Alpha Bravo Seal

Navy SEAL Protector

When members of her film crew start being killed off, documentarian Nicole Hastings is relieved to find the man following her is Slade Gallagher—a navy SEAL sniper who once saved Nicole from Somali kidnappers. Now he’s shadowing her to trap the terrorists behind the killings and find out just what they want.

Nicole couldn’t be more different from the women Slade usually falls for. But he quickly learns that there’s a lot more to this socialite than he first thought. And as Slade’s admiration for her courage and resilience grows, so does his yearning. Protecting Nicole is an assignment, but can he let her go when it’s all over?

Red, White and Built

“You do not have to carry me upstairs.”

Looking into Nicole’s green eyes, Slade narrowed his gaze. “Because you don’t want this?”

“Oh, I want whatever this is, but you don’t have to lug me up the staircase to get it.”

He chuckled. Yep, like no other high-maintenance society girl he’d ever met.

“No lugging required. You’re as light as a feather.”

“That may be, but I just survived a sniper’s bullet and an attack on the train. I’m not going to risk tumbling down the stairs, even if I do end up on top of a hot navy SEAL.”

“You don’t have to take a fall down the stairs to wind up on top of this navy SEAL.”

Alpha Bravo SEAL

Carol Ericson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROL ERICSON is a bestselling, award-winning author of more than forty books. She has an eerie fascination for true-crime stories, a love of film noir and a weakness for reality TV, all of which fuel her imagination to create her own tales of murder, mayhem and mystery. To find out more about Carol and her current projects, please visit her website at

www.carolericson.com

, “where romance flirts with danger.”

To Joanne, my trusty treasurer

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Slade Gallagher sucked in a salty breath of air and got ready for the kill.

Oblivious to the sniper rifles pointed at their heads from the yacht bobbing on the water just over three hundred feet away from them, four Somali pirates held their hostages at gunpoint as they communicated their demands to the two men who’d boarded their rickety craft. The two were US Navy seamen, but the pirates didn’t know that—didn’t need to.

The relatively calm seas made tracking his target easy—and safe for the hostage.

Slade zeroed in on his target, his dark skin glistening in the sun, one skinny arm wrapped around the hostage’s throat, gun nestled beneath her ear. Slade’s focus shifted to the hostage, a young woman with light brown hair blowing across her face and a tall, thin body, taut and ready.

What the hell was a woman doing out here in the Gulf of Aden? The orders for this assignment had made clear that this rescue didn’t involve a cargo ship. This time the Somali pirates had captured a documentary film crew. Idiots.

Not that Slade couldn’t understand the thrill of risk taking, but he preferred risks that pitted him against a big wave or a cave on the ocean floor, not desperate men in desperate situations.

The negotiator waved his arm once and shifted his body to the right, giving the SEAL snipers their first signal and a clear view of all four pirates. Slade licked the salt from his lips and coiled his muscles. He adjusted the aim on his M107.

The snipers had to drop their targets at the same time—or risk the lives of the hostages. He tracked back to the pretty brunette, now scooping her hair into a ponytail with one hand and tilting her head away from her captor. Good girl.

Had the negotiators been able to hint to the hostages that a team of Navy SEAL snipers was on the boat drifting off their starboard and watching their every move? It didn’t matter. The men on deck would make their best assessment and the snipers would take action.

It wouldn’t be pretty. That tall drink of water would suffer some blood spatter—but at least it wouldn’t be her own. He’d make sure of that.

The other negotiator held both hands out in supplication, the final signal, and Slade set his timer to five seconds. He murmured along for the count. “Five, four, three, two...”

He took the shot. All four pirates jerked at once in a macabre dance and fell to the deck.

Slade inched his scope to the woman he’d just saved. She hadn’t fainted dead away, screamed or jumped up and down. She formed an X over her chest with her blood-spattered arms, looked down at the dead pirate and spit on his body.

Hauling back his sniper rifle, Slade shook his head.

That was one crazy chick—just his type.

Chapter One

Eighteen months later

A sick feeling rose in Nicole’s gut as she skimmed the online article. The rumor was true. She hunched forward, reading aloud. “‘Freelance cameraman Lars Rasmussen was found dead of an apparent suicide in his parents’ home in the Hellerup district of Copenhagen.’”

She stopped reading and slumped in her chair. “No way.”

Lars, with his sunny smile and scruffy goatee, wasn’t even acquainted with the word depression.

