One Hot SEAL: Strong, California, #5

By Anne Marsh

Discover New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Anne Marsh's small town California firefighter series!

Ex-SEAL Luke Dawson's new mission in life is fighting fires. When he rescues local bad girl Deelie Olsen from a summer blaze, lust isn't supposed to be part of the equation. Nor is love—but something about the frank, tough-as-nails woman has him throwing caution to the wind. Getting her in bed may be easy, but getting to know her will be a whole lot harder… and the battle for Deelie's heart is one fight he has every intention of winning.

 

For more fire fighter romances, check out the Strong, California series! All books are standalone books.

Smoking Hot (Tye and Katie) 
Sweet Burn (Mack and Mimi) 
Yours for Christmas (Zack and Bree) 
Heated (Joey and Mercedes) 
One Hot SEAL (Luke and Deelie) 
Her Firefighter SEAL (Kade and Abbie)
Her Christmas SEAL (Jacks and Holly)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Marsh
• Release date: Aug 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516335657

Book preview

Chapter 1

Luke Dawson loved his job. Fire roared on the other side of the hill. Although the flames weren’t visible yet, the rain shower of embers dropping everywhere and the choking smoke were Mother Nature’s heads-up that a shitstorm of destruction was barreling toward the Black Mountain hotshots. Usually, Luke would have dug his heels and his Pulaski in, literally drawing the line in the forest floor between what burned and what escaped the flames. It was the best kind of firefight and a welcome change of pace after two tours of duty as a US Navy SEAL. He’d loved that job too, but it had been time to come home. Time to put down a different kind of roots and get on with living his life.

But today had gone to shit, and it wasn’t Mother Nature’s fault. The campsite was supposed to be clear—and all the official sites were. The Black Mountain crew had rousted the last occupants over an hour ago and sent them with a police escort to a safer area. The problem was there had been nine cars at those campsites—and ten cars had checked in with the park ranger earlier that day. Unless a car had grown wings and flown away, Luke Dawson had a rogue camper who’d copped an illegal spot somewhere.

A flambéed camper if Luke didn’t find him or her.

He was unfortunately reminded of his last mission as a SEAL, storming a Somali pirate ship to rescue the hostage crew. Not only had the pirates decided to split up their captives, making a rescue effort more challenging, but some of the crew members had successfully hidden from the pirates, putting friendlies in unknown locations. They’d taken out the pirates, but clearing the vessel had taken hours of painstakingly sweeping each level.

Luke and Pick Harris were supposed to be confirming that the campground was empty. Pick ran with a local motorcycle club in the off-season. Luke had asked him once about the name and gotten a terse Pickax in reply. Someday Luke planned on getting the story behind the name from him, but that wouldn’t be tonight.

So we’re definitely missing a camper. Highway patrol is running the plates to get an ID on the owner and reach out in case the driver somehow managed to leave the park without checking out with the rangers.

Double-checking was the smart move, but they didn’t have the time to wait. The fire would crest the hill within the hour, probably sooner, and since the Northern California campground occupied fairly rugged terrain, that didn’t leave them any time to search.

Roger that. I’ll check this road. Luke pointed to a gravel access road.

Pick nodded, looking thoughtful. How long until we can get the tankers in the air?

Two hours until sunrise. Our boys can’t fly until they’ve got daylight, but they’re gassed and ready to go. They’ll be airborne by six.

Which would be about an hour and a half too late for Mystery Camper.

Pick cursed again. Make your road check quick. We’re burning time.

And ten thousand acres. Although the most common cause of wildland fires was the goddamned people who flicked a Bic, failed to put out a campfire, or did other dumbass, highly illegal shit, today’s blaze was likely courtesy of a lightning strike from a thunderstorm last week. One good hit to a dead tree could simmer for days and then explode into flames, which was probably what had happened here.

He was good to go, so he swung up into his truck and hit the access road. The deeper he headed into the campground, the more obvious this Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot became. He’d driven a Humvee through a firefight in Afghanistan once, hostile rounds landing left and right. Now blazing embers hit his truck, thudding relentlessly against his hood when the wind shifted briefly. Good thing he hadn’t been attached to his paint job.

He guided his truck down the access road, flooring the gas as much as he dared. It should be fairly easy to spot a car. He had the make, model, and license plate number, and it was better than beating the bushes looking for a solo hiker on foot. Leaving anyone out here wasn’t an option, particularly a civilian who wouldn’t know how to take cover and maximize his chances of survival. As soon as the fire hopped the hill, the entire hotshot team would be flat-out sprinting for safety. There simply weren’t too many good spots here to hole up and hope for the best.

The road split. You voting left or right? Luke asked the bobblehead stuck to his dash. The cheerleader doll sported the Incident Commander’s face, cut out from a newspaper article and glued on. The guys on his team loved practical jokes, and that one had been fun. The doll’s blond hair and supersized tits shimmied as he steered the truck left.

There were undoubtedly all sorts of valid and compelling reasons why Rogue Camper wouldn’t have evacuated voluntarily. Car troubles. Sleeping pill. Heart attack. Wannabe photographer who thought scoring an up-close-and-personal video of the firestorm would guarantee YouTube stardom and a thousand bucks from the local news station. None of these, however, were reasons worth dying for. After two tours in Afghanistan, Luke had seen all sorts of reasons for dying. Some he’d been on board with. Others had been flat-out stupid. Fire fell into the second category.

There.

He caught a flash of metal through the trees. Someone had parked a beat-up, powder-blue Cadillac by the stream. Another foot and the car would have been in the water, although the six inches of mountain water didn’t pose much of a danger. It was the principle of the thing. Someone had converted the old Cadillac into a truck, the low boat of a car now sporting a bona fide truck bed. He couldn’t see a tent in the clearing, but there was definitely a blanket-covered mound in the back of the Caddy.

Shit. If the camper was already dead, the return trip would suck.

Pulling over, he radioed in his position. I’ve got our missing vehicle. I’m making contact now.

Roger that. Pick’s voice crackled over the headset. Load him up quick because the fire’s gonna crest soon and I left my fucking crystal ball at home. Maybe the flames jump the road, maybe they don’t, but I wouldn’t be hanging around to admire the scenery.

Ten-four. He left the truck ready because a speedy getaway was clearly the order of the day. When he got out, the air was smoky but