 
# Conceit

## Se7en Deadly SEALs: Episode 1

## Alana Albertson

_Conceit_

The Se7en Deadly SEALs Series

Episode One

Cover Design: Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

www.gobookcoverdesign.com

Copyright © 2014 by Alana Albertson.

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All rights reserved.

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed "Attention: Permissions Coordinator," at the address below.

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Bolero Books LLC

11956 Bernardo Plaza Dr. #510

San Diego, CA 92128

Bolero Books

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All rights reserved.

Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Created with Vellum

# Also by Alana Albertson

**Want more romantic reads?**

**Try my other books!**

* * *

**Heroes Ever After**

_Military New Adult Fairy Tale Retellings_

**_The Beauty and The Beast_**

**_Inspired by Beauty and The Beast_**

**Meet Grady!** But without her love, I'm not a man—I'll remain forever a beast.

**_The Mermaid and The Triton_**

**_Inspired by The Little Mermaid_**

**Meet Erik!** I'm a Navy SEAL, a Triton, a god of the sea. And she will never be part of my world.

**_The Princess and The SEAL_**

**_Inspired by The Princess and The Frog_**

**Meet Ryan!** She's a Princess and I'm a Frogman. If I kiss her, I'll turn into a Prince.

**_The Swan and The Sergeant_**

**_Inspired by The Ugly Duckling_**

**Meet Bret!** Though the ugly duckling is now a beautiful swan, the girl I fell in love with is long gone.

**_The Angel and The Rockstar_**

**_Inspired by Rumpelstiltskin_**

**Meet Dax!** All she has to do to destroy my life is to say my name.

**_The Maid and The Marine_**

**_Inspired by Cinderella_**

**Meet Trace!** I will never be her Prince Charming.

* * *

**Rescue Me**

_Romantic Comedy Series_

**_Doggy Style_**

**Meet Preston!** When it comes to doggy style, he's behind you 100%.

* * *

**Blue Devils**

_Military Pilots Contemporary Series_

**_Blue Sky_**

**Meet Beckett!** I'll never let down my guard for this Devil in a Blue Angel's disguise.

**_Blue Moon_**

**Meet Sawyer:** One Night with this Blue Devil will make you a sinner.

**_Blue Thunder_**

**Meet Declan:** Declan's back in town. Homecoming hero―local boy turned Blue Angel.

* * *

**Se7en Deadly SEALs**

_Navy SEAL Romantic Thriller_

**_Season One:_**

**_Conceit, Chronic, Crazed, Carnal, Crave, Consume, Covet_**

**_Season One Box Set_**

**Meet Grant!** She wants to get wild? I will fulfill her every fantasy.

**_Season Two:_**

**_Smug, Slack, Storm, Seduce, Solicit, Satiate, Spite_**

**Meet Mitch!** I'll always be your bad boy.

* * *

**The Trident Code**

_Navy SEAL Romantic Suspense Series_

**_Invincible_**

**Meet Pat!** I had one chance to put on the cape and be her hero.

**_Invaluable_**

**Meet Kyle!** I'll never win MVP, never get a championship ring, but some heroes don't play games.

* * *

**Rescue Ranch**

**_Navy SEAL Cowboys Series_**

**_Wild Love_**

**Meet Chris!** She shouldn't fall for the Navy SEAL next door.

* * *

**Military Contemporary Stand Alone**

**_Badass_**

**Meet Shane!** I'm America's cockiest badass.

(co-written with **_Linda Barlow_** )

**_Father Figure_**

**Meet Gabriel!** Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

(Co-written with **Jane Harvey-Berrick** )
This book is dedicated to Nicole Blanchard for never allowing me to give up writing even when I wanted to break my computer and never write another word again.
> It was **pride** that changed angels into devils; it is humility that makes men as angels
> 
> Saint Augustine

# Contents

SINopsis

Countdown

1. Mia

2. Grant

3. Mia

4. Mia

5. Mia

6. Mia

7. Ksenya

8. Ksenya

9. Grant

10. Ksenya

11. Grant

12. Ksenya

13. Grant

14. Ksenya

15. Ksenya

16. Grant

About the Author

Acknowledgments

# SINopsis

I DON'T RECOGNIZE THE DAMAGED woman in the mirror staring back at me—platinum-blonde hair, blood-red lips and nails, curves laced up in the finest lingerie. I have transformed into a bombshell to exonerate my brother, United States Navy SEAL Joaquín Cruz. He's been languishing in a jail cell for the past six months, accused of a murder he didn't commit, his honorable career as a SEAL ruined, his spirit crushed.

I've gone undercover as a stripper to entertain the men of SEAL Team Seven—I've given up my acting career, my dreams, my home—everything to free Joaquín and discover the truth.

But I didn't count on having to conceal my identity from my ex-boyfriend, Navy SEAL Grant Carrion. The man I lost my virginity to was caught up in an endless web of sins and temptations, unable to escape from his demons.

As I strip down to my lingerie and dance for Grant, I know that every humiliating moment will be worth my sacrifice—if only I can give my brother back his life. And just maybe, find a way back to Grant's heart.

# Countdown

**SE7EN DEADLY SEALS** bound to **** secrecy about a night that ended in tragedy

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**6IX** months my brother Joaquín has spent in jail for murder

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**5IVE** hours a day I've trained to go undercover to learn the truth

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**4OUR** plastic surgeries to transform into a pinup to gain access to their world

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**THRE3** shots of tequila I knock back before I strip and dance for the SEALs

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**2WO** years since I'd left my soul mate, Grant, the only man who can help me now

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**1NE** dead stripper found strangled and drugged

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**ZER0** room for error

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I'm Joaquín's only hope for freedom. I'll embrace my **conceit**. No sin is too depraved, no challenge is too great. Even if it means destroying my soul.
1

# Mia

THE PRISON GUARD LED ME down the hall to the waiting room. A pregnant girl cowered in the corner, an older couple embraced each other, and a pale, skinny woman bit her nails as a young boy fidgeted on her lap. The rancid smell of vomit loosely masked with bleach made me gag. This scene was so pathetic. We were all here to see our loved ones incarcerated in this hellhole.

"Your boyfriend will be out in ten minutes," the guard sneered, his eyes undressing me.

"He's not my boyfriend; he's my brother. And he's innocent."

The guard laughed and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. "Sure, he is, sweetheart. Never met a guilty one."

Jerk. That guard wasn't fit to polish Joaquín's boots.

After an agonizing wait, the prisoners stumbled out into their partitioned section of the room. My brother came last.

All my girlfriends were in love with Joaquín—who could blame them? Even in this pit of despair, he still looked like the ultimate alpha male. His muscles bulged in his orange prison jumpsuit, the elbow-length sleeves barely covering his tattoos.

At least I didn't have to worry about anyone screwing with him in jail; he could kill a man with his bare hands.

Joaquín had everything going for him. Until he was charged with a crime he didn't commit. I knew my brother, and he simply couldn't be guilty of what he was accused of doing.

Joaquín was an easy target—a poor Mexican American orphan with no trust fund, no senator endorsements, and no college education. But my brother had integrity, loyalty, and honor. He would never disgrace his Teammates, betray his country, or destroy his brotherhood. And he could never hurt a woman.

He tapped on the glass, and we both reached for the phone. "Thanks for flying down, Mia. Are you okay?"

I threw my free hand in the air. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm not the one in jail facing the death penalty for murder. I took the first flight I could get. What the hell happened?"

The man on the other side of the glass wasn't the brother I'd grown to respect and adore. He was still strong, still resolute, and seemingly impenetrable. But his eyes...I looked right into his eyes. Though his long dark lashes covered his pain, I knew him too well. To anyone else, he would seem formidable, but to his baby sister, he looked broken, torn.

"I didn't kill her. I can't talk about what happened in here." His eyebrows motioned toward the cameras in the corner of the room. "But you have to believe me."

I swallowed. I'd watched the incessant news coverage. It didn't look good.

Two weeks ago, one of Joaquín's commanding officers, Paul Thompson, had thrown a huge party for his SEAL Teammates at his parents' oceanfront home in Encinitas. Witnesses interviewed by the police said they heard loud music and saw women coming in and out of the place. Guess the neighbors weren't exactly going to call the cops on a group of SEALs.

In the early hours of the morning after the party, Joaquín had discovered a lifeless stripper named Tiffany in his bed. He called 911, and the paramedics determined that she'd been dead for hours. Joaquín told detectives that he'd slept with her the night before, but that she had been fine when he fell asleep. The police didn't charge him immediately and waited for the autopsy results.

Two days ago, the coroner ruled that she'd died from asphyxiation and had the date-rape drug Rohypnol in her system. Since Joaquín had admitted to having sex with her, he had been arrested and charged with her murder.

He already said he didn't kill her. He would never lie to me, and we kept no secrets from each other. Well...we never used to. I've held my own deep secret close, never wanting to add any burden to Joaquín's intense life.

"Can anyone clear you? Are the other guys on the Team trying to help, or did they desert you? What about Grant..." My voice trailed off.

My ex-boyfriend, Grant Carrion, Joaquín's swim buddy in BUD/S, had been there that night. And I knew the rest of the guys on their Team pretty well. After our parents had died, Joaquín had become my legal guardian, and I'd moved to San Diego to live with him and finish my senior year in high school. I met Grant right before I graduated, and we started dating at the beginning of my freshman year at San Diego State. I'd transferred to San Francisco State as a junior two years ago because it had the best drama department.

Well, that was the official excuse for me fleeing—I could've finished school in San Diego. The reality was much more painful. Too painful for me to think about, let alone deal with.

Joaquín pursed his lips; his eyes leveled me. "Leave Grant out of this. I will not ruin his career, too. I slept with Tiffany, but I didn't drug her. None of the guys are talking to me right now, probably under orders from the command. Our Team doesn't need this publicity, especially with all the rumors going around about Pat saving Annie from that brothel. My brothers don't have a choice but to obey. My lawyer thinks I should take a plea. If it's the best for the Team, and you, then I will."

I seethed. The public should still be happy that Joaquín's Team had just saved a group of USO cheerleaders who had been taken as hostages in Afghanistan. I didn't even know what to say about the Pat and Annie mess, except that I wasn't buying the Team's cover story.

"Take a plea? Have you lost your mind? You're gonna confess to murder because that's best for your _Team_? Who cares about your damn Team! Can't you be selfish for once in your life?" I knew the bonds of these SEALs ran deep; they'd kill for each other; they'd die for each other. I couldn't fathom the pain Joaquín had to be going through, but pleading guilty to a murder he didn't commit was insane.

He blinked hard, too hard, as if he was trying to stop tears from escaping. "You don't understand. You never could. I'm not going to ruin the rest of the guys' lives and tarnish our Team's reputation further. It's complicated, and I really can't talk about it."

I didn't want to hear about his Team loyalty. "Who's your lawyer? Is he any good?"

"Daniel Reed. He's a former Team guy."

Sure, he was—the world's most exclusive fraternity. Even when these guys left the service, they only hired their own. "What did he say about bail? I'll find a way to raise money."

"We won't know until the arraignment, but he thinks the judge will probably make an example of me. No bail."

"But you're a SEAL."

"Exactly. No playing favorites."

From his posture, the edge in his voice, I knew I was treading on his patience. I needed to garner any information I could before he cut me off. "What's the last thing you remember? The girl, did she pass out?"

His nostrils flared, and he bared his teeth. "Knock it off, Mia."

Whoa. He never raised his voice to me. There was no use arguing with him. Joaquín was a stubborn Taurus—I'd never win. I bit my lip and tried another approach. "You can't tell me anything about that night? Who was the dead girl? Were you dating her?"

"No. I'd never met her before." Joaquín shrugged. He wasn't really a relationship guy. A complete player, he claimed no one could ever be faithful to a SEAL, which was bullshit. I'd never even looked at another man when I was with Grant. I still hadn't, even though we'd been broken up for what felt like forever.

"Who invited her?"

His tone became more agitated. "One of the Team guys invited a bunch of strippers."

_Yeah, I'll bet._ Strippers and SEALs went together like rum and cola. At least Joaquín wasn't a cheater. I couldn't count the number of times wasted SEALs had called Grant to be picked up from Panthers, the local sleazy strip club. Grant would drag me along, and then his buddies would beg him to act as an alibi to give to their wives.

We used to fight about him covering for the philanderers all the time. I had to make small talk with their wives at Team barbecues, knowing that their husbands had had their dicks sucked by strippers the night before. Grant always told me to stay out of it—it was _their_ marriages and not our place to get involved. I argued that we were involved because covering for them made Grant an accessory to their infidelities.

At least Grant never went to the strip clubs; he swore it wasn't his thing.

I tried to stop myself, but I had to know. "Which guy asked the strippers to the party? Mitch?"

He let out a growl. "One more word, and I'll drop this phone and walk back to my cell."

My gaze darted around the room. I was grateful that this crime had been committed off the naval base, so at least he wasn't stuck in the brig. Under a civilian justice system, I could find him the best lawyers. I'd do whatever it took. "I'll get you out of here. I'll find out the truth."

He laughed, and although it was nice to see him smile, I knew he didn't have a shred of faith that I could help him. "How are you going to do that, Mia? You're a theater student. We're talking about a bunch of Team guys."

I preferred the term "highly trained actor," but I wasn't about to correct him. Plus, who was he trying to protect anyway? Did he suspect one of his Teammates? Did he know who killed the girl? "I know. I'm just trying to help."

But my mind started racing. Why _not_ me? Joaquín was my brother—the same blood ran through our veins, the same dedication, the same stubbornness. Just because I lacked testosterone didn't mean I was any less capable than he was.

He studied me. "I know that look. Don't get involved, Mia. That's a fucking order. I didn't drug or kill Tiffany, which means someone else did. I don't have a clue who, and I can't protect you from here."

I cringed when I noticed that his hands were shaking. This was real, not some fucked-up nightmare. "I can protect myself."

He'd _always_ protected me, been my savior. It would kill him if he knew what had happened to me two years ago. But it wasn't his fault. He and Grant had both been deployed, and there was nothing either of them could've done to save me that night. Telling them the truth would accomplish nothing.

"No, I need you to trust me on this." His voice firmed. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me." He was proud, pigheaded, and I knew he didn't want me to see him defenseless. Just like Grant. These macho SEALs never allowed themselves to be truly vulnerable, not to their families, and most certainly not to their women. Though I completely understood—I was too proud to admit my own weaknesses.

He focused on me. "Mia, I can't take care of you anymore. This is important. I need you to listen to me. You have to be strong for me. Remember that place in Marin we used to hike to?"

How could I forget? On the top of Mt. Tamalpais, on a ridge overlooking the fog, was a group of rocks. Joaquín and I used to go up there and spend hours playing make-believe.

"Of course, I do. Why?"

"If you need to feel my presence, go there."

What on earth was Joaquín talking about? He hated what he called my "New Age bullshit" about vortexes and spirit guides. But my spirituality guided everything I did. I didn't care if he didn't understand it. "I won't need to. I'm going to take a leave of absence from school, move down here, and visit you every week until you're free."

"Don't you dare. You only have one semester left. Don't ruin your life, too. Listen to me. I don't want you to visit me again. Promise me you won't come back to San Diego."

I bit my nails, and my stomach clenched. He was the only person I had in my life since I'd ended things with Grant. Without Joaquín, I couldn't breathe. I didn't exist. He would never ask me to abandon him.