Nicole grabbed her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts. Lars had picked his brother, Ove, as his emergency contact, and she’d kept all of those numbers. Maybe she’d had a premonition.

She squinted at the time on her computer screen, hoping Ove was an early riser. She tapped his number, which already contained the international calling code for Denmark, and placed the call.

He picked up after two rings. “Hej.”

“Hello. Is this Ove Rasmussen?”

“Yes. Who’s this, please?” He’d switched to English seamlessly.

“This is Nicole Hastings. I worked with your brother, Lars, on a couple of projects.”

“Of course, Nicole. My brother mentioned you often.”

“I heard the news about his death, and I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.” And to give you the third degree.

“Yes, yes. Thank you. It was a shock.”

“Was he? I mean, what...?” She closed her eyes and shoved a hand through her tangled hair. “What I mean to say is, I can’t believe Lars would take his own life.”

Ove drew in a sharp breath. “Yes, well, some girl trouble, a failed project.”

Ove didn’t know his brother very well if he thought a woman could send Lars over the edge, but she couldn’t argue with a bereaved family member.

She loosened her death grip on the phone. “I’m so sorry. He was a good guy and a helluva cameraman.”

“That’s how I know he must’ve been depressed.”

“How?” Her pulse ticked up a notch.

“When we...discovered his body, we couldn’t find any of his cameras in the house. He’d been staying with our parents after his last project, the one after the debacle in Somalia. He had been working on a local story about the Syrian refugees in Denmark.”

“His cameras? Why would he get rid of his cameras?”

Ove sighed across the miles. “I don’t know, Nicole. He mentioned you, though, a few weeks before he died. You were with him when you all got kidnapped in Somalia, right?”

“Yes.” Her pounding heart rattled her rib cage. “What did he say?”

“Just that he was sorry the film never got released, because he’d captured some amazing footage. He was thinking about contacting you about the project, reviving it, turning the film over to you.”

“He never did.” She tapped one fingernail on the edge of her laptop. “Did he happen to mention Giles Wentworth, too? He was another member of our film crew.”

“Giles. English guy, right?”

“That’s right.” Nicole held her breath.

“Not lately. I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

“I was just wondering because... Giles passed away a few months ago.”

Ove spewed out a Danish word that sounded like an expletive. “Not suicide?”

“A car accident in Scotland.”

“That’s a shame. It would seem that story you were trying to capture in Somalia was bad luck.”

“It would seem so.” She bit her lip, toying with the phrasing of her next question. “D-did Lars—was he worried about anything before his death?”

“Just that woman.” He released a noisy breath. “I have to go to work now, Nicole. Thank you for calling.”

“Of course. My condolences again on your loss.”

“And, Nicole?”

“Yes?”

“It sounds like you need to be careful.”

When she ended the call, she folded her arms over her stomach, gripping her elbows. Ove had been referring to the coincidence of two of the film crew dying within months of each other, but Nicole wasn’t so sure it was a coincidence.

She pushed back from the desk and sauntered to the window overlooking the street below. Even at 2:00 a.m., taxis zipped to and fro, and the occasional pedestrian ambled along the sidewalk, two blocks up from Central Park.

Nicole caught her breath when she spied a figure under the green awning of the brownstone across the street, his pale face tilted toward her window. Twitching the drape, she stepped back and peered from the edge of its heavy folds.

She’d dimmed the lights in the apartment earlier, only the glow of her computer screen illuminating her workspace. Someone ten floors down wouldn’t be able to see her at the window.

Then why was her heart racing and her palms sweating? This was the first time she’d noticed a suspicious person outside her building, but not the first time in the past few months she’d felt watched, followed, spied upon.

Her fear had started, not just with news of Giles’s accident, but with his death along with her inability to reach Dahir, the Somali translator who’d been a part of their film crew. She still hadn’t located Dahir, and rumors swirling around Lars had sent her into a panic. Now that she’d confirmed Lars’s passing, a strange calm had settled about her shoulders like a heavy cape.

Four people on that film crew, four people held hostage by Somali pirates, four people rescued by the Navy SEALs, two of those people dead eighteen months later, one missing and...her. Was this just some bizarre twist of fate, claiming the lives of people who should’ve died a year and a half ago? That sort of stuff only happened in horror movies.

The man across the street made a move, and she peered into the darkness as he emerged from beneath the awning and loped down the sidewalk. Her eyes followed him until the night swallowed him whole at the end of the block.

