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    Secret Heat - Military Navy SEAL Romance
    Secret Heat - Military Navy SEAL Romance
    Secret Heat - Military Navy SEAL Romance
    Ebook63 pages55 minutes

    Secret Heat - Military Navy SEAL Romance

    By Kelly Cusson

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    About this ebook

    When Linda Dorgan takes a solo vacation to a Mediterranean island, her friends think she's insane. After all, she's never even been out of the country; but Linda needs to draw a line between her failed marriage and her new life, between her suddenly stalking ex-husband and all those eligible fish that are supposedly swimming in her sea. She needs time and space from her ex and every other red-blooded American man.

    Her escape is interrupted by a handsome, sandy-haired American who breaks her reverie on the beach and stirs something in her heart, before walking away and leaving her prey to the local authorities who are tracking him. All she knows about him is his name and that he does diplomatic work, though both of those things turn out to be untrue. Can he go against convention, and tell her who he truly is, and what he really does? And how will her ex – an increasingly maniacal cop who once left her for another woman – react to him?

    A Standalone Short Story with No Cliffhanger!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAmerican Military Romance Club
    Release dateNov 20, 2018
    ISBN9781386412243
    Secret Heat - Military Navy SEAL Romance

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      Book preview

      Secret Heat - Military Navy SEAL Romance - Kelly Cusson

      Secret Heat

      They had acquired their target, and it was him. Passenger Robert Whitman had thought the Cypriots might put eyes on him after he cleared customs, but they were on him the second he got off the plane at Larnaca Airport. A baggage handler on the jetway followed him up to the non-EU line, where a uniformed agent milled about aimlessly, but always in his vicinity.  The agent at the counter scanned and stamped his passport with a gulp and pushed the document back through the gap in the Plexiglas booth with trembling fingers.  At the baggage claim, Whitman’s luggage appeared on the conveyor only after every other bag had been snatched by its owner, or made several laps around the baggage area. They’d taken a good look inside the suitcase, no doubt, but there was nothing to see.

      No one tailed him from baggage claim, but he picked up on a couple of possibles as he made his way to the car rental desk. He wasn’t actively seeking them, but he’d developed some pretty good intuition over the years. He reminded himself that he wasn’t even supposed to look for surveillance on this operation. Well-trained habits die hard, though.

      He saw them as he left the parking garage. There were at least three vehicles following him as he headed north and west along Larnaca Bay on the B3. They were matching his speed and attempting to keep an incidental vehicle or two between them and his rearview mirror. The result was a sort of vehicular body language that gave them away to the trained eye.  When he made his turn into the parking lot of the Misty Beach Hotel, one of the suspect vehicles continued past him and the other two turned off into parking lots on either side of the road.

      It really was a game this time – a rigged game, and he was on the inside – but the Intelligence Division of the Cyprus Police didn’t know that. They also didn’t know that Robert Whitman wasn’t his real name, or that he didn’t really work for the State Department, or that their surveillance team was itself under surveillance.  All they knew was that the CIA wanted them to keep an eye on him, if they could handle it, and to report on anything he did while on the island. They were not supposed to apprehend or engage, just observe and report.  That made Whitman’s job easy; he was just a rabbit leading the dogs around the track.

      THE INLAND SIDE OF the Misty Beach Hotel could have been mistaken for a municipal administration building but for the hotel logo painted onto the clean white cinderblock and the green awning that covered the last few feet of walkway before the entrance. Not quite like the brochure, Whitman thought. The tinted glass doors slid open to admit him onto a marble floor that reflected light streaming in from the bay side of the lobby through three story glass walls framed in antique bronze.  Beyond the glass, a swimming pool meandered toward the bay, and beyond that, a beach dotted with umbrellas and sunbathers.

      Whitman walked to where the lobby began stepping down to pool level, then turned back toward the plain little reception desk, and the plain blonde woman behind it.

      Hello. Welcome. Checking in? The blonde’s accent was part British, part Scandinavian. It was interesting, and she was suddenly not so plain. Kind of cute, actually; he put her in her mid-twenties, so probably about 15 years younger than him. 

      Are you sure you’re not a tourist pretending to work here? He handed her his passport. You don’t look or sound too Mediterranean to me.

      Well, you sound very American to me, Mr. Whitman. She smiled and handed back the passport. But that’s a good thing.

      Really? I thought everyone just groaned and slapped their heads when we came around. But back to my original question: Are you sure you’re not some lost Norwegian tourist? He gestured toward her lapel. You don’t even have a name tag.

      Robert Whitman was supposed to be quite the womanizer, and the man playing him was beginning to enjoy the flirtation.  It had been a while, and the blonde’s smile and the tilt of her head gave him a feeling he couldn’t quite identify.

      Swedish, not Norwegian, she said, and my name is Pia. I came here as a tourist a few years ago, and I loved it so much that I decided to make it permanent.

      Fell in love with the sun and the sand?

      And with a man. Now she was practically glowing. How had he ever thought of her as plain? 

      I take it he hasn’t broken your heart yet.

      "Oh,

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