It was then that I knew in my heart something was gravely wrong. Not just the murder of Tiffany and the charges against Joaquín, but something else. Something hidden deep in the secret realm of the SEAL brotherhood. "I promise."

I nodded and placed my hand on the thick plexiglass. He did the same. Would this be the closest I ever came to touch him again? "I love you, Joaquín."

"I love you too, _Angelita Mia_."

_My little angel._ He hadn't called me that since we were kids. That name had always meant so much to me. I wanted to be that angel for my brother. No, I _needed_ to be that angel. And I would. I would live up to my birth name and become Joaquín's angel.

We only had a few minutes left, so I tried my best to cheer him up. My hands trembled; my body froze. He'd worked so hard to be a SEAL. It was all he'd ever wanted. The possibility of his career being destroyed was almost worse than him being accused of a crime he didn't commit.

The bell rang. The guard came and escorted Joaquín out of the room. I stared at him walking away, praying that this nightmare would end soon. This couldn't be goodbye.

I walked out of the San Diego County Jail. Determined. Dedicated. Definite.

I would clear my brother's name. For my entire life, he had protected me, lifted me up when I had fallen. It was my turn to rescue _him_.

I took off in Joaquín's truck, a brand-new Ford Raptor. The scent of the fresh leather tickled my nostrils.

For a second, I actually questioned his innocence. How could he afford this new truck? He'd told me he'd saved up during deployment, but I knew he spent most of his money on my tuition and housing. Even though I worked part-time as a makeup artist, living in San Francisco was not cheap.

Paul was a second-generation Navy SEAL officer and came from old money—was Joaquín involved in something shady that had resulted in him being framed for murder?

I pushed the thought of his guilt out of my head. My gut wrenched for even questioning his honor.

Speeding on Harbor Drive, I rolled down the window and allowed the crisp San Diego breeze to blow all doubt away. Though it was January, the sun was still bright in the sky. As Joaquín's words replayed in my head and the look on his face haunted my thoughts, I choked back tears.

The Raptor seemed to have a mind of its own, and I found myself driving toward Grant's place. I had to see him. I had no choice. He was my only hope. I needed to ask for his help. I prayed that he would be able to fix everything like he once had. He'd been with Joaquín at the party that night. He must've seen something.

My insides twisted. The intersection of excitement, desperation, and guilt left me unable to focus. Grant was the one man who rivaled my brother in his steadfast character. He'd been my first love, my only lover...and I'd shoved him away. Like every great thing in my life.

I pulled up to his tiny apartment in Point Loma, praying he wasn't off somewhere training. The sight of fresh mud on the door of his lifted truck alleviated that fear.

My fingers traced the doorbell. His dog, Hero, let out a friendly bark. Maybe he recognized my scent.

There was no turning back. I pressed the button.

"Hello?" Grant's deep, sexy voice sounded groggy through the intercom.

He must've been asleep even though it was three in the afternoon. Probably another balls-to-dawn training rotation. Back when we were together, I'd make sure to have his place clean, his favorite meals cooked, Hero walked and fed when he came home from those all-nighters. It was some of the only times he allowed me to take care of him.

"Hey, it's me."

His tone turned bitter, dark. "What do you want, Mia?"

I couldn't help but smile that he still recognized my voice immediately even though we'd been broken up for two years and hadn't seen each other in six months. I knew what I had done to him—abandoned him in his hour of need, secretly blaming him for being gone when I'd needed him most. Then I had been unwilling to allow him to see me at my lowest point, and unable to open up to him and confess my secret. My fatal flaw had ruined our love—my conceit.

Joaquín would never turn his back on someone he loved. He would embrace his anxiety. Shake hands with fear.

Somehow, I would have to learn to do the same.

"I need to talk about Joaquín."

Grant opened the door, and I gasped at the sight of him standing in front of me wearing only pajama bottoms. I'd forgotten how incredible his body was; his broad shoulders and V-shaped torso displayed no body fat, just a perfect eight-pack of abs. His skin glowed in the afternoon sun, highlighting his sculpted arms, which were covered with ink.

My eyes focused on his huge hands, remembering how they had explored every inch of my body. He ran his fingers through his golden hair, and I imagined those fingers deep inside me, sending spikes of pleasure to my core. The scruff of his beard hid the mottled scar on his neck. His green eyes seemed to shoot beams of kryptonite at me, exposing my soul.

_Right, I came here for my brother._

"Let me in, Grant." I pushed my way inside the door, scanning the place for signs of another woman. All clear.

Hero, his black lab/pug mix, gave me a lick on my face and lay by my feet.

The last time I saw Grant was at an awkward run-in at my brother's apartment last summer before they'd deployed. Grant had ignored me the entire time. No matter how hard I tried, he'd refused to engage with me.

Today, he had no choice.
2

# Grant

THE VIXEN STANDING IN FRONT of me barely resembled my beautiful ex-girlfriend Mia. Her waist-length brown hair that had once carried the scent of coconut milk and vanilla beans was now tinted fuchsia and chopped off into a long, angled bob with spiky bangs. Her freckled skin was painted up like a streetwalker's. Her nails, which had always been kept short and pale, were filed into sharp points and polished black, like daggers.

I fucking hated her full look. Like some bullshit revenge breakup makeunder meant to ensure that I wasn't attracted to her anymore.

It didn't work—I still wanted her.

My eyes lingered on her small breasts and fell down to her wide hips. "There's nothing I can do. No one remembers anything—and if they do, they aren't talking. I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I don't think he's guilty."

"Of course, he's not guilty. But you can help him, right? You know the men on your Team. You were at the party. We can find out who killed that girl. I'll do whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes? What the hell are you talking about?"

She inhaled deeply through her nose and then exhaled through her mouth. "I don't know. I haven't figured it out."

I laughed. "Well, let me know when you do. Until then, you can get the fuck out of my place." I urged her toward my door.

Her eyes darted around, but she held her body firm, refusing to budge. "I know we can figure out something if we put our heads together. We can do this."

I sneered at her. "We? There is no 'we.' You made sure of that."

A flash of guilt must have caused her to avert her gaze as she looked down at her feet and bit her nail.

"Maybe I could go undercover? I'm a chameleon. An actress...a makeup artist. I've reinvented myself so many times, even _you_ wouldn't be able to recognize me."

This bitch was crazy. "You can't be serious. You're five-feet-four-inches tall, one hundred thirty pounds. I used to have to open spaghetti jars for you. You think you can defend yourself against a SEAL? No way can you outsmart my Team. Sorry, Mia. It will never work. You're delusional. I could recognize you no matter _how_ you changed." I had memorized every inch of her body, the sound of her voice when she whispered my name, the way her lips parted when she was embarrassed, the glint in her hazel eyes when she wanted her way, and the flush on her cheeks when she came.

_I loved you._

Picturing her smile had gotten me through those long muddy nights freezing my balls off in the frigid water during BUD/S. Her faith, her love, her belief in me had kept me from quitting, from ringing that bell.

Too bad it was all complete bullshit.

She touched my face, tracing the beard that hid the scar on my neck. "I just need one of them to talk."

I pushed her hand away. My stomach churned. I couldn't stand the sight of her anymore. Couldn't she see the hurt in my eyes? I'd once looked at her with warmth, love, devotion. Now only her betrayal lingered in the air. "SEALs don't talk."

She let out a laugh. "You did. You used to tell me everything."

Smartass. My fist clenched. "Yeah, I did. Only because you were my girl. What are you going to do—fuck them all?"

A wicked smile graced her lips. "Why the hell not? I'm single, remember? You made it clear you never wanted anything to do with me again."

My chest tightened. She was taunting me. The thought of her, _my_ girl, being screwed senseless by my friends, made my palms sweat. She was mine—only mine. She'd lost her virginity to me, and I'd always found comfort in knowing that no other man had ever touched her.

Images flashed through my head of another man kissing her, fucking her, making her come, Mia screaming out his name.

I swallowed hard and steadied my breath. "Stop, Mia. We both know damn well _you_ were the one who fucked things up. Even if you were that much of a bitch and wanted to fuck me over more than you already have, none of them would touch another Team guy's woman. Especially since you're also Joaquín's sister. I only got away with sleeping with you because we started dating before Joaquín and I became SEALs. And no matter what you think, in their eyes, you will _always_ be mine."

She cringed, and I noted the look of shame on her face. Had she cheated on me back then? I would never believe that. Like a wild animal, I was confident that I could've sensed another man's scent on my woman. Even so, Mia was hiding something from me. There was more to her leaving me than being too young for a serious relationship.

Unfortunately, I didn't have a fucking clue what her secret was. She never even gave me the chance to fix it.

She leveled her gaze on me. "Yeah? Yet you sure are quick to abandon Joaquín at the first sign of trouble. So much for leaving no man behind. You know if the situation were reversed, Joaquín would do anything possible to set you free."

Dammit, I shouldn't have let her in the door. This was already too intense, too emotional. "It's not that simple, and you know it. I'm under orders not to talk to him."

"Fine. I understand that you're forbidden to talk to him. But I can. You need to help me help him. This isn't about us; this is about Joaquín. Can you tell me about the girl who died? Who invited her? Was Joaquín dating her?"

I clenched my teeth. Some people thought that since I was a SEAL, I'd have a wicked temper, but I had complete control of my emotions at all times. That composure allowed me the mental strength to point a loaded gun at my enemy and still be able to make a conscious decision not to pull the trigger. I'd never raised my voice to Mia, ever. Even so, she knew when I was pissed off.

"What the fuck? Do you think you can just walk in here like you didn't rip my heart out, and I'm just going to comfort you and fix this mess? I already fucking told you there's nothing I can do. And I don't owe you anything."

Her chin dipped to her chest, her shoulders slumping. "I know you don't believe me, and I don't expect you to, but I had to leave. I didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice." She had bags around her eyes, which made me remember when I used to watch her sleep. She always curled up in a ball with Hero at her feet. I never told her, but she used to talk in her sleep, sometimes even said my name. "And we aren't in this together. My world started and stopped with you. All my friends told me that we wouldn't work that we didn't have a chance because we were so young and because of my job, but I told them you were different. That you would have my back no matter what."

Her voice cracked. "For what it's worth...I've never even looked at another guy. I want you to know that."

My gaze bored into her. "That's supposed to make it better? That I'm the only man you've ever been with, but you still don't want to be with me? Well, I wish I could say it was that easy for _me_. Since you left, I've fucked a bunch of girls, trying to get you out of my head."

But she was still fucking there every night when I closed my eyes. I prayed her face would soon fade from my mind.

Her mouth tightened. She wasn't stupid—she had to know from her brother that I'd been with other women since her. But she only had herself to blame.

"Please, Grant, if what we had meant anything to you, please help me exonerate Joaquín."

My eyes met hers, and I cupped her face, fighting the urge to kiss her. "You meant everything to me. You know that."

She pulled away from me, her bottom lip quivering. "I'm back now."

"You left me. Period. You can never come back." As much as I loved Mia, I could never give her another chance. I refused to let myself rely on any woman after she had abandoned me. I didn't need that type of stress. My job was consuming—my personal life had to provide me stability and comfort. Or at the very least, pure release.

"But—I need you."

I'd needed _her_ once, also. Now, I needed her to leave. "I can't help you. I'd do anything I could to clear Joaquín; you know that. But my hands are tied. You need to leave."

I pushed her out of the entryway and slammed the door behind her, never looking back. I wished I could say it was easy, shutting her out of my life again, but her scent still lingered in the air, and my heart remained with it.

I hoped I never had to see her again, which was now a realistic option since her brother was in jail.

Still, my heart ached for her _and_ for my swim buddy. There was no way Joaquín could've intentionally killed that stripper. Maybe he'd just gotten too rough in bed. Regardless, the reputation of our Team was now tarnished.

The public was supposed to see us as heroes who rescued hostages from ISIS, freed boat captains from pirates, and assassinated leaders of terrorist regimes. Not as a bunch of sex-crazed, hard-partying hooligans with no morals. The average American citizens would be blown away if they learned the truth about our lifestyle. Just last month, we had rescued some kidnapped USO cheerleaders from insurgents, and my boy Pat had saved his wife Annie from a sex ring in Aruba. We worked hard, but we partied harder. And no way would I ever apologize for what any of us had to do to relieve our stress. The intensity of our lives was unfathomable to most.

Even so, Mia had been it for me. I'd once found enough comfort in her touch to forget my daily burdens. But no more. I would never allow another woman to distract me from being a warrior. Plenty of girls wanted to be fucked by a Navy SEAL, some real-life hero to step off the pages of their favorite romance novel. I was now more than happy to use them the way they used me.

Mia was the only woman I'd ever loved, and when she left, I'd closed my heart to anyone else.
3

# Mia

I SPENT TWO DAYS SCOURING every inch of Joaquín's apartment but came up empty-handed. I found nothing—no shady receipts, no weird email messages. Everything was clean.

Too clean, as if someone had already scrubbed any evidence from the place.

I wanted to crash Tiffany's funeral to search for clues. Still, I definitely didn't want to accost her family, who would no doubt kick out the sister of the man they thought had murdered their beloved daughter. I skipped the service, uncertain about what to do next.

Any day now, the remaining men on Joaquín's Team could be deployed, and after that, who knew when I'd be able to see them again. I'd lost my inside connections, no Grant, no Joaquín. I had only one way to see them all.

Today, I was going to head to The Pickled Frog. The bar was a dive where all the SEALs went anytime one of their men had passed. The looming death toll never seemed to wane—a training accident, a downed helicopter, an embassy upheaval. I'd been to enough SEAL funerals during the two years I'd dated Grant to know the drill. One by one, each man would pound down his trident, the SEAL insignia, on the deceased man's coffin. Then they'd get wasted.

Even though Joaquín was still technically alive, I was pretty sure they'd be there since they usually hit the place immediately after getting off of work.

The Pickled Frog was more than a watering hole; it was also a safe haven for heroes. Men who needed to drown their sorrows in hard liquor, men who wanted to forget the faces of the terrorists they'd killed, men whose wives had cheated when they'd been deployed, men whose kids didn't even recognize their own fathers.

I shuddered, imagining all the times two years ago Grant might have sat in the seedy bar, getting hammered, trying to get over me.

I needed strength before I saw Grant again. Time to meditate. I sat on a chair in Joaquín's apartment and straightened my spine, my feet placed firmly on the ground. Resting my hands, I turned my palms upward and prayed. I alternated my breath, from tense inhales to relaxed exhales.

Focusing my attention on my spiritual eye, I uttered a quick chant and closed my practice. I needed to remain calm and centered, today more than ever.

I locked up Joaquín's place, jumped in his truck, drove along the coast, eventually parking in an alley behind the bar. A deep sigh escaped my lips. I was sure I was the last person these men wanted to see.

When I pushed back the front door, the acidic stench of whiskey and sweat overtook me. It was two in the afternoon on a random Saturday, and the place was mostly empty. Despite being in the heart of Ocean Beach, no college coeds or surfers hung out here. This was a SEAL bar; SEALs and frog hogs were its only customers, though the occasional SEAL wife or girlfriend would make an appearance.

But on this day, even the frog hogs must've taken the day off from their groupie duties. I was the only woman in this dump.