She huffed out a breath and drew the drapes. She’d planned an extended stay in New York while her mother hit Europe for the fashion shows—starting with Paris in March and winding up with Rome in July. Maybe she should get a bodyguard.

Nicole turned and surveyed the office of the lavishly furnished Upper East Side apartment where her mother had lived for years. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford a 24/7 bodyguard.

A bodyguard for what? Who could possibly have it in for a documentary film crew that hadn’t even managed to release the movie about the underground feminist movement in Somalia? The women they’d met had reason to fear for their lives, but after the kidnapping their translator had gone into hiding and the rest of them had scattered, abandoning the project.

Nicole hadn’t even seen the footage Lars had shot—and it must’ve been good if he’d mentioned it to his brother. As talented as he was, Lars wasn’t one to puff out his chest.

She planted herself in front of her computer again, and her fingers flew across the keyboard in a desperate search for Dahir Musse. She’d lobbied to get Dahir out of Somalia after the kidnapping incident, but even her mother’s political connections hadn’t been able to get the job done.

If they had, would Dahir be alive today instead of missing in action? Or would he be just as dead as Giles and Lars? Just as dead as she might be?

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, heavy eyed and yawning, Nicole sucked down the rest of her smoothie and tossed the cup in the trash can on her way back to the counter.

Skye raised her eyebrows. “Ready for another?”

“Just a shot of wheatgrass. If I hope to get in even two miles today, I need a little energy.”

“You look tired. Late night at the clubs?”

“I wish.” She swept up the little paper cup Skye had placed before her and downed the foul-tasting liquid in one gulp. Then she crushed the cup in her hand. “See ya.”

Skye waved as Nicole pushed out the door of the shop. Leaning forward, she braced her foot on the side of the building to tie the loose laces of her running shoe. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye—a man walking on the sidewalk across the street.

She bent over farther but slid her gaze sideways to watch the tall, lean guy lope down the block—lope. He had a distinctive rangy, loose-limbed gait, one she’d seen in the wee hours of the morning across the street from her building.

Narrowing her eyes, she watched his back, the sun gleaming off his blond hair. Now that she’d confirmed Lars’s death, her paranoia was going into overdrive. The man hadn’t looked at her once, and he certainly wasn’t following her.

She straightened up and rolled back her shoulders. She needed that run more than ever, and the fresh greenery of the park beckoned. She launched forward with one last glance over her shoulder, then tripped to a stop.

He wasn’t following her because he was heading for her apartment. To lie in wait? To break in?

She abandoned her run and made a U-turn in the street. She didn’t want to confront the man, but two could play the stalking game. Veering to the left, she cut in one street ahead of her own. If she came into the building’s lobby through the back way, she might catch him trying to get through the front door. Leo, the doorman, might have something to say about that.

Nicole tightened her ponytail and turned down the alley that led to the back of her building. She might be way off here, but something about that man had seemed familiar. If he wasn’t hanging around trying to get into the building, she’d go for her run with a clear mind—at least as clear as it could be while worrying about the mysterious deaths of her colleagues.

When she got to the apartment, she pulled her key ring from the little pocket in the back of her running shirt and plucked out the building key.

She slid it into the lock and eased open the door. Flattening herself against the wall, she sidled along toward the mailboxes. If she peered around the corner of the hallway where the mailboxes stretched out in three rows, she’d have a clear view of the lobby and the front door.

She crept around the corner and jerked back, dropping her keys with a clatter.

The tall stranger, his gleaming hair covered with the hood of his sweatshirt, glanced up, the mail from her box clutched in his hands.

She should’ve turned and run away, but a whip of fury lashed her body and she lunged forward.

“What the hell are you doing going through my mail?”

Then her stalker did the most amazing thing.

A smile broke across his tanned face, and he lifted a pair of broad shoulders. “Guess you caught me red-handed, Nicole.”

Chapter Two

The color drained from her face as fast as it had flared red in her cheeks. “Do I know you? And even if I do, I’m about two seconds from screaming bloody murder for the doorman and getting the cops out here.”

He believed her. A woman who would risk sailing the dangerous Gulf of Aden just to get a story wouldn’t fear some creeper in New York City—not that he was a creeper.

“Sorry about the mail.” He fanned out some bills and a few ads. “I’m not very good at this.”

“Good at what?” She inched past him and the row of mailboxes until she had one foot in the lobby.

“Skulking, I guess.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing, or am I going to call the NYPD?” She jabbed her cell phone into the space between them.

