Hot SEALs: Guard Dog (Kindle Worlds) (Stone Hard SEALs Book 3) (12 page)

Chapter Eleven

It was such a relief seeing Mason come through the door that evening. Pansy hadn’t realized how pent up she’d been until she saw his face. She threw herself into his arms and clung. Just clung. It felt so right, holding him.

She felt so safe.

“How did it go?” Lily asked the question she should have. But she wasn’t capable of much at the moment. She had no idea why her soul was in such turmoil. Perhaps it was the fact she’d been worried about him all day, feeling helpless and useless and playing out one disastrous scenario after another.

Mason sat on the sofa and pulled her down next to him, with his arm around her shoulders. The others settled in as well. Lola pattered over and hopped up beside her, but to Pansy’s surprise, she plopped down on his lap rather than hers. He sent her a stunned look. And then slowly, lifted his hand to stroke the dog—but gingerly, as though he was afraid she might take it off.

She only growled a little.

“It went pretty good, considering,” Dane said, nodding as Lily handed him a beer.

“Did he confess?” Pansy asked.

Eli snorted. “He didn’t deny it. I made a couple copies of the conversation and sent one to the DA in Los Angeles, and another to a contact in the FBI.”

“You have a lot of contacts,” Mason said.

Pansy had no idea why Eli blushed. “I sent one to the authorities in Vegas as well. I expect we’ll hear back soon.”

“What’s the next step?” Pansy asked.

Mason’s hold on her tightened. “Getting you to the meeting. So you can cast your vote.”

She stared at him. “That’s days away.”

“With any luck, Bowles will be in custody and the point will be moot.”

“I wish I could reach my aunt, though.” She’d been trying all day and gotten nothing but voicemail.

“Maybe she lost her phone.”

“Maybe.” She forced a smile at Lily. It was a nice thought—though Aunt Catherine would have apoplexy if she lost her phone. But it was better than the alternative.

The conversation shifted then, thank heaven. Pansy was tired of worrying and chewing on her problems. It was fun to sit there and listen to the conversation float around the small living room. The men—all having been in the service, though in very different capacities—had a lot in common and Pansy enjoyed hearing them talk about their experiences.

They teased Dane mercilessly for being a Ranger and not a SEAL. One of the rhymes they sang to him—apparently they all knew it by heart—had her laughing so hard it made her sides ache.

I don’t go out with girls any more

I live a life of danger

I sit at home and play with myself

Whee, I’m a Ranger.

There were more poignant moments shared as well, where they remembered buddies they’d lost or missions that had gone FUBAR.

They had a language, a culture all their own and while Brandy—the daughter of a Navy commander—and Lily seemed to fit right in, Pansy couldn’t help thinking it was a far cry from her way of life.

She had to wonder if she could be with a man who lived life on the edge, a man who took weapons to work as a matter of course, and dressed for the day in ballistic plates. But then she glanced up at Mason as he laughed at one of Eli’s jests, at his handsome face, the creases etched on his cheeks, the bright light of his eyes—and she knew she could. She could take anything, live any lifestyle…if he was there by her side.

What she didn’t know was if he could tolerate
her
lifestyle.

When the evening wore down and a battalion of “dead soldiers” cluttered the coffee table, Brandy and Drake stood. “We should be going,” Drake said with a wink. “Brandy needs her sleep.”

She snorted a laugh, but didn’t demur. She hugged Lily and then hugged Pansy as well. “See you tomorrow?” she asked, and Pansy nodded.

“I’d like that.” It was the truth.

The party broke up then. Eli and Sander pulled the long straws and headed off to Ryder’s spare bedroom, while Lily made up the couch for Dane. It was an unspoken understanding that Mason and Pansy would sleep in the motorhome.

While a motorhome was far from her ideal spot for romance, she liked that they would be private.

Well, semi-private.

Lola insisted on coming with them.

Rather than sleeping on the narrow mattress in the back, they broke down the dining table, which converted into a bed as well.  It wasn’t huge, but at least there was room for the two of them.

The three of them.

As Pansy nestled in, facing Mason and leaning in for a kiss, her dog pushed between them and settled onto the pillow by his head.

Mason snorted a laugh, but he didn’t make Lola move. Instead, he took Pansy’s hand and held it, stroked her palm, there in the darkness.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Me? Fine.”

“Really? You looked pensive tonight. Are you worried about Bowles?”

“No.” Steven had barely crossed her mind. “I was thinking about us.”

“Mmm. My favorite topic.”

She chuckled. “Mine too. I just couldn’t help wondering…”

“What.”

“How we…fit.”

His thumb stilled. “How we fit?” He leaned up and stared down at her. “You’re questioning how we fit?”

Good lord, there was such anguish in his tone. She cupped his cheek. “You don’t like my lifestyle. You said so.”

He seemed to pale. “Pansy, sweetheart, a relationship is compromise. Making things work. If we want to make it work, we will.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure you wouldn’t hate it? All the parties and the crowds and the schmoozing?”

“I could tolerate…some of it.”

A grudging admission, but it lightened her mood. “Some of it?”

“Sure. Especially if we…negotiate terms.”

A ribbon of lust scuttled through her at his tone. “Terms?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What kind of terms?”

“Come here and I’ll show you.”

He did move the dog then; she was not pleased to be dumped on the carpet.

But she knew better than to hop back on the bed. There was far too much negotiating going on.