My feminine scent gave me away. No sooner had my heels touched the Technicolor, puke-stained, carpet than the heads of seven men turned toward me: Grant, Paul, Mitch, Joe, Vic, Pat, and Kyle. The seven other men on Joaquín's eight-man SEAL squad. Had they all been at the party that night?

I avoided Grant's suspicious glance and stared at the walls, studying the pictures of fallen SEALs. So many gorgeous men. Bearded, tatted, ripped.

Gone. Dead.

Never to kiss their wives again, never to cradle their babies in their strong arms. I might as well put Joaquín's picture on the wall.

Man, this place was depressing, but it was a thousand times better than jail.

Now _I_ was the one who needed a drink.

I sat on the barstool closest to the only friendly face, Kyle's, who was tending bar. The gummy pleather seat clung to my thighs as he gave me a welcoming smile.

Kyle Lawson was a SEAL and former NFL linebacker; he was also the new owner of The Pickled Frog. He was gorgeous—smooth mahogany-colored skin, trimmed dark beard, warm chocolate eyes. At six foot five, his body seemed sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Kyle was like a celebrity in the Teams. After he'd given up a multimillion-dollar football contract to become a SEAL, the media had hailed him a hero, even before the Team and he rescued the group of cheerleaders who were kidnapped on a USO tour. But he'd refused all interviews to the press and was as humble as any of the Team guys.

"Hey, beautiful. Sorry to hear about your brother. What can I get you?"

His buddies, Pat and Vic, both gave me forced nods. Their loyalty must've been torn between their hatred of the woman who broke Grant's heart and their protectiveness of Joaquín's sister.

"Malibu and Coke."

"Coming right up."

I glanced down the bar at the other SEALs. It was like a buffet of rock-hard men. My eyes watered; I was high on the testosterone levels in this place.

Kyle placed the drink in front of me. "How's your brother?"

"I saw him after he was arrested, and he looked horrible. Now he's refusing my visits." I took a sip, the spicy rum coating my throat. "Were you at that party?"

"Look, honey, I wish I could help, but Joe, Pat, Vic, and I left before the strippers arrived. I'm sure you're trying to help Joaquín, but no one is going to talk to you about that night." He glanced at Pat and Vic. "We take each other's secrets to our grave."

Kyle wasn't kidding. Pat was married to Annie Hamilton, a famous missing American who had vanished on spring break in the Caribbean. Initially, the public was fed a story that she'd just run away, become a missionary, had a kid, then decided to return to the States. I never bought that tall tale for a second. I'd interrogated Joaquín about what he knew, but he just played dumb, until a recent news story broke. Apparently, Annie and another missing American girl, Nicole, had both been kidnapped and forced into sex slavery. A Marine who recognized Nicole recently discovered her in Venezuela. She had amnesia and didn't know who she was or what had happened to her. And a former SEAL named Dave supposedly saved Annie, though I think Pat was involved in her rescue.

As much as I had a window into these SEALs' worlds, as both a girlfriend and a sister, I knew that I wasn't privy to their world of secrets.

I adored Pat, though; he was such an amazing guy. He adopted Annie's son, and Annie was now expecting his child. My own womb ached—had I stayed with Grant, I was sure we'd be married, and we'd probably have started a family by now. But instead of celebrating a new life with my soul mate, I was trying to salvage my brother's future.

I bit my lower lip and threw back my drink. I didn't have a plan. I didn't have a strategy. I didn't have a clue what I was doing.

_Here goes nothing._ I pushed myself off the seat and sat at an empty seat between Paul and Mitch, to at least try to see if I could get them to admit some details about the night of the party.

Paul resembled a young Tom Cruise—brown hair, blue eyes, dimples. He had even more arrogance than the rest of the men. As one of only a handful of second-generation SEALs, he'd been bred for this life. "Mia, I'm sorry about Joaquín, but the brass has forbidden us to talk about that night."

"I know. Grant told me."

Grant, who was sitting on the other side of Mitch, didn't even look at me. "Why are you here exactly?" he demanded, his voice cold. "You should leave. You're not welcome."

"Yeah, well, you don't own the bar now, do you? Kyle doesn't seem to have a problem with me being here. It's a free country." Grant's short-sleeved blue T-shirt teased me with glimpses of his tattoos. I gulped when I noticed he'd covered up my name with some sort of vine. At least I hadn't tattooed _his_ name on my ass, though I'd strongly considered it. My lack of ink didn't matter; Grant's name was permanently embedded in my heart.

He turned toward me, his green eyes digging deep into my soul. "What do you want from us? We aren't going to talk about that night, none of us are. We've all given statements to the police and to our commands. When this goes to trial, we'll be forced to testify, and it will ruin our careers."

He stood up and came over to me, placing his hand on my thigh. An electric shock pulsed up my leg. I was addicted to his touch, longed for him, dreamt of him at night.

"Why don't you just go back to your 'I hate the United States military' city and leave us the fuck alone?"

How could he be such an asshole to me? He knew how much I loved Joaquín—our love for my brother was probably one of the only things we still shared. I turned to Mitch, my eyes pleading for some mercy.

Mitch's long dark hair skimmed his shoulders; his full sleeves of tattoos decorated huge arms. He put his strong hand on my back and gave me an icy stare. "Sorry, Mia. I was passed out and woke up with some bitch sitting on my face. I don't remember anything."

"Dammit, Mitch. Why do you have to be so disgusting?" I hopped up from my chair. Grant was right; this was pointless.

But the stakes were too high to just give up. I couldn't imagine my brother spending the rest of his life caged like an animal.

As I turned back toward Paul, the doors flew open. Paul's wife, Dara, and Mitch's wife, April, came bouncing in, laughing as if they were about to meet their hubbies for date night at a five-star restaurant instead of a drink in this hellhole.

Dara gave me an insincere hug. "Oh, Mia, honey. So sorry to hear about Joaquín. But who knew he was into fucking strippers?"

"Fuck you, Dara. Where were _you_ that night? The party was at his parents' house, right? Maybe it was your husband fucking strippers."

I hated her and her perfectly blow-dried hair, her designer purse, her lime skinny jeans, probably size twenty-four. Typical SEAL officer's wife; thought she was better than anyone else. She was a few years older than me, and never forgot to mention her Ivy League education and her vacation home in Lake Tahoe. I didn't need her pity.

Dara shoved the hair out of her eyes and shot a bitter glare toward Paul. Without a word, he clutched her wrist and led her away from me. Paul went to great lengths to hide his other women from her. Dara loved him unconditionally, and I knew no matter what bullshit he pulled, she would never be able to leave him.

April put her arm around me. "I _am_ sorry, Mia. Joaquín is a good guy. I hope he's exonerated. Call me if you ever need to talk."

I thanked her. April and I had been good friends—once. A long-suffering SEAL wife, she was painfully aware of Mitch's philandering. I never understood their relationship. Grant's theory had always been that they got off on making each other jealous, but to me, it just seemed deeply dysfunctional.

I glanced at Grant, but when he turned his back on me, I decided I couldn't take any more. My heels touched the gravel outside, and the bar door slammed behind me. I felt the clang inside my heart, as well. He was done with me. I was alone. Again. No Grant. No Joaquín. No parents. Alone.

That was not the Grant I knew. He was cold, aloof, distant. I understood that he hated me, but he should at least be trying to help Joaquín. Wasn't he outraged about Joaquín's false imprisonment? Could he be hiding something? Grant said he didn't think Joaquín killed Tiffany. Had he witnessed the murder? What in the hell was going on?

_Stop, Mia. Just stop._ I was clearly stressed out and not thinking rationally. I'd dated Grant for two years; he was a good guy, a hero. He wouldn't hesitate to give his own life to protect the ones he loved. Like he'd said, he was under strict orders not to talk about the case.

I didn't want him to sacrifice his career. His Team needed him, especially without Joaquín. Hell, our country needed him. Grant was the best of the best.

Unfortunately, I needed him, too.

But that ship had sailed.

_He'll never be mine again._

I wasn't going to give up on Joaquín that easily. With or without Grant's help, I would clear Joaquín's name. My brother was innocent. He'd sacrificed everything for me since our parents had died, and it was time for me to repay his loyalty.

There had to be a way to free my brother. And nothing would stop me until I found it.

Grant had been right. SEALs wouldn't talk.

I had only one clue left.

Time to make strippers sing.
4

# Mia

PANTHERS, SAN DIEGO'S PREMIER STRIP joint, was located in an industrial area, tucked between used-car dealerships and noodle shops. I never understood the allure of strippers; paying women to pretend that they were interested in you seemed pathetic, not flattering.

I sat in the parking lot, staring at the entrance. I didn't want to go into the building. What was my plan? Ask the women if they'd been at the party where Tiffany was murdered? These ladies were her friends. I'd get the door slammed in my face.

I hugged my shoulders, tucking my chin into my chest. I didn't have a clue what I was doing.

My window rattled. I looked up and saw a busty redhead in a tight sweatsuit standing by the window of Joaquín's truck.

I opened the door.

"Honey, you okay? Is your boyfriend inside?"

I swallowed. Here I was, judging these women, yet this stripper was showing me compassion. "No. I don't have a boyfriend. My brother used to come here."

Her eyes narrowed, her gaze intent. "Hey, wait. You're Mia, aren't you? Joaquín's sister? I knew I recognized this truck. Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. Your brother is the nicest guy. Not like his friends, especially that jackass Mitch. None of us think Joaquín killed Tiffy."

I jumped down from the seat, my breath bottled in my chest. "You know my brother? Were you at the party? I know he didn't do it. Can you help me exonerate him?"

She gave me a warm smile. "I was at that party. But nothing was out of the ordinary. It was just some Team guys and some girls from here. The police interviewed us all. I've racked my brain trying to think of something, anything that stood out. Maybe it was an accident? I'm so sorry, honey. I wish I could help."

My mind raced. There had to be something she could tell me. Some clues to give me hope. "Which guy invited you?"

"Grant. Tall, amazing body, tattoos, blond hair, green eyes."

I gasped and almost tripped on the cracked asphalt. "Grant Carrion? You must be mistaken. He hates strip clubs. I know—he's my ex-boyfriend."

She let out a laugh. "So, you're the girl who fucked him up? Sorry to be the one to tell you, honey, but Grant's a regular. Comes in here every Tuesday night when he's in town. He has a thing for bleached blondes with huge tits and fake lips. We call him Ken because he's always scouting for his newest Barbie. Shows them a good time when he's around, deploys, then moves on to the latest model when he returns." She gave me a sad smile. "Look, I have to go to work. My name is Emma, but my stage name is Pepper. If you have any more questions, don't hesitate to stop in and find me. I'd be happy to help any way I can. Best of luck with your brother."

"Thanks, Emma." I hugged her, and she waved goodbye to me.

I got back into the truck and drove out of the parking lot.

Heat rose in my body. Could she be right? Had Grant become addicted to the strip club since I'd left him? Spending his free time here, drinking himself into oblivion, finding comfort with women who had no expectations, women who could never disappoint him the way I had?

I winced, pushing away the image of Grant getting a lap dance from some troubled woman with ragged extensions and fake tits.

But Emma had given me what I needed, what I craved.

Hope.

I now had a clue. _Grant_ had invited the stripper. That man, who I thought I'd known everything about, was now a stranger to me. Maybe he _was_ hiding something.

Seven Deadly SEALs—seven Achilles' heels. I would smoke out their secrets and figure out what happened that night.
5

# Mia

I'D BEEN BACK IN SAN Francisco for two weeks. I attempted to honor Joaquín's wish and stay in school, but I couldn't focus. Even attending guided meditations and kirtan chanting hadn't helped. My mind raced in class. I hadn't slept well since I'd returned.

I glanced around my room in the tiny North Beach apartment I shared with two other San Francisco State students. Scripts lay across my desk, with stacks of books huddled against the wall. Just a little over a month ago, my life had been so simple, so easy. One focus, one goal. To be the best actress possible. How stupid and trivial my dreams seemed now.

I swiped through my iPhone to the _San Diego News_ app, scanning for headlines about Joaquín. I didn't even have to scroll down the page. There it was at the top. _Bail denied for U.S. Navy SEAL accused of murdering a stripper._

Fuck.

My ears pounded, and my vision blurred. I couldn't even read the article. No hope. This was it—the realization finally sank in that he might get convicted of this crime.

I called Joaquín's lawyer, but the secretary told me that my brother had given instructions not to talk to me anymore. The secretary had only one thing to say: Joaquín had transferred the title of his truck to me.

I knew Joaquín too well—this was his way of ensuring I went on with my life. But what he didn't realize was that I would never be able to enjoy my life unless I fought for his.

I needed to clear my head, meditate, try to find some peace. Find a way to connect to Joaquín.

Despite being desperate for sleep, I climbed into his truck—my truck now—and headed over the Golden Gate Bridge toward Mt. Tamalpais. It was a clear day; San Francisco's famous fog seemed to have cleared the way for this mission. The winding hills through Mill Valley reminded me of the weekend adventures Joaquín and I had gone on with our parents.

Mt. Tam was more than a mountain to me—it was a sacred place, a vortex of energy. Grant and Joaquín never missed an opportunity to tease me about my spiritual beliefs. I was raised Catholic, but after my parents died, I'd become deeply spiritual. I practiced yoga, became a vegan, attended kirtan chants, and meditated. My dedication only grew stronger after I'd left Grant. For me, my spirituality was a way to center myself, develop a personal relationship with God, and feel closer to my parents.

As the Raptor approached our favorite trailhead, my breathing slowed, and a memory took hold of me.

_"Let's do a time capsule!"_

_Joaquín, a skinny boy around age twelve with a devilish grin, led me down the trail. Our parents slowly lagged in the distance. Always the Boy Scout, Joaquín took a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket and notched a hole at the base of a tree._

_"Give me your bracelets."_

_I shoved the candy-colored beaded bracelets off my wrist and handed them to him without a second thought. A big deal, considering at age eleven, those tacky things were my prized possessions._

_Joaquín's eyes twinkled. He loved going on adventures, and I was always his right-hand girl. Most brothers and sisters fight, but we were truly best friends._

_He took a small leather pouch out of his back pocket. "This was made by the Miwok Indians." He slipped his Swiss Army Knife inside, wrapped in my bracelets, reached deep between the roots of the tree, and dropped the pouch inside._

_"One day, when we're older, we'll come back here and find our treasures."_

_I thought it was stupid, but I would never tell him that. I just hugged him, and we ran off toward the voices of our parents._

Centering myself back in the present day, I parked the truck. I walked over to the earth and touched the damp soil. I closed my eyes, and I could hear my parents' voices calling us. _"Mia, Joaquín. Where are you two?"_

The voices became quieter in my head, and I found the tree. Eleven years later, the old oak had seen better days, but it still stood, leaves gathered at the base.

I knelt beside the trunk, my hand wrestling with the soil, which was surprisingly loose like it had been disturbed not long ago. Digging faster, furious. _It has to be here._

I'd all about given up when my fingers touched something smooth. I reached down and grabbed...the pouch!

I tore it open, now weathered by dirt and rain. My bracelets flew out—but instead of Joaquín's knife, I found a small wooden box.

_He's been back here?_

The box was new. When had he come up here? He hadn't visited me in at least a year.

I flipped the box open, and inside was a small key and a dog tag. I pulled the dog tag out and squinted at the etched numbers. WF #1459.

WF—Wells Fargo?