“You see? I suck at this.” He bundled her mail, which he hadn’t had a chance to look at, and held it out to her. “I’m Slade Gallagher, the US Navy SEAL sniper who saved your life eighteen months ago off the coast of Somalia.”

She blinked, licked her lips and edged closer to him. “Is this some kind of trick?”

Trick? What kind of trick would that be? He stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt and withdrew his wallet. He flipped it open with one hand, his other still gripping the mail she’d refused to take from him.

“Take it and look at the card behind my driver’s license. It’s my military ID. Hell, look at my driver’s license, too.”

She reached forward to take the wallet from him between two fingers, as if stealing something from a snake ready to strike.

“And if my ID isn’t good enough for you, I can tell you what you were wearing that day.” He closed his eyes as if picturing the scene all over again through his scope. “You had on army-green cargo pants, a loose red shirt and a khaki jacket, with a red scarf wrapped around your neck.”

His lids flew open, and Nicole was staring at him through wide green eyes. She might be surprised, but he’d pictured the woman on the boat—Nicole Hastings—many times over the past year and a half. Some nights he couldn’t get the picture of her out of his head.

“We never knew your names. The Navy wouldn’t tell us.” She traced a finger over his driver’s license picture behind the plastic, and his face tingled as if she’d brushed it. “But while we were in the infirmary getting checked out, we saw you walking toward the helicopter before you boarded it and left the boat. I do recognize you.”

Her sculpted eyebrows collided over her nose. “But what are you doing here? Why have you been following me?”

“Following you?” A pulse hummed in his throat. “I just got here two days ago.”

“Last night?”

“I was watching your building.” He shook his head. “Damn, you noticed me out there?”

“Yes. Why are you watching me?”

“I hadn’t planned on having this discussion with you so early, but it works out better for me if we do.” He jerked his thumb at the ceiling. “Can we continue this conversation in your apartment?”

Her gaze shifted toward the lobby and back to his face.

“You can introduce me to the doorman and tell him we’re going up to your place. In fact, that’s the smart thing to do.”

She snapped his wallet closed and thrust it at him, and then spun on her heel. He followed her, still clutching the mail.

The doorman leaped into action and swung the door open for her before she reached it. “I didn’t see you come in, Nicole.”

“Came in through the back door.” She leveled a finger at Slade. “This is a...my friend. He’s coming up to my place, Leo, in case you see him wandering around the building.”

Leo tilted his head. “Okay. Nice to meet you. Any friend of the Hastings women has gotta be good people.”

Slade swept the hood from his head and held out his free hand. “Slade Gallagher.”

“Leo Veneto.”

Slade glanced at the tattoo on Leo’s forearm. “Marine?”

“Yes, sir. Tenth Marine regiment, artillery force. Served in the first Gulf War.”

Slade pumped his hand. “Hoorah.”

“Hoorah.” Leo gave Slade the once-over. “Navy, right?”

“You got it—SEAL sniper.”

“You boys saved our asses more than a few times.”

Nicole broke up the handshake and the mutual admiration. “We’re going to go up now.”

Leo grinned. “I’ll be right here.”

Slade followed her to the elevator where she stabbed the call button and turned to him suddenly. “I never knew Leo was in the Marines.”

“Has Semper Fi tattooed right on his arm.”

She finally snatched the mail from his hands as the doors of the elevator whisked open. “See anything interesting in my mail?”

“You didn’t give me a chance to go through all of it, but it looks like Harvard’s hitting you up for a donation.”

“They wouldn’t dare. I’m not even an alumna, and my father already funded a library for them.”

“So why’d you go to NYU instead of Harvard, where I’m sure they would’ve found a spot for you?”

“Film school.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s not all family connections, you know.”

“Doesn’t hurt.” He should know.

They rode up to the tenth floor in silence, but he could practically hear all the gears shifting in her head, forming questions. He didn’t blame her. He just didn’t know if he’d have any answers that would satisfy her—rather than scare the spit out of her.

The elevator jolted to a stop on the tenth floor, and he held the door as she stepped out. “No penthouse suite, huh?”

“My mom didn’t want to be too ostentatious.” Her lips twisted. “And I’m being serious.”

Still, there seemed to be just two apartments on this floor. The size and location of this place must’ve run her mother, Mimi Hastings, more than five mil.

Nicole swung open the door with a flourish and watched him out of the corner of her eye as she stepped aside.

