No Getting Over You (7 Brides for 7 SEALs Book 2) Page 2

  Well, no matter who owned this house, married or not, he sure did want to glimpse the inside of this architectural beauty. American history had been his minor in college. But when he joined ROTC to pay his way through school, he’d acted on his fascination with languages. Now, not only could he talk anybody under the table about revolutionary history, he could do it in English, Spanish and Arabic.

  Opening the back hatch of the SUV, he pushed over the wheel chair Nick Reardon had asked him to pick up this morning. A sleek light-weight contraption, it had jostled around as he’d headed up the George Washington Expressway, and he understood from Abby that he needed room for this lady’s suitcases and her bridesmaid gown. He’d called Viv LaClare a while ago when he’d finally found the medical equipment rental place off George Washington Parkway.

  He liked doing Nick and Abby the favor of getting the wheel chair for her brother who was also his former SEAL teammate. Terry Stuart had been a helluva warrior, and his burns in a firefight in the desert had been a real blow to him and to all the men. It was the least he could do for Terry to make certain he had a good wheelchair so he could attend his sister’s wedding.

  He jogged up the broad steps and rang the bell.

  An older woman ambled along the sidewalk and eyed him.

  A young man passed as he walked his dog.

  Britt cooled his heels. Viv LaClare did not answer her doorbell.

  He pushed it again. When he’d called earlier, she said to come right over. He couldn’t help the traffic jam on the roads into Georgetown.

  Viv LaClare. Her name sounded French. When she answered his call, she’d spoken with a regular American accent with a touch of soft Southern drawl. Abby’s matron of honor. A curator, too, like Abby.

  Where was she?

  He had to get a move on here. Due at a luncheon appointment downtown in two hours, he had to be quick about this. In all, he figured he had thirty-five minutes max to pick her up, drive her north to the country club in Potomac, and get back downtown by noon. He was slated to meet the head of a defense contracting company. The guy needed a new supervisor, and Britt considered leaving the SEALs to enter private life. After that, he had only to check into his room at the country club where the wedding would be. Being first into Washington among his teammates, he was responsible for ordering up a supply of hefty snacks and booze. It sucked to be the guy with the most leave when shit needed to be done. Civilians could be slow as snails.

  Like Viv LaClare.

  He rapped on the door. “Come on, lady.”

  The door fell away from his hand.

  Swung wide.

  And he stared.

  Irish red hair. Eyes the rich green of every African jungle he’d ever had the duty to hate. Skin like satin perfection.

  “Hi, I’m—”

  She wore a skinny little black jogging bra that banded her generous breasts, a pair of green shorts that hugged her hips like plastic wrap, and shock on her oval face.

  Her mouth worked. Her eyes blinked.

  The bottle of water she held in her hand shook. And fell to the floor. Bounced on her foot.

  “Ow!” She hopped on her good foot while water sprayed over him and her both.

  He grabbed her wrist to break her fall, and instinct had him curling his arm around her waist. And wow, was she light and soft. Sheer heaven to hold.

  “Stop! Let go!” she yelped at him.

  He steadied her on her feet.

  “I’m good.”

  I bet.

  “Really, I am.” She batted a hand at him. “I’m fine.”

  He doubted that. He’d had a lot of effects on women, but mouth-dropping shock was not one. Awe was more often the case. “Towels? To wipe this up?”

  “Right.” She stared up at him with those huge green eyes. “You’re—”

  “Britt Ackerman. I called before,” he reminded her.

  “Yeah,” she said, like a sleepwalker and slowly licked her lips.

  The vision of her tongue on those red lips of hers made his knees weak. Jumping a lady mid-day, one he didn’t even know, was not his style. He liked a woman who knew him and knew what to expect. Here, he was clueless except for the fact that she slayed him. Her looks. Her lips. Her tongue. Her svelte body.

  Get a grip, man. “I’m Nick Reardon’s teammate. And you’re Abby’s friend.”

  “I am.” She continued to stare at him as if he were a ghoul.