I examined the plain key. It looked like the safe-deposit box key from our bank. Joaquín and I had opened the box for my mom's jewelry once I turned eighteen, but I'd forgotten all about it. I had my own key somewhere back at my place, but I would've never thought to look in the box.

My jaw dropped. I _knew_ he hadn't killed Tiffany. He must've known something was going down. Joaquín was so smart, he had _planned_ to send me on this chase. He believed in me and knew I could save him.

My watch read four-thirteen. The bank was open until six. I stuffed the dirty pouch into my pocket, raced back to the truck, and sped down the hill.

After stewing for twenty-five minutes in traffic, I reached the bank. I handed the teller the key, she asked for my ID and gave me the signature card.

Joaquín's name was signed above mine; the date entered was a week after the murder.

Holy shit! He'd come up here just the other week and hadn't told me?

I scribbled my name on the card, and she led me to the safe-deposit boxes. When she placed the bank key in the lock with mine, it clicked open, and she handed me the box. My heart fluttered.

I took the box to a private room, anticipating what I would find. A note? Instructions?

I slowly opened the lid.

There was a certified check made out to me for seventy-five thousand dollars. Also dated a week after the murder.

Where did he get this money? Was this money dirty? Related to Tiffany's death?

A note was under the check. _Mia, here's the rest of Mom and Dad's life insurance. Please spend it wisely. I love you._

_Please spend it wisely._

He knew. He knew he'd be arrested. It was a testament to our close relationship that he knew he could provide the one hint that would send me here. It also showed how much he loved me, that he wanted to provide for me, look after me. Just as he had always done.

I emptied the safe-deposit box, desperate for another clue. But it was completely barren.

The only thing I could conclude was that he was in over his head in something...I didn't know what. His last gesture, which didn't surprise me, was to make sure I was taken care of. It brought tears to my eyes. My heart ached.

But I had other plans. I would take this money and find out the truth. I'd clear his name.

I slammed the box shut and walked out to the teller. "I'd like to deposit this check."
6

# Mia

THE FAINT SMELL OF CURRY, chickpeas, and fried pastry from the Afghan restaurant below wafted through my tiny apartment. A potato sambosa sounded amazing, especially washed down by a cherry blossom iced tea, but I was running late again.

I'd taken leave from my college, moved out of my place, and quit my part-time job applying makeup at the MAC counter at Nordstrom, styling the drag queens in the city.

Now, four months after Joaquín had been arrested, I was living in San Rafael, across the San Francisco Bay. I hated isolating myself, but I couldn't afford to make any mistakes. If Grant came looking for me, any connection to my former life had to be erased. That meant no catching the latest indie band at Bimbo's 365 Club with my girlfriends, no hikes to Mount Tam with my old friends from high school, and no spring auditions for Marin Shakespeare Company's summer season with my drama cohorts.

Whenever I thought of my passion for theater, my chest ached. For so long, that had been my dream. Sometimes your dreams would simply remain just that: a dream. It was hard not to feel sad, bereft.

Still, I actually loved being back in Marin County—the cool, creative vibe, being among the musicians and artists who flocked here. But I wasn't here to make friends, and this time I wasn't running away from my problems. This was my BUD/S. Joaquín had undergone six months of rigorous training to become a SEAL. I was training just as rigorously to make sure he could keep being one.

I rubbed some gel into my hair, threw on a vintage Mötley Crüe T-shirt, and pulled on some faded jeans. Northern California was so much more my scene than San Diego, where I had never fit in amongst the flock of picture-perfect _Baywatch_ bitches. Not that I was doing an excellent job of blending in _here_ , especially with my new looks. However, I was doing a better job after trading Joaquín's monstrous Ford Raptor for a Honda Accord Hybrid. The Raptor was too conspicuous among the eco-friendly Teslas, Toyota Prii, Nissan Leafs and Chevy Volts of Marin.

Saying goodbye to Joaquín's truck gutted me. Every time I drove it, I'd thought how it should be him behind the wheel, free from shackles, and my resolve to clear his name grew. But I had to erase any connection I had to my old life, to Joaquín, in order to go undercover and save him.

I filled up a bottle of water, locked up my place, and hopped into my car. Today I had a long day of training in San Francisco: a Russian lesson in the Richmond District, Kung Fu in Chinatown, pole dancing at a studio on the unfortunately named Bush Street. Tomorrow was equally packed with weapons training, CrossFit, an acting workshop, and computer classes. I was so exhausted and sore every night, I would usually stumble back to my place, soak in a warm bath filled with Epsom salts, and crash.

The lessons and training were actually fun, but I had also done something drastic. Something I swore I would never do, something that was completely against my belief system.

I'd gone through an extreme makeover.

As a rule, I was fundamentally against plastic surgery. I loved my body, my unique looks, my distinct features. I was half Latina—I had flat breasts, wide hips, almond-shaped eyes, a weak chin, and a cute bump on my nose. At first, I didn't even consider surgery as part of my plan,

After Joaquín was denied bail, I'd gone to San Diego one more time, and, as he had promised, my brother had refused my visit. But I refused to give up on him—I'd driven like a madwoman across the Coronado Bay Bridge. I was no longer a military dependent, so I didn't have an ID to gain access to base. I parked at the Del and headed toward the beach that borders the SEAL compound.

I'd hoped one of Joaquín's friends would see me, take pity, and offer me some help or guidance. As luck would have it, Grant and his buddies were helping to train the BUD/S recruits. Grant's face flashed a notice of recognition, but he ignored me. I might as well have been a stranger.

Then a wicked idea crossed my head. What if I _was_ a stranger? To not just him, but to his entire Team. Could I find out what really happened that night? Go undercover with the strippers at the club and discover the SEALs' secret sins? Learn about them with their masks off, from the vantage point of a fantasy temptress instead of the good girl they wanted to protect?

It was the only way.

I drove back to San Francisco that night and booked an appointment with a surgeon.

Having to go under the knife was excruciating, especially without anyone to take care of me. The nurse I'd hired to help me recover kept lamenting that such a pretty young girl would ruin her face and body. I agreed with her completely, but she didn't have a clue what was at stake.

I was trying to go undercover with Navy SEALs, men who were impossible to fool, and I couldn't take any chances, especially with Grant. He knew every inch of my body. So, I'd had breast implants, a nose job, a chin implant, fillers in my lips and cheeks, lipo on my neck, lasers to remove my freckles, and Botox on my eyebrows.

I looked like a plastic freak, but the doctor swore my features would get less tight, and I might someday resemble a human again.

_Still waiting._

My entire body throbbed, the chin implant burned through my skin, my nose was still swollen. Blinking was a daily struggle. These silicone balloons on my chest strained my back.

I had to force myself daily to stare in the mirror, not recognizing my own reflection. The rest of my body had transformed also. As soon as the doctor cleared me, I'd started weight training. Squats to give me a nice butt, weights to make my skinny body toned and lean. Was this the type of woman Grant really desired? A stereotypical plastic blonde bombshell with perfect features devoid of any uniqueness?

I reminded myself I hadn't changed my appearance to win Grant back. I'd altered my looks to lure Grant to me so I could go undercover and clear Joaquín's name. After all, I'd done, this had better work. Failure was not an option. I wasn't sure I could survive the heartache if I didn't complete this mission.

I was used to being alone, but I missed my brother. And I missed Grant. What was he doing now? I had always kept tabs on him through Joaquín—but for the first time since I'd met Grant, I didn't have any clue where he was. Was he deployed? With another girl? Training somewhere? Bastard didn't even have a Facebook account I could stalk. His Scorpio ass had become even more elusive since we'd broken up.

When we were together, I never doubted his fidelity or love; he was honest and open with me. But I also felt that I could never penetrate his core. Even after dating me for two years, he always held a part of himself back. Like he was afraid to let me see his true self.

Joaquín and I shared so much with each other that Grant's exclusion had sometimes made me wonder if he really wanted me in his life. But I was far from innocent—I kept my secrets too.

I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, and my heart raced when I viewed the city skyline. This was my hometown, the last place where my life had made sense. The Transamerica Pyramid, where my father had worked nights cleaning, glowed in the distance. My dad had been so proud, so principled. In a way, I was glad he never lived to see his only son accused of murder.

I turned off Geary Boulevard and pulled the car in front of Blue Danube Coffee, grateful to the parking fairy for finding me a spot. I dashed out of the car but paused before opening the front door of the coffee shop. The _San Francisco Chronicle_ stand held a paper with the headline— _U.S. Navy SEAL Joaquín Cruz Murder Trial Set for August_.

I pushed four quarters into the metal slot and grabbed a paper from the top. My muscles quivered, and I ground my teeth. I hated not being there for him, showing him support and unconditional love through every step of this mess. I had to make this work. I was his only hope.

My instructor, Roman, was waiting for me at a back table. I ordered myself an almond milk Mexican mocha and slid into the chair across from him. This gorgeous man was the polar opposite of Grant. Roman's jet-black hair skimmed his eyebrows, highlighting his almost black eyes. His lips were full, his skin was pale, his body was lean. His accent was so alluring; every time he pronounced the word _pleasure_ —"plea-shure"—my knees went weak.

In another life, another time, I could fall madly in love with the man sitting across from me sipping a single black espresso. But I was focused on Joaquín, and unfortunately for me, Grant had a permanent hold on my heart.

He slowly eye-fucked me. "You're late."

"I'm sorry, it won't happen again, Roman. Traffic."

"Call me, Roma." His eyes focused on my swollen breasts. "Why it is that you want to learn Russian? You never told to me."

_Of course, I didn't. I found you on Craigslist._

"It's a sensual language. Always wanted to learn. I'm an actress. I would love to perform Chekhov in his native tongue."

He smirked, clearly not buying my story. I now started to doubt my acting skills. "You will tell to me when you are ready. _Davai. Kak vas zovut_?"

_Let's go. What's your name?_

I took a sip of my mocha, the warm liquid coating my throat, helping me slip into my character. " _Menya zovut Ksenya_."

_Ksenya_ , derived from the Greek word _xenia,_ which meant stranger. My eyes had perked when I'd found it on a list of Russian names. I was a stranger now, a stranger to Joaquín, to Grant, to myself.

Grant had been right. Mia couldn't help Joaquín. Mia couldn't break the SEAL code. Mia couldn't get anyone to talk.

But none of those SEALs stood a chance of resisting Ksenya.
7

# Ksenya

AS I REINVENTED MY LIFE, Joaquín rotted in a jail cell for months. Per his request, I made no further contact. Just one final call to his lawyer, telling him that I'd been accepted into a theater program in England and that I'd check in when I could.

I missed Joaquín so much, every day, but I couldn't focus on that pain. Today was game day.

I pulled my car into the parking lot at Panthers. Was I really going to do this? The thought of taking my clothes off for a bunch of leering men made my throat burn.

Roma had helped me secure a new driver's license, social security number, and birth certificate. He'd even found me a place to live—a tiny room in an elderly Russian lady's apartment in El Cajon. The place reeked of pierogis and tea, but it didn't matter. I was pretty sure Roma had Mafia ties, but we'd both adopted an unspoken rule about not asking about each other's activities.

One final glance in the dashboard mirror, and I was ready to go. My hair was now bleached and blended with platinum-blonde extensions, my hazel eyes were masked with brown contacts, accented with heavy, dark eye shadow and false eyelashes, and my lips were painted pale pink and frosted. And thanks to the combination of my depression and my physical training, my skinny frame now looked like it could grace the cover of a Victoria's Secret catalog.

And I hated to admit it, but I loved the way I looked. Conceit. Vanity. Pride. My lack of humility saddened me. Though I would've never gone under the knife in any other circumstance, this dilemma forced me to fix every one of my physical insecurities. As a woman, it was almost empowering, no longer having to worry about my thin lips or crooked nose.

I did realize through the recovery that my previously low self-image didn't matter, that my soul and dedication was what was important. I just wished I could've understood this new truth without having to change myself.

I'd transformed myself from the cute girl next door to, according to Emma, the stripper, Grant's ultimate fantasy. It was still hard for me to believe her; I would have to see it with my own eyes.

But if Grant dreamt about blonde bombshells, I would become the woman of his nightmares. I was unstoppable. I was in control.

I pushed by some guys in the parking lot, made my way to the entrance, and spoke to the bouncer. "I have meeting together with Jim," I said in my affected Russian accent. Roma kept telling me no one would be able to distinguish me from any other Russian speaker. I'd studied not only the language but also the grammar mistakes the recent immigrants often made when they spoke in English.

The bouncer eye-fucked me. "Ka-sen-e-ya? Jim is expecting you. In his office."

I nodded and made my way toward the back of the club, watching the girls on stage out of the corner of my eye. Smoke filled the place from the adjoining private hookah lounge. The sweet, musky smell made my eyes water. Better get used to it.

Jim greeted me at the door. Bald, fat, hairy, pretty much what I expected the owner of a strip club to look like. "Welcome, Ksenya. Wow. You're a little minx, aren't you?"

Gross. I'd made a strict pact with myself—I'd go rogue, but under no circumstances would I sleep with a man who disgusted me. "Good to meet together with you." I hated using improper English, but it was a necessity now.

"Come to my office and relax. Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?"

His office consisted of a filthy cum-stained couch, a desk with papers piled all over it, and walls of framed pictures of him mugging with celebrities who had come to this joint.

I perched on the edge of the sofa. "I'm from Kharkov, in Ukraine. I was ballroom dancer. I come here with my baba, my grandmother, who was engineer. But she is dead, and so I must work. I do not disappoint you. I hear you are the best, and me I always want to be the best."

He motioned me to stand up and twirl around, and I obliged, wiggling my hips.

"Let's see what you've got. We have striking girls come in here every day, but I need to know you're the real deal. You can give me a dance in the VIP lounge."

He led me to the room, which was painted electric purple. The pole in the middle glowed from the bright lights.

"Undress."

I slowly took off my sweatsuit, fighting the urge to flee. Now stripped down to my matching pink bra and panties, my cheeks burned, and I hid my blush behind my hair. I'd always been modest; the only man to ever see me naked was Grant.

The music started, almost as if it sensed my presence. The hypnotic rhythm of the R&B song seemingly overtook my body. Centered, calmed, crafted. Seducing this dirty old man with my moves would be easy—tricking Grant would be the true test.

My eyes focused on Jim, but I didn't see him. I wasn't dancing for Jim. I wasn't even dancing to save my brother.

I was dancing for Grant—I saw Grant's face, his lips, his eyes tracing my movements. Slow and seductive rather than fast and frenzied. How many times had he sat in this room, watching a broken girl dance for him? What had these women given him that I hadn't been able to? Did he open up to them? Truly let them in, instead of how he'd always tried to be tough and resilient for me?

As I made love to the pole, my heart pounded, my stomach fluttered. This was where I was meant to be. After seeing Grant again and having him shut me out, literally and figuratively, I realized I wasn't done with him. As much as I didn't want to admit it, I missed him, despite the fact that he had been an asshole to me. I'd hurt him, but behind his vicious words to me, I wondered if he still loved me no matter how much he tried to fight it.

A loud clap sprang me from my haze.

"Bravo. Ksenya, you are enchanting. Can you start tonight? We have a huge party booked. VIPs, extravagant spenders. They love seeing a new gem. Are you game?"

I wasn't sure if this transformation would work if I could even get close enough to any of the Team guys, but I had to try. My plan was to strip here until I saw Joaquín's Teammates. I'd focus on the first one who paid me any attention, entertain them at a similar party, and try to figure out what happened to Tiffany.

