just inside the tree line of silver palm, pitch apple, and mangrove, Bartolome took his eyes off the intruders and turned his attention to their ship. The brigantine jauntily flew the Union Jack and bobbed just beyond the reef that had protected this island from the worst ravages of the storm. Her sails were furled, her twin masts speared into the cloudless sky, and unbeknownst to the scurvy English bastards who crewed her, she was anchored a short distance from the sunken remains of the Santa Cristina.

The proximity made Bartolome’s skin crawl, so much so that he glanced down to assure himself he had not been overrun by sand fleas. Then, the tree the Englishmen had come ashore to cut down as a replacement for their cracked yardarm succumbed to their saws, the trunk letting out a painful squeal, and Bartolome quickly returned his attention to the scene at the edge of the beach. The tall, straight mangrove had withstood the ravages of the storm, but it could not withstand the brutal will of man. It tumbled onto the sand, its leaves scattering and rolling, pushed by the hot wind like flotsam and jetsam.