Navy SEAL Hunter “Hook” Murdock grimaced as he took a swig of the lukewarm soda, muttering a curse under his breath. He shifted on his barstool, irritation seeping through him as laughter and conversations filled the air around him. He wasn’t normally one to crave an ice-cold Coke, but damn. What the hell did the Brits have against ice cubes anyway?

He had half a mind to ask for a pint instead, but he never drank on the job.

And this one was just getting started.

Sweeping his gaze across the crowded pub, he caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar—dark, shortly cropped hair that was just starting to look scruffy, the one-week-old growth of beard leftover from his latest op, the hint of an anchor tattoo on his bicep peeking out beneath his sleeve, and a second tattoo of a snake curling up his muscled forearm.

As if his appearance wasn’t enough, the scowl on his face scared off most people.

If he wanted the company of a beautiful woman for the night, he could turn on the charm like the best of them—flash a smile, flex his biceps. Whisper a few meaningless words about how beautiful she was.

Not that he’d be picking up a woman in the middle of conducting surveillance.

His eyes scanned the noisy pub again, filling with Londoners after a day’s work. Suit jackets were coming off. Sleeves getting pushed up. The greasy smell of fish and chips permeated the air, glasses clinked behind the bar as orders were rushed to be filled, and his stomach rumbled.

Damn he was hungry. But food could come later.

The young female bartender walked back over to him, leaning against the bar so that he could see the cleavage spilling out of her low-cut top. “Can I get you anything else, love?”

“How about a cup full of ice?”

She laughed, her breasts bobbing up and down as she stood. “You Americans.”

He bristled as she walked away to help another customer. Maybe he could just wear a damn American flag to draw even more attention to himself.

Jesus Christ.

Most of his SEAL team was on a C-17 transport plane back to the States after conducting their latest op in the Middle East—rescuing the daughter of an American Senator who’d been taken hostage. Hunter’s Delta SEAL team had joined the Alpha SEALs from Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek to conduct the rescue mission. The two teams made an intimidating show of force and were among the best of the best—elite, highly trained, and heavily armed. Although one of the SEALs had been injured, the op had otherwise gone off as planned.

Patrick “Ice” Foster, the leader of the Alpha SEALs, had been laid up in a hospital in Landstuhl, Germany but was finally back in Virginia on the road to recovery. He’d even gotten himself hitched to his girlfriend after the incident.

Ice was married. Imagine that.

Crazy what the threat of imminent death could lead a man to do.

Not that Hunter had anyone waiting for him back home.

Or that he wanted anyone to be.

Hunter’s gut had churned as he’d watched the other SEAL team load onto the Black Hawks outside the terrorist camp in Afghanistan with Ice’s limp body being dragged by two of the other men. That type of shit was something no one wanted to see.

Hunter and his Delta team had provided cover, sweeping the perimeter of camp as they shot at stray insurgents. Watching the other team get the fuck out of dodge.

Between the two SEAL teams, they’d taken out multiple terrorists as they infiltrated the camp. Come under heavy fire. Rescued the American hostage.

But that didn’t lessen his taste for revenge.

Or his need to track down any and all others affiliated with the terror group.

The latest intelligence from the Pentagon indicated another woman may have been taken hostage—a British archeologist who’d gone to Afghanistan to conduct research. She’d been able to enter the country posing as an aid worker but hadn’t been heard from in several days. Her American colleague had reported she’d never returned to the aid group’s housing after they’d gotten separated at a market in Kabul.

The latest SITREP, or situation report of an unfolding incident, indicated the archeologist’s suspected kidnapping may have been orchestrated by a couple of British citizens who’d turned over her information for a pretty penny—make that a pretty pound in this case.

He smirked.

Hunter had been in London on R&R when word from the Pentagon came in about the terrorists’ ties to Kensington. He’d abandoned his plans to finish sight-seeing and flirting with British women during his much-needed time off and had set up shop in a hotel down the street.

He’d gone over the descriptions of the suspects this morning and received intelligence on their routines for the remainder of the day. It wasn’t the typical job of a Navy SEAL, but hell, he’d been in the right place at the right time.

And just coming off an op connected to these bastards made him that much more inclined to hunt them down. The fact that they may have taken another innocent woman sent his protective instincts soaring and adrenaline surging through his veins.

Although he certainly enjoyed his time alone with the fairer sex—preferably beneath the covers—the fact that some terrorist assholes had tried to kidnap another woman sent rage roaring through him.

Best case scenario was that it was all a mistake—just because she hadn’t been heard from didn’t mean she’d been kidnapped.

But worst case?