" _Da_. Thank you, Jim. I won't let you down."

I put my clothes back on, and Jim gave me a bunch of forms to fill out. Surprisingly, he actually ended up being quite nice and went out of his way to make me feel comfortable.

VIPs.

It was Thursday night. I'd done my research—driven by the houses of my brother's Teammates, seen their cars in the driveway, the "Welcome Home Daddy" banners in the windows. They must've just returned from a training exercise or a deployment. Which meant they were due to make their appearance here any day.

When Grant walked through the doors, I'd be on that stage. And I would be able to dance for my man. In the shadows.
8

# Ksenya

UNFORTUNATELY, JIM'S BIG SPENDERS THAT first night didn't include Grant. Or the night after that. Or the next.

Days turned into weeks. It seemed as if I'd been stuck in this hellhole forever, and there was still no sign of my former lover or any of his Teammates. I'd gone from the star of the SFSU drama department with a promising future, living my dreams, moonlighting with the best thespians at American Conservatory Theater, to a lowly stripper with limited hope, stuck in a nightmare, dancing—if you could call it that—for lonely men.

I hated it—the baby talk, the lap dances, the inappropriate touches, the lewd remarks, the constant propositions. I kept telling myself, _You can do this, Mia. You're preparing for the role of a lifetime_.

The other strippers were nice, at least. I was surprised that they weren't as messed up as I'd assumed they'd be. Emma was long gone, though. From what I could glean, this place had a high turnover rate.

It was Taco Tuesday—carne asada, salsa bar, Coronas, churros. I'd decided to have a little bit of fun with the crowd and dressed up in a sexy border patrol costume, enjoying the irony since I was an undercover Latina. I was dancing to a Latin pop song when the doors flew open. The loud laughter of deep male voices perked my ears.

Then I saw him—my man was standing right in front of the stage.

Jolts of electricity coursed through my veins. The sweat on my back moistened my costume; the heat from the dazzling lights burned my skin. Could I really pull this off? Would Grant take one look at me and call my bluff?

My mouth became dry, and my heart palpitated.

We were in the same room, breathing the same smoky air. Dreaming of his face every night for months made him seem like my own mirage. But this time, he was very real.

"Blurred Lines" started playing. Well, at least the song was appropriate. I glided to the pole, my partner in this urgent dance, a dance that could help me enter into this new world I so desperately sought to infiltrate.

My hips swayed; I licked my lips. Climbing to the top of the pole, I spread my legs, determined to get Grant to notice me. I had to remind myself to stay the course, not blow my dance, or run over to him.

I made eye contact, and he winked. I knew that wink—that look of desire. The first time he'd winked at me, sitting across from me at a coffee shop, I'd completely melted. Back then, the giddiness of first love consumed me. Now, I had to hold back tears, since I was pretty positive that he had no idea I was Mia. Just some sexy stripper he hoped to see naked.

I pranced up and down the catwalk, narrowing my gaze on him. Dancing for him, willing him to connect with me. His eyes turned hungry as he followed my every movement.

Soon I could barely see him through the bright lights and smoke. My hair whipped in the air; my body seduced the pole. The song ended, the smoke waned, the lights dimmed.

And Grant was relaxed in a chair, motioning me to come toward him.

_The plan. Stick to the plan, Mia. Watch which girls go over to his group. Don't approach him immediately, take your time. You have dreamt of this moment, planned, prepared—now it's showtime._

I gave him a coy smile, blew a kiss, and walked off the stage. I headed to the bar to get a better vantage point and some liquid courage. A quick shot of vodka calmed my nerves. Grant's skin looked darker, perhaps he'd just returned from the Middle East. His massive biceps bulged out of his black T-shirt, looking bigger than when I'd last seen them. His hair was longer, his beard fuller.

And he was looking right at me.

I waved, and he moistened his lips. If I avoided him, he might suspect something. I was just another dancer, and if a customer was staring at me, it was my job to flirt back.

_Shoulders back, tits up._ I reapplied my red lipstick, locking my gaze on his. I'd turned myself into his dream girl, his personal fantasy pinup. But I was real—well, mostly. And he was still the only man who had ever sent ripples of pleasure pulsating throughout my body.

A casual flaunt of my blonde locks, a batting of my false eyelashes, and I made my way over to him. "Hi, handsome. My name it is Ksenya. How are you doing tonight?" My accent was crisp, I rolled my R's, my tongue touching the top of my mouth.

"Much better now that I saw you, sexy. I'm Grant. Where you from?" He pulled me onto his lap. I ran my fingers through his hair. He smelled the same as I remembered—pine, lemon, and vodka as if he had just chopped down a Christmas tree and drunk a spiked lemonade to refresh. Did I smell the same to him? Could he recognize my scent despite my switching to new brands of lotion and shampoo?

"Kharkov, Ukraine." I figured my recent-immigrant ruse would explain my terse conversation. Reduce the chances for him to find me out.

His eyes zeroed in on my chest. I arched my back to give him a better view. My mind flashed to him sucking on my nipples, cradling my small breasts. He'd always seemed so pleased with me, with my body—did he really want a girl with fake tits and silicone lips?

"I've been around the world twice, but never to Ukraine. Maybe you could show me around sometime." His words were slurred.

_I've been around the world twice?_ Really—he was actually quoting the Navy SEAL "Ballad of the Frogman"? His bloodshot eyes told me he'd been wasted before he ever set foot in here.

I focused my energy on controlling my facial movements, ensuring that my eyes didn't shift, or my nose didn't twitch as I spewed out my lines. "I'd love to show to you whatever it is you like to see, handsome." Had he gone to strip clubs behind my back when we were together? My heart wrenched, thinking of those nights I'd spent practicing lines from a script for class in his apartment, waiting for him to come home from boys' night, supposedly at bars and steakhouses. He'd always sworn to me he was the designated driver, that the older Team guys forced him to join them since he was merely a SEAL pup.

By now, every Team guy was talking to a girl. My gaze scanned to the other present members of Joaquín's Team—Paul and Mitch. Had one of them murdered Tiffany and framed my brother?

I turned back to Grant. Rules for keeping a SEAL's interest: #1 always make him the center of attention; #2 never let him see you checking out his Teammates, no matter how insanely gorgeous. "Can I dance for you?" Talking too long would arouse suspicion. He thought I was a stripper. I needed to earn my tips.

"Sure, sexy. Follow me."

_Follow me?_ Even now, even in here, he was taking charge. I usually led my customers—emasculated husbands, inebriated frat boys, insecure businessmen, even conceited rock stars—back to the VIP room. But no, Grant was in control. He was a regular. He knew the drill.

He grabbed my hand, and instead of recoiling at his touch and being disgusted about his ease in this place, I couldn't fight my arousal toward him. What the hell was wrong with me for still wanting him? Especially in here, when I looked like a porn star. When would this pain end? The combination of disgust, sadness, and guilt crashed through my mind. Had my abandonment driven him to seek comfort with these women? Or had he been seeing them all along?

But I didn't have a moment to reflect. I needed to give the performance of a lifetime.
9

# Grant

UNFORTUNATELY, JIM'S BIG SPENDERS THAT first night didn't include Grant. Or the night after that. Or the next.

Days turned into weeks. It seemed as if I'd been stuck in this hellhole forever, and there was still no sign of my former lover or any of his Teammates. I'd gone from the star of the SFSU drama department with a promising future, living my dreams, moonlighting with the best thespians at American Conservatory Theater, to a lowly stripper with limited hope, stuck in a nightmare, dancing—if you could call it that—for lonely men.

I hated it—the baby talk, the lap dances, the inappropriate touches, the lewd remarks, the constant propositions. I kept telling myself, _You can do this, Mia. You're preparing for the role of a lifetime_.

The other strippers were nice, at least. I was surprised that they weren't as messed up as I'd assumed they'd be. Emma was long gone, though. From what I could glean, this place had a high turnover rate.

It was Taco Tuesday—carne asada, salsa bar, Coronas, churros. I'd decided to have a little bit of fun with the crowd and dressed up in a sexy border patrol costume, enjoying the irony since I was an undercover Latina. I was dancing to a Latin pop song when the doors flew open. The loud laughter of deep male voices perked my ears.

Then I saw him—my man was standing right in front of the stage.

Jolts of electricity coursed through my veins. The sweat on my back moistened my costume; the heat from the dazzling lights burned my skin. Could I really pull this off? Would Grant take one look at me and call my bluff?

My mouth became dry, and my heart palpitated.

We were in the same room, breathing the same smoky air. Dreaming of his face every night for months made him seem like my own mirage. But this time, he was very real.

"Blurred Lines" started playing. Well, at least the song was appropriate. I glided to the pole, my partner in this urgent dance, a dance that could help me enter into this new world I so desperately sought to infiltrate.

My hips swayed; I licked my lips. Climbing to the top of the pole, I spread my legs, determined to get Grant to notice me. I had to remind myself to stay the course, not blow my dance, or run over to him.

I made eye contact, and he winked. I knew that wink—that look of desire. The first time he'd winked at me, sitting across from me at a coffee shop, I'd completely melted. Back then, the giddiness of first love consumed me. Now, I had to hold back tears, since I was pretty positive that he had no idea I was Mia. Just some sexy stripper he hoped to see naked.

I pranced up and down the catwalk, narrowing my gaze on him. Dancing for him, willing him to connect with me. His eyes turned hungry as he followed my every movement.

Soon I could barely see him through the bright lights and smoke. My hair whipped in the air; my body seduced the pole. The song ended, the smoke waned, the lights dimmed.

And Grant was relaxed in a chair, motioning me to come toward him.

_The plan. Stick to the plan, Mia. Watch which girls go over to his group. Don't approach him immediately, take your time. You have dreamt of this moment, planned, prepared—now it's showtime._

I gave him a coy smile, blew a kiss, and walked off the stage. I headed to the bar to get a better vantage point and some liquid courage. A quick shot of vodka calmed my nerves. Grant's skin looked darker, perhaps he'd just returned from the Middle East. His massive biceps bulged out of his black T-shirt, looking bigger than when I'd last seen them. His hair was longer, his beard fuller.

And he was looking right at me.

I waved, and he moistened his lips. If I avoided him, he might suspect something. I was just another dancer, and if a customer was staring at me, it was my job to flirt back.

_Shoulders back, tits up._ I reapplied my red lipstick, locking my gaze on his. I'd turned myself into his dream girl, his personal fantasy pinup. But I was real—well, mostly. And he was still the only man who had ever sent ripples of pleasure pulsating throughout my body.

A casual flaunt of my blonde locks, a batting of my false eyelashes, and I made my way over to him. "Hi, handsome. My name it is Ksenya. How are you doing tonight?" My accent was crisp, I rolled my R's, my tongue touching the top of my mouth.

"Much better now that I saw you, sexy. I'm Grant. Where you from?" He pulled me onto his lap. I ran my fingers through his hair. He smelled the same as I remembered—pine, lemon, and vodka as if he had just chopped down a Christmas tree and drunk a spiked lemonade to refresh. Did I smell the same to him? Could he recognize my scent despite my switching to new brands of lotion and shampoo?

"Kharkov, Ukraine." I figured my recent-immigrant ruse would explain my terse conversation. Reduce the chances for him to find me out.

His eyes zeroed in on my chest. I arched my back to give him a better view. My mind flashed to him sucking on my nipples, cradling my small breasts. He'd always seemed so pleased with me, with my body—did he really want a girl with fake tits and silicone lips?

"I've been around the world twice, but never to Ukraine. Maybe you could show me around sometime." His words were slurred.

_I've been around the world twice?_ Really—he was actually quoting the Navy SEAL "Ballad of the Frogman"? His bloodshot eyes told me he'd been wasted before he ever set foot in here.

I focused my energy on controlling my facial movements, ensuring that my eyes didn't shift, or my nose didn't twitch as I spewed out my lines. "I'd love to show to you whatever it is you like to see, handsome." Had he gone to strip clubs behind my back when we were together? My heart wrenched, thinking of those nights I'd spent practicing lines from a script for class in his apartment, waiting for him to come home from boys' night, supposedly at bars and steakhouses. He'd always sworn to me he was the designated driver, that the older Team guys forced him to join them since he was merely a SEAL pup.

By now, every Team guy was talking to a girl. My gaze scanned to the other present members of Joaquín's Team—Paul and Mitch. Had one of them murdered Tiffany and framed my brother?

I turned back to Grant. Rules for keeping a SEAL's interest: #1 always make him the center of attention; #2 never let him see you checking out his Teammates, no matter how insanely gorgeous. "Can I dance for you?" Talking too long would arouse suspicion. He thought I was a stripper. I needed to earn my tips.

"Sure, sexy. Follow me."

_Follow me?_ Even now, even in here, he was taking charge. I usually led my customers—emasculated husbands, inebriated frat boys, insecure businessmen, even conceited rock stars—back to the VIP room. But no, Grant was in control. He was a regular. He knew the drill.

He grabbed my hand, and instead of recoiling at his touch and being disgusted about his ease in this place, I couldn't fight my arousal toward him. What the hell was wrong with me for still wanting him? Especially in here, when I looked like a porn star. When would this pain end? The combination of disgust, sadness, and guilt crashed through my mind. Had my abandonment driven him to seek comfort with these women? Or had he been seeing them all along?

But I didn't have a moment to reflect. I needed to give the performance of a lifetime.
10

# Ksenya

SUSHI? HAD GRANT SERIOUSLY ASKED a stripper out to dinner? He couldn't possibly know I'm Mia. Emma must've been right when she'd said he wooed the girls at Panthers, taking one out whenever he was in town.

I knew he was single—no steady girlfriend since me—but when had this stripper fetish started? What if he'd cheated on me when we were together? Bile rose in my throat. Was I simply naïve, expecting him to have been faithful to me?

Dinner with Grant was not the plan. I wanted to observe him with the strippers. See who else talked to the guys, try to figure out which girls were at Paul's place the night of the murder.

But I couldn't say no to Grant. I was in character. I was Ksenya, and she wanted someone to save her.

I seethed inwardly. I didn't need a man to save me. The only good thing that had resulted out of this nightmare was that for the first time in my life, I had proved I could take care of myself. Without my parents, Joaquín, or Grant to pick me up when I fell. Yes, Joaquín had left me the money in the safe-deposit box, but every red cent had gone toward this plan. Once my brother was free, I refused to ever rely on anyone but myself again.

What was I going to wear? I'd just finished my shift twenty minutes ago. I rummaged through my duffel bag in the dressing room—stripper costumes, Victoria's Secret PINK sweats, and a skintight black dress I'd worn last week for VIP night. Mia would've worn sweats, but Ksenya would choose the dress. And heels, earrings, and makeup. Playing Ukrainian Barbie was hard. I just hoped she was hot enough to get her Ken doll to talk.

What I wouldn't give to go home to my room in El Cajon, shower, scrub off this makeup, crawl into my pajamas, and binge-watch _Dancing Under the Stars_. The arches in my feet were cramped from those ridiculous stripper shoes, my empty stomach was craving a heaping plate of pesto pasta, not sushi, and my eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. Not to mention these humongous tits were killing my back. But I wasn't going to blow my big chance.

I waited by the back entrance for Grant. My goal for the night was to get him to open up to me, even just a little. Then maybe he'd invite me to the next stripper party he and his buddies had. But I had no intention of sleeping with him—not now, not ever again. I was confident in my acting ability, but I couldn't control the way my body would respond to his touch. If we made love, he would know I was Mia.