  Well, damn. He knew he wasn’t pretty. The plastic surgery he’d had on his cheek was preliminary, and his scar was brutal. Wounded, courtesy of a Somali Black Dragon fighter’s knife, Britt was not ordinarily self-conscious of the line that ran from his left temple to his jaw. And since he’d healed from his first surgery, he didn’t usually frighten people either. Except for now.

  “Sorry. Guess I should have told you what I looked like.”

  “No.” She licked her lips again, and man, oh, man, he wanted to do it, too. “I’m glad you didn’t. I’m so sorry. I’m being awful.”

  “I doubt it.” He grinned at her. What a stunner. If they made ‘matrons’ like this these days, he could gaze at her twenty-four/seven. Her hubby was a lucky man.

  “It’s the burn.”

  “Burn?”

  “From your hand.” She raised her arm, and he realized he still gripped her wrist.

  Okay, so when he’d caught her, he’d felt a jolt, and truth be told, he still felt a course of heat up to his shoulder. This was absurd. He needed to get a grip on himself and forget the hold he had on her.

  He dropped his hand, and regret swam through him. He liked his hands on her. Hell, he was becoming a pervert. No woman in his arms, his bed, his life since last New Year’s Eve, and he’d found Ma Thumb and Her Four Daughters did not satisfy. He’d told himself he had to lower his expectations or deserve lonely nights. Rather than do the first, he’d gotten the latter.

  She ran a hand through her sleek waves of bright red hair and forced a smile. “I’m so sorry. You…surprised me.”

  He winced, awkward as a six-year-old about his ugliness. “Didn’t mean to.”

  “I know, I know. Um. Well! Hi, Viviana LaClare.” She stuck out her hand, and he took it to shake. The heat between them was scorching.

  “Wow.” He broke contact and wished he didn’t have to.

  “What’s with us?” she asked, still examining him as intricately as his surgeon.

  “We’re burning down the house,” he offered.

  “Right. Right. How about some iced tea? A beer?”

  He feigned a grimace.

  “Um. Too early, huh? Early lunch.” She rambled, and he wondered if she was nervous. “Have you had lunch?”

  Wish I had time. “No, thanks. I have an appointment at the Army Navy Club downtown in two hours so I need to get a move on.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “You won’t,” he was quick to say, not willing to let her out of his sight.

  She ran a hand through her hair, her eyes all over his face as if she were in a trance. “I told Abby I could call a taxi.”

  “No need. I’m here. Are you packed?”

  “I will be. Sorry. It’s been a heck of a morning. We did the bachelorette thing last night…”

  “Fun?” he asked when she stared at him like she didn’t want to do anything except gaze at him all day.

  “Fun? Yeah. Really nice.”

  “Okay.” He clasped his hands together. “Got your gown? I can put it in the car. Wait for you to finish your packing?”

  “Sure.” She smiled and the sun sparkled in her eyes. Christ, she ripped him up. Beautiful down to the bright red curls hanging over her cheeks. “You could take my smaller suitcase. There.”

  He glanced down where she pointed to one side of the front door. A ‘For Sale” sign stood against the wall upside down. “For starters, why not tell me where the paper towels are, and I’ll clean up this mess?”

  Her house phone rang.

  So
did his cell. He reached to pick it out of his back jeans pocket and saw the screen ID. Nick?

  “Excuse me. This call is our groom who is already late for his prom.” He hit the button to accept the connection. “Hey, man, what’s up?”

  Her phone rang again, and a female voice took over the voice mail. Viv cocked her head to listen to the caller. Looking at Britt, she mouthed, “Abby,” and made a motion that she was going to the other room to answer it.

  “Hi, Ace.” Nick had that no-BS clip to his voice that Britt knew well. “Problem. Need your help.”

  “Anything.” His mouth watered as he watched Viv do double time down the hall to the back of the house. Her ass had to be the most fabulous heart-shaped booty he’d ever seen. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, buddy. Name it.”

  “Big accident on the Interstate headed north in Virginia, and I am stuck. I doubt I’ll make it to Dulles to pick up Terry and his fiancée. I hate to ask you to return, but—”

  “When is their plane due in?”