His gaze swept from one side of the opulently furnished room to the other, taking in the gold brocade sofas, the marble tables, the blindingly white carpet, the curved staircase to another floor and the artwork he could guarantee was worth a fortune. “Impressive.”

“This is my mother’s place. I’m here watching the...”

Before she could finish the sentence, a ball of white fur shot out from somewhere in the back of the apartment and did a couple of somersaults before landing at Slade’s feet, paws scrabbling for purchase against the legs of his jeans.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s a dog, believe it or not, and I’m taking care of her for my mother.”

Slade crouched and tickled the excited Shih Tzu beneath the chin. “Hey, little guy.”

“It’s a girl, and her name is Chanel.”

“Let me guess.” He straightened up. “She has a diamond collar.”

“You pretty much have my mom all figured out.”

“Where is she, your mother?”

“Are we discussing my mother or why a Navy SEAL is spying on me in Manhattan?” She crossed her arms and tapped the toe of her running shoe.

He waved his arm at a deep-cushioned chair. “Can I sit down first? Maybe something to drink? This spying is tough business.”

Her lips formed a thin line, and for a minute he thought she was going to refuse. “All right.”

“Water is fine, and I’ll even get it myself if you show me the way.”

She crooked her finger. “Follow me, but no more stalling.”

Was that what he was doing? He had to admit, he didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news—and he had bad news for Nicole Hastings.

The little dog jumped into the chair he was eyeing, so he followed Nicole’s swaying hips, the Lycra of her leggings hugging every gentle line of her body. She was thin, but curved in and out in all the right places.

As she passed a granite island in the center of the kitchen, she kicked the leg of a stool tucked beneath the counter. “Have a seat.”

She yanked open the door of the fridge. “I have water, sparkling water, iced tea, juice, soda, beer and a 2008 Didier Dagueneau sauvignon blanc—a very good year.”

Was she trying to show off, or did that stuff just roll from her lips naturally? “Sparkling water, please.”

She filled two glasses with ice and then set them down in the middle of the island. The bottle with a green and yellow label hissed as she twisted off its lid, and the liquid fizzed and bubbled when it hit the ice.

She shoved a glass toward him. “Now that the formalities are over, let’s get to the main event.”

“You don’t mess around, do you?”

“I didn’t think you’d be one to mess around, either, the way you dropped that pirate who had me at gunpoint.”

“This is different.” He took a sip of the water, the bubbles tickling his nose. “You know that Giles Wentworth died in a car accident last February?”

“Went off the road in Scotland.”

“A few weeks ago, Lars Rasmussen committed suicide—took an overdose of pills.”

“I know that.” She hunched over the counter, drilling him with her green eyes. “What I want to know is the location and general health of Dahir Musse.”

He took a bigger gulp of his drink than he’d intended, and it fizzed in his nose. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You’ve already connected the dots.”

“I don’t know if I’ve connected any dots, but Giles has driven on some incredibly dangerous roads without getting one scratch on the car, and Lars was about the least depressed person I know. Girl trouble?” She snorted, her delicate nostrils flaring. “He had a woman in every port, literally.”

Had she been one of those women?

The thought had come out of left field, and Slade took a careful sip of his water. “So, you already have a suspicion the deaths of your friends weren’t coincidental.”

“It’s not just that.” She caught a drip of condensation on the outside of her glass with the tip of her finger and dragged it back to the rim. “You said you’ve been here in New York just a few days?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve had a feeling of being watched and followed for about two weeks now, ever since I heard rumors about Lars.”

“Anything concrete?”

“Until I caught you going through my mailbox? No.”

Heat crawled up his face to the roots of his hair. He’d tried to tell the brass he’d be no good at spying.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here and why you were going through my mail.”

“Someone who monitors these things—our rescues, I mean—noticed the deaths. This guy raised a red flag because there was a hit stateside on another person our team had rescued—a doctor who’d helped us out in Pakistan. That proved to be related to terrorist activity in the region.”

She’d folded her hands around the glass, her white knuckles the only sign of tension. “You’re telling me that someone is after the four of us? Do you know where Dahir Musse is?”

“We don’t know where he is, and I can’t tell you for sure that someone is out to get your film crew, but I’m here to find out.”

“A Navy SEAL operating in the US? Isn’t that illegal or something?”

“Not exactly, but it is top secret. I’m not really here.” He pressed a finger to his lips. “I am sorry about the loss of your friends.”

“Thanks.” Her chest rose and fell as the corner of her mouth twitched. “Giles’s mother called to tell me about the accident. At the time, I figured it was ju