Pansy spent the next few days surrounded by friends, buffeted with laughter and falling deeper and deeper in love with a tall, handsome ex-SEAL. By the time the day of the vote rolled around she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

She was certain he felt the same.

They just had one more hurdle to cross.

She knew she’d done her best to convince their major shareholders to vote with her against Steven’s proposal, but she worried that, as news of her untimely death leaked out, some of them might have changed their minds. And if they were voting by proxy, she could already have lost them.

Though she wanted to contact them to tell them she was okay, Mason advised against it. The last thing they wanted was for Steven to know she was still alive. At least until the DA had made a decision.

There had been no news yet.

Her palms were damp as they drove to the Bella Coronado hotel where the meeting would take place. She sat in the back, dressed to the nines in full Pansy Hightower kit. Lola, tucked in her purse, wore a matching outfit. Pansy was sandwiched between Dane and Mason, which made her feel very small indeed. Eli and Sander sat in the front, discussing the parameters of the ballroom, where they would be posted and how and when Pansy should appear.

But she wasn’t paying attention.

Her mind was spinning

This was it. The moment of truth. This was the day she either won her mother’s company back…or lost everything. Who was she without FlyTower? What would she be? Could she—

“Pansy? Sweetheart? We’re here.”

Her head snapped up. Lola yipped as she squeezed her purse a little too tightly.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay”

“Yes.” She patted her hair. “I’m fine.”

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” A lame attempt to calm her nerves, but much appreciated.

The car pulled up into the arched drive of the hotel and a cluster of photographers glanced up. When four huge men wearing suits and dark glasses stepped out, they straightened, and when Pansy emerged, with Lola tucked in her trademark purse, they went wild. Flashbulbs popped and camera shutters whirred. Their bellowed questions floated around her.

Silent and serene—and surrounded by her guardian angels—she made her way up the steps and into the plush lobby.

Heads turned—she was used to it.

Several people gushed, “Ohmygod, I thought she was dead,” and she tried not to smile.

As a unit, they headed to the ballroom where the FlyTower Inc. Annual Meeting was being held. Her escort fell behind her as Pansy pushed through the door.

Steven was on the stage, in the middle of an impassioned plea—some gobbledygook about a more leveraged platform for reaching the masses. And then he saw her. He lost his train of thought, babbled a little.

The microphone screeched.

Noting his stare, the assemblage turned.

Murmurs rose.

Pansy threw back her shoulders and marched down the center aisle to the stage, aware of the sight they must have made, she and her warriors. As she made her way up the stairs, Steven rediscovered his senses.

“I…why… Pansy. Darling. I’m…so happy you are not dead.”

He actually sounded sincere, but the fury in his eyes was sincere too. She was glad to have Mason at her side.

When Steven glanced at him, he blanched. He went paler still as he noticed the other men with her.

“Are you, Steven?” she asked, loudly enough for all to hear. “Are you happy?”

“Yes, of course.” He stepped closer, presumably to hug her, and found himself facing a wall. Mason’s chest.

A growl resonated across the stage and Steven stepped back.

“I, ah, I was just telling the shareholders about your mother’s dearest wish.”

“And what was that?”

He forced his features into a pleasant arrangement, though she did not find it pleasant in the least. “Why, to reach new markets.”

“Are you talking about
your
plan? Your plan to cheapen our product? To target lower-end markets?”

“To expand our reach…”

“That was not my mother’s vision.” She turned to the audience. “You all knew her. You knew what her intention was when she started this company. It was not selling to big-box stores and bargain basements. FlyTower is a high-end, quality brand that is affordable for young professionals and seniors alike. We are classy, trendy and elegant.” She glared at Steven. “Not cheap. Keep that in mind when you vote.”

He lowered the mic. “Pansy, can we talk? In private?”

“No.” This, from Mason. A snarl.

Steven glared at him, but only for a second. He turned back to her and fixed a charming smile on his face. “Pansy, darling—”

Another snarl.

“I just want to explain.”

“Explain what? Why you tried to have me killed?”

A gasp rounded the room.

Steven reared back and clutched at his pearls—or he would have, had he been wearing any.  His expression was one of wounded outrage. “I most certainly did not.”

She shook her finger at him. “Yes you did.”

A bustle at the door captured her attention and she glanced that way as a coterie of police officers pushed into the boardroom, accompanied by an exquisitely dressed woman in a Dior business suit; she was someone Pansy recognized, but couldn’t place.

And then it hit her. She’d seen this woman on the news. She was the District Attorney. A cadre of news reporters with cameras swarmed behind her.

Her voice rang out as she marched toward the stage. “Steven Bowles, you are under arrest.”

Steven eeped. “Under arrest?”

“For the murder of Marla Hightower and the attempted murder of Pansy Hightower.”

A hush rippled through the audience. Knowing her stockholders, they were lapping this drama up like cream.

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

She shouldn’t have been watching the crowd. She should have been paying attention the threat in the room. The one and only threat.

With no warning, Steven grabbed her. She cried out in surprise and revulsion—who wouldn’t, he was revolting—and then fought against him. The advancing officers and Mason’s team all pulled their weapons. Steven tightened his hold on her and yanked her before him, using her as a human shield.

To her horror, he wrapped a hand around her neck and pressed his thumb against her windpipe.

“Back away, or I’ll kill her. I swear.” His grip was tight, his body damp with sweat. Panic trilled in his voice.

She shot a look at Mason. He was furious. She’d never seen so ferocious a man. His muscles were tight, his cheek bunched. His pulse throbbed in a vein on his forehead.