  “Three-twenty. I know you’ve got that interview with the head of Core Security, but forgot what time.”

  “Noon. I should be finished in an hour. So I can make Dulles to get them. No worries.”

  “Thanks, man. If this breaks up and I’m making time, I’ll call you back.”

  “Roger that.”

  Viv strolled toward him, a bunch of paper towels in her hand, and whatever her conversation had been, it hadn’t made her happy.

  “What’s up?” he asked as he took the towels and bent to mop up the mess on the wooden floor. “Abby have a problem?”

  “She does. And so do I. Last night, there was a kitchen fire in the bakery that was to make her wedding cake. The place is toast. So is her cake. She asked me to solve the problem. It seems the caterer for the reception can’t add it to their load.”

  “All right,” Britt said, trying to weigh the value of cake in the totality of life. “What’s the solution?”

  Viv narrowed her eyes, as if concentrating. “Call all local bakers. See what they have we could substitute.”

  “Or do without.”

  She barked in laughter. “For Abby? And the Stuart family? Not an option.”

  “Make a cake ourselves?”

  Her green eyes sparkled. “You bake?”

  He shrugged, loving the repartee. “Don’t you?”

  She threw her head back and laughed even more heartily. “Never.”

  “Well, damn.”

  “Yeah. Tough to get a wedding cake on short notice. Can’t have sheet cake from the grocery store. But—but wait!” She snapped her fingers. “Cupcakes!”

  “One hundred of them?” He was skeptical they’d find enough for each guest who’d RSVP’d for the reception.

  “One hundred and twenty-six to be exact.” She stared a hole through him.

  He glanced at his phone. Time was a wastin’. “It’s ten-o-six a.m.”

  “Saturday.” She bit her lower lip, her marvelous eyes eating up his, making him wish she were free to eat up the rest of him.

  “You have ideas,” he said with assurance that he could read her body language. “I see it. Let’s hear ’em.”

  “I have a friend who owns a restaurant on M Street.”

  “Does he bake?”

  She beamed at him, the dawn of joy on her face turning his knees once more to Jello. “She does. And if I can get her to answer her phone—cuz she doesn’t usually fire it up until noon—I might be able to offer her enough to have her throw her cooks under the bus for me.”

  “Is she friends with Abby?”

  “No, but she and I go way back. College roommates.”

  “Call her.”

  She put up a finger. “Hold on. Let me get my phone. If she doesn’t answer, I’m fried. I don’t know if Abby told you that my car’s in the shop.”

  “She did. That’s why I’m here, right?”

  “Yes. I took it in this morning. Some guy totaled my fender yesterday. So if Karen doesn’t pick up her phone—Karen’s my friend who’s the chef—would you give me a lift over to M Street?”

  “Anything.”

  She clapped her hands. “Oh, you’re fabulous.”

  Not as much as you when you’re happy.

  “I’ll have to shower and change. I jogged.” She sniffed at her shoulder, wrinkling her nose. “I can’t go out like this. But honest. I won’t be long, two minutes. I’ll just get in and out.”

  The last time a woman told him she’d be fast, he could have knit a blanket while he waited for her to emerge. But what else could he do? Saying ‘no’ was not any answer that would do him any good. And clearly, Mr. LaClare was not amenable to spur of the moment jaunts. Or maybe the man was out of town. Unavailable to run her over to the restaurant. Britt was the man to do the job here.

  “What do you say?”

  “Hurry.” He smiled.

  “Come in to the kitchen. Oh, give me those paper towels. Thanks for that. Now. Grab a chair. Help yourself to coffee in the carafe. Cream’s in the fridge. And, um, how about a banana? Grapes? Muffin? Abby says you guys eat anything. Everything. What would you like?”

  You. A taste of you. “I’ll get a cup of coffee. Now make tracks.”

  “You sound rushed. Do you have places to be?”

  “My lunch at noon and getting Terry and Catrina from Dulles at three-twenty. Nick’s stuck and can’t get there. But it’s all doable if you get your rear in gear.”

  “Check.”

  And off she ran.