I closed my eyes, imagined the warmth of his chest pressing on my skin, the stubble from his beard tickling the nape of my neck, the tender way he used to hold me.

I stared down Convoy Street, scanning for Grant's truck. Our club was next to used-car dealerships and Korean barbecues, and the scent of burning animal flesh and kimchee made my skin crawl. A few customers catcalled me, and I resisted the urge to flip them off.

The roar of a motorcycle shook the air.

Grant had bought a bike?

I was so pissed at him! He'd always wanted one when we were together, but I refused to let him get one. It was one thing for him to risk his life overseas defending our freedom; it was another to end up as roadkill for a drunk driver and die the way my parents had.

I wanted to go off on him, but I highly doubted Ksenya would nag him. I took a deep breath and centered myself, slipping back into Ksenya's world.

His windblown hair framed his face. I loved his masculine jawline, his beard, his intensity. The deep scar on his neck beckoned me to reach out and caress it. I had clearly underestimated the hold this man still had over me.

"Hey, gorgeous. Hop on." He handed me a helmet.

"You drive motorcycle? Is dangerous, no?" Screw it, I figured Grant would like a little bit of sass from Ksenya.

"Nothing's dangerous when you're with me. Let's go."

Cocky son of a bitch. In the past six months, I'd never once considered how hard it would be to shut my mouth and not call Grant out on his bullshit.

I pulled the tight helmet over my head, wrapped my arms around his waist, and held on.

The wind chilled my legs as we entered the freeway, my skintight dress riding up around my thighs. I'd never been on a motorcycle, fundamentally refused to ever ride one after my parents had died. But gliding through traffic, I had to admit, for the first time since Joaquín had been arrested, my pulse steadied, my heartbeat calmed. For our brief ride, I vanquished memories of my parents, Joaquín's troubles, my heartache—this overwhelming sense of urgency. I was truly enjoying living in the moment.

We pulled up to some hole-in-the-wall sushi joint. We weren't in the ritzy part of downtown. No, we were on Broadway, a few blocks from the county jail where Joaquín was being housed.

_I'm here, Joaquín. I haven't abandoned you._

It was hard being so close to him and not being able to reach out, but I had faith I was on the right path.

I removed my helmet and crinkled my nose. The stench of urine and tar churned my stomach. Grant would never have taken me to a restaurant like this. This was a place where a guy took a girl to hide her, not to show her off. Was he shrouding me because I was a stripper? Or did he have a girlfriend somewhere who he was cheating on?

Last night, I almost felt guilty for using him to find the truth after having dumped him in the past. But he chose to date a stripper, who on the surface was clearly not the type of woman to get serious with. So if he wanted a fling, at least he would be spending time with a woman who actually cared about him.

Grant studied my face. "This place is great, I promise. I know it doesn't look like much, but the food is incredible."

Great, he could still read me even as Ksenya. "I'm sure it is wonderful. I'm excited for good meal."

His eyebrows lifted. "It's refreshing to meet someone who looks beyond outward appearances."

I bit my lip. "Compared to where it is I am from, this place is like palace." Grant had a point. This could be the best sushi in the city, but I would've never agreed to go here when we were dating.

I'd never considered myself to be pretentious, but I admit I'd been a tad judgmental. I wondered if Grant had held himself back with me, afraid to push me to try new experiences. Why hadn't I just been more open when I was with him?

The waitress sat us at a cramped table, stuck between the sushi bar and the restroom. Grant ordered a bunch of rolls, Asahi beer for himself, and sake for me.

He held my hand across the table. "So, how long have you been in San Diego?"

"Few months. I lived together in San Francisco with my baba. She died, and it was too much money for me there to live. I have friend here who was dancer and made good money, so I come down. The clubs in San Francisco are good, but houses are not so cheap." My story was solid—I'd gone over it a thousand times—but gazing across at a man who regularly interrogated terrorists caused my palms to sweat.

The waitress brought us the first batch of rolls. Grant swirled a neon-green mound of wasabi in the soy sauce with such concentration, I shuddered from his intensity. "So you live with your friend?" he asked.

"No. She got boyfriend and quit the club. I live with older woman. She gives to me room in home, and I help with cleaning and cooking." I tasted a piece of sushi—the Motion in the Ocean __ roll. The spicy jalapeño sauce lit my lips on fire while the sweet citrus put out the flame. I swallowed the tuna, the slithery fish sliding down my throat. _Dear God, please don't let me gag._ I had been a vegan for years. But I knew there was no chance I could remain one in front of Grant.

"You could clean and cook for _me_."

"Very funny."

He popped a crunchy soft-shell crab roll into his mouth. "I'm serious, I travel all the time for my job. I could use some help."

Was he kidding me? He had to be joking—he did _not_ just invite a stripper he'd just met to move in with him. I dated this jackass for two years, and we hadn't even lived together.

"No, thank you. I do not know you."

His eyebrow lifted, and his mouth widened into a sly smile. "Well, get to know me."

My head pounded, and it wasn't from the cheap saké. Who was this man who sat across from me? Was it possible to change that much, or did every man reinvent himself when dating someone new? I fought the desire to kick Grant in the balls, hightail it out of there, and get back to my life.

"What is it you do for living?"

"I sell pharmaceuticals." His nose didn't even twitch; he'd become an expert at hiding his lies. Though this fib didn't bother me. SEALs never told civilians what they did for a living. Joaquín told everyone he met that he drove an ice cream truck. That guy you met in a bar boasting about being a SEAL? He was a liar.

We made small talk over the rest of dinner. I kept quiet, trying not to arouse suspicion.

"Let's get out of here. I want to take you somewhere." He signaled to the waitress and paid the bill in cash.

We slid onto the back of his bike, and I placed my arms around him. I wanted to vanish into this moment, go back to the way we were when we had first fallen in love. Before he deployed that first time. Before I'd done something stupid. Before I didn't have the guts to confide in him.

Grant headed down to the pier, in front of the _USS Midway_ , a retired Naval carrier turned maritime museum. The millions of lights from the ship illuminated the ocean, as the view of Coronado's Hotel Del beckoned in the distance. Grant might be lying to his date about his job, but he was also sharing his love of the Navy. Maybe he didn't see Ksenya as just a conquest.

We stood under the world-famous _Unconditional Surrender_ statue, which portrayed a sailor kissing a nurse at the end of World War II.

Grant took me into his arms, and I was sure he was going to kiss me under the moonlight. "You're so incredibly hot. Let's go to a hotel."

_"Nyet."_

"Come on, babe. We'll have a great time. If you feel uncomfortable, I'll take you home. I just want to spend some time with you."

My first instinct was to slap him. But my panties became damp as I imagined what this new Grant would do to me.

Which way should I go—sweet, shy good girl forced into stripping? Or nasty, freaky bad girl who owned her sexuality?

I had vowed when this deception started—hell, when this date started—to never sleep with him again, fearful that he would discover my identity. Now I decided I wasn't going to make any rules. I'd fooled him so far; maybe I could fool him in bed as well. I'd spent every night for the past two and a half years imagining making love to him. As Mia, I'd been the girl next door, a young, inexperienced virgin, petrified to ask him to act out my deepest fantasies. But I had always harbored a secret desire to play the temptress.

If Grant wanted to party, I'd be ecstatic to rock his world. This time, I wouldn't hold back. I couldn't. Ksenya would have to be a wildcat in bed for me to pull off this deception.

Sleeping with Grant might be the only way to truly have him let down his guard and open up to me. But this time, sex would be on my terms, on my timeline—and for once in my life, I'd be in control.
11

# Grant

I WASN'T BUYING KSENYA'S GOOD-girl act, but I was game to play along. Her eyes had dilated at my request, but she still agreed to go to the hotel with me. She was, in fact, a stripper. Not that I cared.

I'd worshipped Mia—we'd been each other's firsts, and I would've never made it through BUD/S without her support. But whenever I'd wanted to ask her to try something new in bed, I'd chickened out, afraid of how she would react. I didn't want to lose or disrespect her, so I'd repressed my desires. She was a "good girl," and I'd figured that making love to her should only be about tenderness.

Since we'd been apart, I'd had mostly one-night stands with chicks in bars and flings with messed-up strippers. I wanted to be with a girl who could fulfill my every fantasy. I wanted to _fuck_ this girl, not marry her.

I sent a quick text to my buddy to reserve the Bachelor Pad Suite at the Coronado Bay Resort. Equipped with its very own stripper pole and a huge mirror over the bed. I couldn't think of a better place to watch Ksenya ride me. The trip over on my motorcycle was sexy as all hell. Her tight little body wrapped around mine, her huge tits pressed into my back.

The regular girls who worked at Panthers didn't seem to have any light inside them. Their eyes were cold, their hearts dead. Fuck, I felt dead when I dated them. But not with Ksenya. This chick was different. There'd been other damn sexy strippers from there, but this girl seemed almost innocent. Her immigrant-orphan hardship story was way more compelling than the typical stripper drama. She awoke something inside me.

Even so, I wasn't going to chase her. I had enough willing women ready to drop their panties and suck a SEAL's cock.

I'd only pursued one woman in my life. And frankly, I didn't have the time to put into getting to know someone when I was deployed nine months out of the year. How could I ever build a relationship with a sweet girl who'd always be there for me if I didn't have any time to spend with her? I'd done that with Mia and failed.

I pulled up to the hotel entrance with Ksenya and tossed the valet my keys. I pressed her against the building. My lips met hers, and her fiery mouth tasted as sweet as freedom.

She let out a slow, sweet moan. My cock hardened in my jeans—only a fine layer of denim between it and her wet panties. Navy SEALs rarely wore underwear.

I checked in at the front desk, the key already waiting for me. One of my Team guys knew the concierge; whenever a suite was vacant, he was happy to let one of us use it.

Ksenya's mouth dropped when I opened the door to the suite. The pad was pure decadence: a black leather sofa faced the gold stripper pole, a mirror overhead. A full bar beckoned to me.

"Oh, Grant. This place it is very beautiful. It must be very expensive. Do you come to here many times?"

I studied her face; she looked almost dazed.

"Don't worry about it, baby. I have a friend who hooks me up. Would you like a drink?"

She smiled in agreement, so I poured her a glass of wine, myself a shot of whiskey.

She studied the pole. "You want me to dance for you now?"

Hell yeah, I did. But I didn't want her to feel cheap. "Let's just relax for a bit."

"Can I look around?"

"Sure. Make yourself at home."

She walked around the suite, examining the pole, the gaudy painting of a naked woman to the right of the bar.

I downed my shot and poured another, then another. My head buzzed from my earlier beer.

She sat on one of the barstools, slowly sipping her wine.

Then I saw it.

Her lips. Big and pouty, but the left edge of her mouth curled when she smiled.

Just like Mia's used to.

Fuck. I was still so hung up on that girl that even sitting here with a beautiful woman, all I could think about was my ex.

I studied Ksenya's face. It was perfect. Completely symmetrical, as if an artist had sculpted it. No imperfections, like the small bump Mia had on her nose. Still, I'd loved Mia's face; she was unique. She had been all mine. I still wasn't sure why I was never enough for her. But that was history. This was my present.

Ksenya bounced her knees, fidgeting in her swivel chair. I turned the satellite stereo on in the room. Some deep bass dance song was playing. Perfect.

"Dance for me." I relaxed on my sofa, the bottle of whiskey in my hand, waiting for my private show.

Her skin flushed, and her fingers brushed down her side. My every nerve tingled.

A wicked smile slowly built on her lips, and she pranced up to the pole. She teased me with glimpses of her tan thighs, the round curve of her back. She was baiting me, fondling her chest.

"Take off your dress."

She obliged, and it slid onto the carpet. Man, she was incredible. Easily the finest woman I'd ever laid eyes on. Including actresses, porn stars, and every stripper I'd ever fucked. She was too good to be true.

"Now your bra." I set the bottle down.

With one hand, she unhooked her red lace bra. I motioned her to the sofa, and she rubbed her breasts in my face. My tongue lashed at them, but she slapped me away and backed to the other end of the cushions. The friction from my jeans reminded me how much I wanted her, and my breath hitched. Fine, I'd play—for now. I couldn't wait to have my way with her.

"Show me your pussy."

Her fingers traced down her stomach, and she pushed off her panties. Her skin looked soft and warm, a thin landing strip begging me to devour it.

I lowered my voice, touched my tongue to my upper lip. "Come here."

Naked except for her heels, she crawled over to me. She pushed herself on top of me and straddled my lap. I closed my eyes for a second, just to feel her sensational body pressing down on mine. I lived for this moment, the moment of anticipation before I hit my target. I leaned in for a kiss.

"I told you, I don't do extras," she hissed before my mouth found hers.

"Don't tease me, baby."

"I gave you the dance you paid for yesterday. If you want to see me again, you can come by club. Tomorrow."

She kissed my neck, my face, her warm tongue tracing my ear, and I imagined her tongue dancing around my cock. Her lips pulled away from me...

And she quickly gathered her clothes, dressed, and slammed the door behind her.

Fuck.

My balls burned. I could've easily stopped her, but I knew I was being an asshole. After having my heart ripped to shreds by Mia, I just couldn't allow myself to see women as good for anything other than sex. Women treated me like this, too—none of the San Diego coeds wanted to get to know Grant, they just wanted to be fucked by a Navy SEAL, something to brag about to their sorority sisters. I figured after getting fucked over by Mia, these types of emotionless hookups with no future were the only way for me.

Maybe I was wrong, and Ksenya was just a typical stripper playing me—after money, fame, or power—getting me all worked up so I would give in to whatever she demanded.

But I had to have her. I was ready to play her game.
12

# Ksenya

I RACED OUT OF THAT hotel suite and headed to the elevator—pressing those stupid buttons and begging those doors to take me away from this nightmare. I reached into my purse to grab my cell phone and call for a cab.

Had I just squandered my best chance to find out the truth and save Joaquín? After everything I'd gone through to get here, how could I be so careless?

I flicked off those ridiculous heels and threw them in my purse. I was wrong—I didn't have what it took to accomplish this. I couldn't handle being treated like a whore. Not by the love of my life. I fantasized about unbridled passion with Grant, nothing off-limits. But I had to feel like he saw me as more than a random stripper to get off with. I'd just wanted to tease him, bait him, but I panicked when I couldn't control my emotions. I needed to regroup.

The blue light on the elevator button taunted me. _Open!_

Thump, thump, thump.

I didn't need to look back. The rhythm of Grant's gait gave him away.

I shuffled back a step. He'd always been protective of me as Mia, but I was impressed that he'd come back to retrieve a stripper.

He placed his hand on my shoulder, and I shuddered. "Ksenya, I'm sorry. You're so fucking sexy, and I can be a prick when I'm drunk. I can call you a taxi, or you can stay here with me. I won't touch you."

The elevator door opened. My resolve forced my feet to stay put and not hightail it inside.

I had to see this through, stay with him tonight. His false bravado masked his loneliness. I knew the real Grant. Deep down, I wanted to comfort him, hold him, make love to him, be the woman he needed, and apologize for abandoning him.

But my only goal now was to get him to trust me. "I forgive you."