  As he heard her jog up the stairs, he walked down the hall. Noting the large living room done in a combo of comfortable modern and Chippendale, he admired the architecture. He liked big houses, probably a result of his up-bringing. One day he’d build a place he could get lost in. This could fit his specs. But not his budget, for sure.

  Houses in Georgetown went for millions, and this one, old and restored, furnished well, would be at the top of the market. He wasn’t aware of what salaries were for curators at the National Gallery downtown, but he figured they weren’t sufficient to afford this jewel. Probably combined with Mr. LaClare’s income, this place was affordable. Or someone had inherited mucho bucks.

  The kitchen was as startling. White on white was the color scheme. Marble counters, Subway tile backsplash and Saltillo flooring were only the beginning with double wide sink and a chef’s eight-burner stove and three ovens. If Viv didn’t cook, her husband did. With a passion.

  He’d poured himself a cup of hell dark coffee and sat at the counter nursing it when he heard her descend the stairs. He checked his watch. Eight minutes. A woman after his heart. And if she weren’t married, he’d ensure she was after other parts of him, too.

  This time as she appeared before him, she was even better looking. Okay, so her hair was wet and somewhat tamed from the shower. But she’d put on black leggings that hugged her thighs and a huge Kelly green sweater that drifted over her curves. With a bit of mascara and pink lip gloss, she looked like a college girl.

  “Good. You got some coffee. How is it?”

  “Terrific.”

  She grinned at him as she walked to the far corner and picked up her shoulder bag. “Coffee is the one thing I do well.”

  The glimpse he got of a thick gold band on her fourth finger left hand gave him a jolt in the stomach. Emotions about a woman were never high on his radar. He could get sad if his ghillie suit needed repairs, if his boots needed a new sole, not if a woman he savored was married. But he had to be congenial here, help her out, whatever her marital status and his disappointment with that. “Works for me.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Three

  “Drive around back. There.” Viv pointed to an alley off Wisconsin Avenue, the main thoroughfare through the posh D.C. neighborhood of Georgetown. She had a hard time keeping the conversation light and her eyes off the magnificent piece of manhood who’d walked into her house and burned a hole in her peace of mind. “You’d never be ab
le to park out front. And Karen has two parking spaces for deliveries in the back so you’ll be fine.”

  “Good thinking,” he said as he turned the SUV into the tiny alleyway. “If Karen can’t do this, do you have another friend who can bake?”

  She shook her head. “I wish. Karen doesn’t do cake for her menu. But she occasionally does these fantastic chocolate cupcakes with gooey mousse in the center. I’m hoping she’ll agree to help me out.”

  “How important is cake?”

  Men. She scowled at him. “Very. I mean not only is it important to have something sweet to end the meal, especially this meal. You know that Nick’s sister is a five star chef and that Abby’s grandfather is Chairman of Joint Chiefs, right?”

  He snorted. “How could I not? Reardon alerted us to the Chief soon after he told us he was engaged. And I’ve met Josie, his sister. Eaten in her restaurant, too.”

  “So you see why we’ve got to have the best.”

  He tipped his head. “Sure. But glitches can be forgiven.”

  She turned wide green eyes to him. “How can you say that?”

  “Can’t you see that—?”

  “No. Here, park here.” She pointed to the spot. “I thought SEALs didn’t accept changes to the mission.”

  “We adapt.” He turned off the ignition and swerved to face her. “You do, too.”

  “I try.” What she really was trying to do was get her sanity back. Ever since she’d opened her front door to see him there, she felt lighter, younger, happier. To be honest, she felt like a co-ed who’d just glimpsed the most delicious man on campus. Britt Ackerman was big. More than. He was an all-male animal, and she could get lost in forever just looking at him. Even the scar. The long mark that the fortuneteller had predicted. His prediction that she had rejected as silly and now knew wasn’t. She had to cope, not only with the prediction, the impossibility that the seer could have seen, but also that she might accept the fact that she was indeed attracted to this huge hunk of man.

  He smiled, an apology in his bright blue laughing eyes. “Abby wants this wedding to be perfect. I get it.”