His arms extended to me, and he pulled me into his chest. For a second, I tried to resist, retreat into my shell, but I found comfort in his embrace. His bulging arms seemed almost twice the size they had when I saw him at his apartment in January—how was that even possible? Sure, he was twenty-three now, not the same lean nineteen-year-old boy I'd fallen in love with. But his biceps were massive, like one of those slicked-up bodybuilding guys you saw on television.

Was Grant using steroids? I'd seen him only six months ago, and he hadn't been this ripped.

I couldn't dismiss that thought, especially now. I had to find out what had happened to Tiffany, and I refused to allow myself to let my feelings for Grant get in the way of my mission.

What was the link, where were the clues? Drugs, sex, money? Maybe that saké and wine were too potent, because not a thing about Grant, or this night, made any sense to me. This man standing in front of me, who could easily be Thor's stunt double, was nothing like the man he'd once been, the man I'd given my heart to.

"Let's go inside. I'll sleep on the couch."

I nodded, and we walked back into the hotel room. He poured me a glass of water, and we snuggled up on the sofa. This was more like it. He stroked my hair, and I nuzzled his chest. I had so many questions, but I couldn't decide which ones to start with.

My throat burned. "Why did you take me to here? Do you have girlfriend at your home?" My heart thumped. I didn't want to know the answer to this question, not that I had any reason to believe he would tell me the truth.

He swallowed, and his voice softened. "Nah, babe. I just thought you'd like this place. I just wanted to take you somewhere nice, figured you weren't used to a place like this. A few years ago, I had a girl. She left me when I was in an accident."

This time, he wasn't lying. I blinked back tears; my brown contacts itched.

"I am sorry, Grant. I don't understand how she could leave you when you were not well."

But I did know. I had left Grant, but it wasn't because I didn't love him. I loved him more than anything—even more than my own brother, though I'd never admitted that to anyone.

I'd walked away from him, from us—and had regretted it ever since.

But something had happened to me while Grant was deployed. I'd made a foolish mistake and paid the consequences. The shame for my lack of judgment bore at me, and I didn't want to tell Grant. So, I took the easy way out and ran, like a coward.

He lifted my chin with his hand. "Look, I'm sorry. You're different than the other strippers I've met, and I thought you were into me. One of my buddies is having a rager tomorrow at this townhouse he's housesitting in Pacific Beach. Would you like to come with me?"

Hooyah! There it was. The golden ticket. The invite I'd been waiting for. This was actually working! Old Grant never invited me to the beach parties—I'd been relegated to family days with four-year-olds running around with melting Popsicle sticks. I remembered the rules—no wives, no girlfriends. Men only. But I wasn't dense. I knew their bashes had no shortage of willing women thrilled to be in the presence of sexy SEALs. These women were peripheral ghosts to every SEAL wife and girlfriend.

I knew I was in.

"I would love to go to beach." I wrapped my arms around his neck, nuzzled his ear. He attempted to kiss me, but I turned away. The sharp stubble from his beard grazed my cheek. I wanted him to pin me down and ravage me, but it was completely out of the question.

"I'll pick you up at the club at seven. Feel free to invite any of your hottie friends."

_You got it, buddy!_

I clenched my hands to contain my joy, fearful that Grant would somehow realize my true intentions. "Oh, I will. They will love to come. I do not want you to think I go home with all men I meet at strip club. You are first, I promise this to you."

He leaned into me and made firm eye contact. "I believe you."

I already knew Grant would never forgive me for deserting him when he was injured. But once he found out I'd completely deceived him, I would be dead to him forever. There would be no coming back from this second betrayal—ever.

As a SEAL, he had to trust his partner implicitly, know she would be faithful during his never-ending deployments, confident she would be by his side and support him when he was silently suffering from witnessing the horrors of war. We could never be together again. If anything, being with him tonight confirmed that belief.

_It's okay, Mia. This is about Joaquín. Freeing Joaquín. Your sacrifice for him._

I'd made my choice. I chose to exonerate Joaquín over getting Grant to trust me. And as long as I could free Joaquín, I vowed never to regret my path.
13

# Grant

LAST NIGHT COMPLETELY SUCKED. I couldn't even score with a stripper. But I wasn't about to blame myself. Call me a conceited prick, but I didn't usually have a problem with the ladies. Ever.

Maybe I should've told her what I did for a living. Like the magical phrase "open sesame" opened the cave's mouth for Ali Baba, the words "I'm a motherfucking Navy SEAL" usually opened a woman's mouth to my cock.

But who knew? This chick wasn't American—the SEAL line probably wouldn't work with her anyway. Her ignorance about SEALs suited me fine. I didn't want to deal with another frog hog, begging to start a relationship or bragging to her girlfriends she fucked a SEAL, only to cheat on me once she got what she wanted. I wanted one woman I could fuck whenever I desired, no talk about our futures or our pasts. Ksenya was perfect.

I'd sacrificed so much for Mia, hadn't tried out for any East Coast Teams so I could stay close to her, spent weekends with her instead of bonding with my guys. What she didn't know was that I'd planned on proposing to her, had even asked Joaquín for his blessing. Then she'd left me while I was clinging to life in a hospital bed.

But being injured was the best thing that ever happened to me. Otherwise, I'd have married that bitch, and she would've divorced me the second we had any problems, which was inevitable being married to a Team guy.

Last weekend we had the big welcome-home family day, though this homecoming had been bittersweet. No Joaquín, no Mia. For a while, they had both been like family. All the Team guys loved Mia then. Despite my anger toward her, I wondered how she was doing without Joaquín. She was completely alone now—no parents, no brother. I was almost surprised she hadn't tried to contact me again. I couldn't blame her for giving up after the way I'd shut her down after Joaquín's arrest.

Our last homecoming rager ended with a dead stripper and my best buddy getting accused of her murder. My Team needed this party for morale since we were struggling to get back to normalcy. And rebuild our trust.

I believed Joaquín was innocent. I hoped that I would see something tonight, a trigger, and could figure out what the fuck went wrong that night. Even on deployment, none of the guys had remembered anything. Kyle, Vic, Joe, and Pat had left earlier that evening; the rest of us had all been in rooms with strippers. No one remembered anyone else being at the party, but I had to admit we were all pretty fucked up.

I'd actually vowed to stop frequenting strip clubs after that girl's death, but I went back to the club to see if I could find any clues. Ksenya hadn't been at the party that night, but maybe she'd heard some girls talk.

My truck pulled up at the strip club. Ksenya stood out front, wearing a thigh-skimming black-and-pink skirt, with a tight black tank top. I could see her nipple buds begging me to suck on them.

Tonight. I had to have her tonight.

She leaned into my window and kissed me on the cheek. "Hi, Grant. These are my friends, Brenna, Eden, and Kristi."

Another bottle-blonde, a redhead with tacky lipstick, and a brunette with sparkly nails. My friends would love these women. But unfortunately, none of them had been at the party that night. "Nice to meet you, ladies." I nodded, and they piled into my truck. The scent of cheap perfume and self-tanner filled the air.

I headed to Pacific Beach. The girls chatted in the back, but I could only focus on Ksenya's hand rubbing up against my thigh. The closeness of an exquisite woman who had not once peppered me with questions was comforting. She hadn't interrogated me about my job, mentioned my family, or asked me what I wanted from her. It was probably the language barrier.

"You look beautiful tonight."

"Thank you. You look to me very handsome."

I laughed. Her accent was cute. I'd never understood the obsession some men had with foreign women. I was a diehard patriot—I bled red, white, and blue. It had never crossed my mind to date someone who hadn't been born in the United States. But maybe I had been too closed-minded. I allowed myself to entertain the thought of dating a woman who would be there for me even if I lost a leg, who would nurse me back to health. Someone who would never betray me. Like Mia had.

Fuck. It had been so long since I'd given so much thought to Mia. Yes, I had missed her dreadfully, but that pain had soon turned into anger. Why was I thinking about her so much now? I had been with dozens of women since we split, and none had ever caused me to scrutinize our relationship so much. Was it Ksenya? Was it because I felt connected to her? Her mannerisms? _Why now?_

_Stop. Don't even think about it._

I'd enjoy the attention she was giving me while I was in town. Then I'd deploy again, and I was sure she'd move on to her next client.

But this woman's voice, the sound of her laughter, the way she looked at me, there was comfort in her presence. I couldn't explain this unshakeable feeling that, no matter how I insisted otherwise, she was more than a one-night stand.
14

# Ksenya

GRANT BARELY SAID A WORD on the car ride. I couldn't tell if he was beginning to figure me out, if he had something on his mind, or if he was losing interest in me after only one date. Despite my protests, I didn't know how long I could play the full virginal-stripper act. If Grant grew sick of my games, he could toss me aside, and I'd lose my only shot at exonerating Joaquín. I really needed to pull myself together and solidify my plan.

Grant parked his truck a few blocks from the beach. A crush of tourists swarmed the streets. A young couple headed toward the water, basking in the glow of the sunset. I paused and watched them, a stolen glimpse into what had to be first love. The man gazed at the woman, their movements in sync, walking quickly as if they were the only people in the world.

Grant had looked at me like that once—as if he thought I could do no wrong, that we would be together forever. Now he looked at Ksenya with a combination of hunger and suspicion. His skin was flushed, yet his eyes were narrowed. Was he suspicious of me? I was pretty confident that I had him fooled. Even so, I knew Grant would never look at me with such tenderness again.

_Focus, woman._

I was so pathetic, thinking about my relationship with my ex-boyfriend instead of clearing my brother's name. No more. From here on out, Grant was nothing more than a job to me.

He draped his strong arm around my waist. I pursed my lips.

We approached the door of the townhouse, and my fists tightened. I had to be on my game tonight. This was my big chance to find a clue. The last time Joaquín had been free was at a party like this. I said a silent prayer, closed my eyes and hoped our parents were watching over me, guiding me toward the right path.

The door opened. Damn, guess I wasn't the only one who'd brought friends. It was like bring-your-own-stripper night, with a proper threesome ratio of two women for every SEAL. At least twenty women in various stages of undress were cuddling the men, limbs draped over each other, bodies entwined. I counted thirteen men besides Grant, but I only cared about Mitch and Paul for now—SEALs on Joaquín's squad. I needed to either eliminate them as suspects or focus my investigation on their actions the night of the murder.

My friends from Panthers dispersed and were quickly introducing themselves to the other guys. I'd chosen the girls at random, the ones who had been nicest to me, but these ladies clearly knew how to work the room. And as any girl in her twenties who partied hard in San Diego knew, these men—no matter what they claimed they did for a living—were clearly Navy SEALs.

Once you'd been to Coronado a few times, SEALs were easy to identify. Longer hair, fuller beards, massive muscles sculpted from carrying Zodiac boats, tan skin, weathered hands, cocky attitudes that oozed through the air. Basically, a gang of hard bodies who could easily star in the latest summer blockbuster.

Grant seemed distracted, his gaze focused on something or someone. "Ksenya, can I get you a drink?"

I glanced in the direction of his gaze and saw a young woman with short blonde hair standing near the refrigerator. "Yes, please. I want vodka and the cranberry juice."

Grant headed to the kitchen. My eyes followed his movements.

Mitch eyed me from across the room. He could be the one who killed Tiffany. I recalled his vile comments to me at The Pickled Frog. April, his longsuffering wife, was probably sitting at home, doing his laundry, and putting their kids to bed while he was out getting lap dances from strippers.

Mitch walked over and sat down next to me. "So, you're Grant's latest piece of ass? Nice to meet you. I'm Mitch."

I studied his face—something was off about him. His massive dilated pupils crowded out the pigment of his brown eyes, and his nose was shaded red. "Nice to meet with you also. You sell the drugs, too?" I contained a laugh, delighted at my pharmaceutical pun.

His eyebrows lifted, but his calm face didn't react. These men were used to covering for each other. "Nah, I'm a tattoo artist. My brother has a shop." He leaned into me; his alcohol-spiked breath blew hot on my neck. "Man, you're a knockout. Have I seen you somewhere before?"

I scanned the room, but Grant had vanished. And so had the girl I'd seen earlier. Did he know her? "I work at Panthers. I saw you other night when you came in together with Grant."

He laughed and placed his hand on my upper thigh, squeezing my skin so tight I was sure he would leave a mark. "No, baby. Not then. You're a porn star, aren't you?"

I pressed my hands against my stomach. Where was Grant? Why was he taking so long? In all the time I'd dated him as Mia, not one of his Teammates had ever so much as winked at me. They knew the rules—a Team guy's woman was off-limits, no exceptions. But I wasn't Grant's woman anymore. I was a stripper. Not an equal partner, a mere possession. Did he intend to pass me around to his friends?

"No, I am not in those type of the movies. Sorry, you are wrong."

His grip tightened on my skirt. "I'm never mistaken, bitch. I've fucking seen you somewhere before. Maybe I've even fucked you." His finger moved up my thigh and hooked the lace trim on my panties. "Quit the virgin act. Go dance for me or something." His words shot off like rapid-fire, and he forced my hand against his cock.

I considered screaming, but the blaring music would've drowned out my voice. What was wrong with this man? With _all_ these arrogant sons of bitches? I was in some alternate bizarro reality, where these men I'd always looked up to as honorable, steadfast heroes of character were exposing themselves to be misogynistic pricks.

But I knew this asshole from all of April's tearful late-night phone calls. Mitch loved a challenge; I was just shocked at how disrespectful he was toward me.

I squeezed him hard, his cock already rock-solid in his jeans. "Ah, you are right. We did fuck. But you did not last. Better luck to you next time."

His mouth raped mine, and I was too blindsided to resist. My lips numbed; a bitter, metallic taste filled my mouth.

_Holy shit!_ Mitch was high as a hot-air balloon. __ Was it cocaine? I'd heard about some SEALs in Aruba who were arrested for smuggling kilos of coke. Was this connected to Tiffany and Joaquín?

I shoved his hands off me, recoiling from his touch. The last time I'd felt this disgusted had been that night years ago when I'd been young and careless—the night that I had ruined my relationship with Grant forever.

He laughed and knocked back his beer. "I like you. You're a feisty bitch. Most of the strippers here don't put up a fight. You're a wildcat. Tell you what, when Grant gets sick of you in a few weeks, which he will, you can come suck me off. Let me get your number." He took out his phone.

I steadied my nerves, desperate not to screw up this chance. "Let me put it in your phone."

He didn't hesitate to hand it to me. He scanned the room for Grant, and I knew I had to be quick. I stroked my long hair while his eyes were averted, and I popped the tracking chip, which Roma had given me, from my hair clip. As I typed my contact info into Mitch's phone, I pressed the chip into the back under the leather case, praying it would work.

I handed him back the phone, and he winked at me. What a creeper. I wanted to shove my fist up his coke-filled nose, but before I could do anything, Grant appeared, holding my drink, a jealous scowl on his face.

I fought the desire to dump vodka and cranberry juice over Mitch's head. For all I knew, that chip could lead to some type of clue about what had happened that night.

What if Mitch had come on to Tiffany after Joaquín had slept with her, and she had rejected him. He could've become pissed off and choked her.

"Everything okay here?" Grant studied my lips, then glared at the lipstick stain on Mitch's face.

"Never better. Hey, man," Mitch sniffled as he stood up, "I'm pretty fucked up. You guys gonna fuck upstairs? Can I watch?"

I expected Grant to just laugh it off. But he shoved Mitch against the wall using a chokehold.

"You have ten seconds to unfuck yourself, Mitch. If you ever talk to her like that again, I'll slit your throat. Got it?"

The ruckus alerted some of the other guys, but none of them approached.

"Relax, man. She's a fucking stripper."

Grant removed his hand from Mitch's neck. "Get the fuck out of here."

Mitch let out a laugh and walked away.

"Sorry about that, babe. He's a jerk. You okay?"

I blinked back fake tears. "Yes. Thank you. Is there a bathroom?"

He pointed upstairs. "First door on the left."

"I come right back."

Away from Grant, I let out a deep, gratifying sigh. This was actually working. No one knew who I was.

I pushed back the door to the bathroom and saw the girl Grant was looking at earlier. She seemed around my age. A crisp blonde bob framed her round cheeks as she reapplied pink lipstick.

"Oh, sorry, I can come back." I turned away.

"Hey, hon. It's okay. So, you're Grant's new girl? I'm Autumn. I used to work at Panthers. Grant's a good guy."

My eyes widened. "I'm Ksenya. You know Grant?"

"Yeah." She paused, glanced toward the window. "We hung out once at another party. But things got crazy. There was this murder. I'm sure you read about it in the papers."

My breath stopped. _She was there._ "I'm new to area."

"A SEAL killed one of the girls there. I was so scared. Grant and I were in the next room when this guy Joaquín found the girl dead. So tragic. Grant hasn't told you about it?"

I paused and stared at her again. Why was this girl telling me—a girl she didn't even know—about a murder? Was she trying to warn me about something with these SEALs? "No. We do not know each other so well."

"I get it. Well, good luck with him."

"Thank you." My mind raced. I needed to grill this girl, find out every detail about that night. But I had to get her away from this party—away from Grant. "What do you do now for work?"

Her mouth twisted. "I work at this new club downtown, Diamond. It's very high-end, very classy. We don't even go topless. Guys respect you way more. I'm sure the owner would love to have you. You're a knockout."

I couldn't tell if she was just super friendly or she was hitting on me. Either way, I didn't care. I couldn't let her go. "So are you. Can I get it, your number, and I can go to see it, the place?" I reached inside my purse.

She snatched my phone, didn't say a word, and tapped in her number. "Call me anytime. Nice to meet you, Ksenya."

She shut the door behind her.

Holy shit. This was huge. I bet some of the other strippers who were at the party that night worked at Diamond. Maybe even Emma? I was getting closer to the truth, to Tiffany's real killer.

I scrubbed Mitch's touch off me and met Grant back downstairs.

"Babe, come to the rooftop deck with me. I want to show you something."

I kissed Grant on the cheek, grateful to him for inviting me to this party. His sharp stubble burned my lips. A warm flush ran through my body, imagining that stubble grazing my thighs.

I followed him upstairs—a light giggle, a deep moan, and a passionate scream pierced my ears. Was he taking me up to one of these rooms? My palms were sweaty, my hands trembled.

We passed the bedrooms, and he led me out to a small deck.

My heart stopped. I knew what he wanted to show me.

"Sit, babe. Make a wish."

A wish. Grant had brought me up here to watch the sunset. To see the Green Flash.

The Green Flash wasn't a myth or even an optical illusion. If you ever sat on a San Diego beach at sunset and noticed a group of people staring silently in the same direction, they were looking for the Green Flash. That moment when the sun set and emitted that last glimpse of light, a flash of color of the Emerald City in Oz.

Grant pulled me to him, and I sat on his lap. His arms wrapped around me. "Babe, study the sky. Legend has it if you see a flash of green light, your wish will come true."

Was he feeling a real connection with me, or did he share this with all of his dates? It took every ounce of training I had not to question him. I wanted to know how many other women he'd taken to see the flash. He'd taken me to a restaurant on this same beach on our first date, but I'd been unable to spot the flash. My eyes had been clouded by my love for him, the sadness over my parents' deaths still fresh in my heart. We'd planned to go back and see it together for our second anniversary, but we broke up a week before. Tonight, I vowed I would finally see it.

I made my unspoken wish. My throat felt thick, my pulse quickened. I wished for Joaquín to be free, as a good sister should. But another brief wish passed through my head—for Grant to forgive me, and for us to fall in love again.

His arms tightened around me, and I studied the fogless sky, determined to experience this phenomenon with my true love. The hues from the sunset hung over the horizon; the sun dipped toward the water. Every nerve ending tingled and stirred inside me. My eyes focused—and the final ray of light beamed right at me.

My heart beat strongly in my chest. This glorious green spark filled my soul.

Grant whispered into my ear. "That was it, babe. This writer Jules Verne described it as 'the true green of hope.'"

Oh my God. He was quoting Jules Verne now? "You are so romantic to me."

His shoulders fell. "You just seem to have so much on your mind. I've gone through some rough shit, too. When I'm really down, I look at the sunset, and the flash pulls me through."

A chill pulsed through my body. Grant had told me that during BUD/S, looking for the flash had kept his determination not to quit strong. I remembered nursing him back to health afterward, so proud of him and my brother for finishing. Surviving five and a half days of extreme training on less than four hours of sleep was still unfathomable to me, though I had gone through my own version of Hell Week to get here.

After taking care of him then, I'm sure he was baffled as to why I'd left him when he had been injured. But I could never tell him the truth.

My resistance to Grant was weakening, despite my disgust for this new version of him. I loved the real Grant, knew now I always would. He was the only man I ever wanted to be with—if I couldn't find my way back to him, I'd rather be alone.

I relaxed into his embrace. Having his warm mouth claim mine would be even better than finally seeing the flash. We'd kissed at the hotel, but I'd pulled away, worried a deep, longing kiss would be too intimate, too risky. But now...

He held my hand. "You want to get out of here?"

"Yes. I want to go together with you."

I texted the girls I had brought, and they all told me they could find rides home. Grant and I would be alone tonight.
15

# Ksenya

THE ENTIRE DRIVE BACK TO his apartment, I bit my nails and fidgeted in my seat. There was no going back now. The natural progression of our relationship beckoned for us to become intimate. I wanted him to act out all the fantasies I'd ever had about him. Only the thought of him discovering my identity held me back.

Images rushed through my head of our tame sex life. Warm, gentle, loving, definitely not hot. He'd been my first, my only. I'd never allowed myself to relax, exhale, let pleasure guide me.

Tonight would be different. I was no longer a shy eighteen-year-old virgin—I was now a twenty-two-year-old woman who feared nothing but failing her brother.

He parked, and I hopped out of his truck, chasing after him in the moonlight. He went ahead, opened the door to his apartment, let Hero out in the small yard, and then invited me in. I remembered the first time he took me back to his place. He'd been so nervous, shy even. We'd sat on the sofa, just talking all night until he'd finally worked up the courage to kiss me.

He wasn't shy anymore. His strong hand grabbed the back of my head, pulling me toward his mouth. I offered my neck, refusing my lips. I had something else planned for them.

My hand reached to unbutton his jeans, making its way down his chest. I knelt before him, and a deep breath escaped me. I'd never done what I was about to do. Grant had never asked, though I could recall many times when he'd placed his hand on the back of my neck, gently urging me to go south. I hadn't.

Not that I hadn't loved him, not that I didn't think he was beautiful, not that I wasn't curious. I couldn't even explain my resistance. It had been just as much about fear as shyness. Despite his desire, I'd been afraid I'd disappoint him. I was frightened that the fantasy of me taking him in my mouth would be better than the real thing.

I popped his jeans open, his huge cock freed, standing at full attention. He still never wore underwear, it seemed. That at least hadn't changed. My hand grasped his beautiful cock, harder, thicker, and longer than I remembered, but then again, I'd never seen it from this viewpoint.

"Suck me."

I obeyed, responding to his orders. But despite his words, his dominance, I was in control. I wrapped my palm around the base and swirled my tongue along his length.

He groaned, his eyes hooded.

"Harder, babe."

My mouth clamped down on his cock, sucking as strongly as I could. He tasted spicy and a tad sweet—like chili and chocolate. I wanted to drink him up, please him, make him need me again.

A moan left his lips, his back arched. "Deeper, Ksenya. Fuck."

He didn't know I was Mia. I was Ksenya to him. It almost made me cry, knowing he wasn't in any way thinking of me. He was simply using yet another woman to give him pleasure. My heart ached.

Despite that, I also felt a measure of pride. He liked what I was doing. My confidence rose. The power over him caused a flutter in my stomach. My panties were soaked, wanting more, wanting to feel this same strong cock inside me, filling up any space between us.

He was pulsing inside my mouth. I gripped his thighs, pulling him deeper into my throat.

His hand pressed on the back of my head. "Ksenya, stop, I—"

I had no intention of stopping. He was mine. My man. Forever. I wanted to be the only woman to make him feel this way.

He exploded into my mouth, and I lapped up his salty cum, wanting to taste every last drop of him. A lazy grin spread across his face.

"You're incredible." He pulled me up from the floor, placed his arms around the swell of my back. "Your turn."

No. No way. I needed to remain in control. I'd won the first round, no reason to give in now. I fought the desire to feel his tongue devour me like I was his last meal. "Tonight, it was for you."

He didn't fight me, gave me a kiss on the forehead. "Stay with me?"

I nodded, wrapped myself in his arms. This was the only way I could spend time with him, so I would treasure it and lock it away.
16

# Grant

I GAZED AT THE GIRL in my arms, purring beside me. She'd just given me an amazing blowjob, though I could tell she wasn't that experienced. She seemed nervous at first, almost shy. And she'd asked for nothing in return.

I wiped the sleep out of my eyes, restless but afraid to move and wake her. What was her deal? She wasn't a typical stripper. She wasn't asking for anything—money, a commitment, not even love. I didn't have a fucking clue what she wanted from me. There had to be a catch.

Her body flipped over, and I escaped from the bed. I glanced around my bedroom, a basic bachelor pad; any trace of a woman had been erased. My eyes focused on a picture of Joaquín. We'd survived Hell Week together, vowed to hold each other up, never let each other quit. Then he'd slept with a stripper, and she'd wound up dead.

How could I be dumb enough to tempt fate and allow a stripper in my bed, too?

A pain grew in the back of my throat. I hated myself for not being there for him in his hour of need.

Just a few years ago, my life had been filled with such purpose. My inner circle was tight, and I'd been secure in my path.

Now, I knew that nobody was who he or she appeared to be. Not my fellow SEALs or this stripper slumbering in my bed. I trusted no one. Not even myself.

I opened the sliding glass door, prepared to prevent Hero from barking at Ksenya and jumping all over the bed—the way he always greeted a stranger.

Hero bounced in the door, his nose sniffing Ksenya's scent. But he didn't jump. A friendly bark and he lay at the end of the bed, Ksenya curled in a ball on the mattress above him. He'd never done that with any girl I'd brought home.

Except for Mia.

I studied the chick in front of me. She and Mia were the same height, but any resemblance ended there. Mia was soft and round, with tiny breasts and a perky butt; Ksenya was lean and sculpted, with tig ol' bitties and a plump ass. Mia had hazel eyes with flecks of gold, and Ksenya had chocolate-brown eyes.

But I'd noticed the outline of her contacts in the moonlight earlier. Ksenya also bit her lips when she was nervous. When she smiled, her mouth curled at the edge. On the left side. Like Mia.

A crazy thought flashed through my head.

What if Mia hadn't been fucking kidding about transforming herself to exonerate Joaquín?

The words Mia spoke last time I saw her rang in my head. _"I'll do whatever it takes. Maybe I could go undercover? I'm a chameleon. An actress...a makeup artist. I've reinvented myself so many times, even you wouldn't be able to recognize me."_

Could she possibly be that insane to get plastic surgery to fool me? Mia had been in school for acting. I'd never seen her on stage since I'd always been too busy training.

It was impossible for her to be that great of an actress, wasn't it?

She had vanished—I'd even called her roommates, and they'd said they didn't have a clue where she went. But I knew she would never abandon her brother, ever. Even though she had turned her back on me.

No way. No fucking way.

But it was hard to ignore Hero's reaction to her. He almost seemed to... _know_ her.

Surely it couldn't be? Was this a game?

From the outset, I was drawn to her. And she had readily agreed to see me. I'd even fished around and asked Jim if she had dated any other patrons. He said he didn't think she had.

Only me.

But why? Did she suspect me of killing Tiffany? Did she want to use me to find out who did? She wasn't in it to fuck me. Otherwise, the deed would have been done already.

_You're crazy, Grant. Not everything is a conspiracy._

After BUD/S, it had taken me months to walk down the street and not look at everyone as a potential threat. I was clearly paranoid.

There was only one way to know for sure.

_I have to fuck her._

Thank you for reading CONCEIT!

I hope you love Grant and Mia. Their story continues in **CHRONIC**.

The Tangled Web They Weave:

I DON'T TRUST THE NAKED woman asleep in my bed, the one with the bombshell body and eerily symmetrical face. The edge of her mouth curls when she smiles, she smells like citrus, she bites her lips when she lies.

This imposter is lying to me—she claims she's a Ukrainian stripper named Ksenya, but I'd bet my Trident that she's my ex-girlfriend Mia, her face and body masked with plastic surgery. Her brother is in jail for murdering a stripper, and she must have kept her promise that she'd stop at nothing to exonerate him.

But I'm not going to call her bluff. Hell, no. I'm going to play her game, test her strength, see how far she's willing to go to keep up this ruse.

My beloved girl who shuddered at the thought of lowering her inhibitions is playing my game now. She wants to get wild? I will fulfill her every fantasy.

But I control the game now, not her. It will end when I say it ends.

I'm a Navy SEAL, and I will be the last one standing.

**ONE CLICKCHRONIC now!**

And sign up for my **_newsletter_** to find out about my latest books.

If you loved Conceit, you'll love the thrilling, dark, and sensual Trident Code series. **INVINCIBLE** is available now.

And don't miss my Beauty & The Beast retelling, **BEAST, **available now.

And if you are looking for a poignant military romance, try **BLUE SKY, **available now.

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_XOXO_

_Alana_

# About the Author

ALANA ALBERTSON IS the former President of RWA's Contemporary Romance, Young Adult, and Chick Lit chapters. She holds a M.Ed. from Harvard and a BA in English from Stanford. A recovering professional ballroom dancer, she lives in San Diego, California, with her husband, two young sons, and five dogs. When she's not saving dogs from high kill shelters through her rescue Pugs N Roses, she can be found watching episodes of Cobra Kai, Younger, or Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team.

_For more information:_

www.authoralanaalbertson.com

alana@alanaalbertson.com

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# Acknowledgments

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK my husband, Roger. Thank you for entertaining our children for hours on end when I write. I love you.

To Nicole Blanchard. I would've given up writing this year without you. Thank you for staying up all night plotting with me, your endless patience for my what ifs, your amazing teasers.

I would like to thank my editors for believing in this book.

Megan McKeever for your excitement on this project.

Deb Nemeth for hyping up the suspense.

Marion Archer for making me go deeper with Mia.

To my two beautiful sons, Connor and Caleb, for your hugs and smiles that brighten my every day.

To my betas:

Nessa Leret: Your amazing insight into Mia's characterizations and saving me from bad reviews;)

Brittney Crabtree: You are so wonderful! Thank you for all your help with Grant and Mia!

My sister-in-law Susie Chulick, for encouraging me to keep going.

To all the wonderful bloggers who review my books.

To Indie Sage Promotions for handling all the promotion for the book.