He clenched his fists, mind swirling with the possibilities of where she was, when the barstool beside him was suddenly pulled back.

His fellow SEAL team member Mason “Riptide” Ryan sank down beside him, his cropped blond hair damp from a shower and eyes glinting in amusement as he took in the lukewarm drink in front of Hunter.

“Don’t say it,” Hunter muttered.

“I’m going to buy you a whole damn block of ice when we’re back in the states.”

“Doesn’t help me much now, wise guy.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“So much for a little R&R this week,” Hunter said, cracking his knuckles. “I’ve had exactly one decent night’s sleep. Not that I’m complaining about the woman I was with the other night,” he added with a smirk. His gaze slid to a group of women laughing nearby, roaming over their curves, then swept back to Mason.

He had work to do.

Mason chuckled. “Yep. It’s not exactly ideal to come right off one op and then get sucked back into this clusterfuck. Although how you managed to get us involved is beyond me. You’d think the Brits would be all over this.”

Hunter smirked. “What can I say? I’ve got friends in high places. I’d rather deal with these assholes myself after rescuing the Senator’s daughter,” he said in a low voice.

“Damn straight,” Mason agreed. “The poor girl looked scared out of her mind.”

“Unfortunately, our hands are tied aside from gathering intel though. After we get what we need, confirmation that these two assholes were involved, you can paint the town, pretty boy.”

“I’m still wiped out from last night.”

“What time did you drag your ass back to the hotel?”

“Three a.m. The British babe I met lived clear on the other side of London. I got lost on the damn Tube coming back.”

Hunter guffawed. “You can pinpoint a location anywhere in the world within millimeters using GPS coordinates and sat imagery but can’t figure out a damn subway system?”

“Hell, I was thinking with my dick the entire way to her place. She could’ve taken me across the goddamn English Channel, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Besides, after three rounds between the sheets, I was wiped. And don’t worry—she was fully satisfied as well. If nothing, I’m a gentleman.”

The edge of Hunter’s mouth quirked up. “Why didn’t you wait and leave until morning then, Romeo?”

Mason chuckled. “Not my MO, man. Yours either.”

Hunter smirked, shaking his head. “Touché.”

Their entire Delta SEAL team was full of single, rough and tumble Alpha males who enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman. Whenever they were back stateside, they’d prowl around the Virginia Beach area, not far from their base in Little Creek, looking for a pretty woman to take home for the night.

Something about sunshine, sand, and beautiful women in bikinis did it every time.

Hunter had no desire to settle down with one woman—not when the whole damn world was his oyster. And hell if he didn’t love diving for pearls.

Driving a woman wild in bed was his specialty—and if he could enjoy the pleasure of a different woman every weekend, he damn well would. No sense in tying himself down when he deployed all the time anyway. Nothing like trying to maintain a relationship when you couldn’t say where you were going, what you were doing, or when you’d be back.

Most women he’d met couldn’t handle a situation like that—and hell if life wasn’t easier this way.

His SEAL team made an imposing force when they were together—even out of uniform, their shortly cropped hair, muscles, and certain swagger seemed to give away their profession.

And hell.

They were never short on ladies looking to spend the night with a Navy SEAL.

He’d already enjoyed a one-night-stand his first night in London—a university student he’d met while sightseeing. She’d asked if he was lost, and he’d gone along with it, figuring he’d seem less intimidating to her that way. Never mind that he’d memorized the map of the London streets and knew the exact way back to his hotel. Could practically count the number of steps from the street corner to the front door.

She’d batted those long lashes at him, and he’d gone along for the ride.

And ride him she had—all damn night.

Cowgirl. Reverse cowgirl. She was insatiable in bed—not that he’d had any complaints.

Hell, it was hard to remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself so much with a woman. She knew he was an American here visiting and wasn’t expecting more than one night with him.

Knew that he’d literally be across the ocean in a few days.

And damn if that didn’t make it even more enjoyable that way.

There was no need to let her down easy the next morning when they’d both known it was a one-time deal.

Hell.

They’d even had a quickie in the shower before they’d parted ways.

She’d screamed so loud as he’d made her come, he’d practically expect the British police to break down the hotel door.

“What are you smiling about?” Mason asked, ordering a soda.

“With ice!” Hunter called out to the bartender as she walked away.

Mason smirked.

“No thanks needed,” Hunter said smoothly. “How the Brits drink their soda practically lukewarm is beyond me.”

“You blokes need a pint,” a young guy beside them said, chuckling as he took his own beer and headed over to his group of friends.

Hunter shook his head. “Tell me about it.”

“He’s right,” Mason said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get this show on the road so we can hightail it out of here.”

“Gotta wait for the perps to make an appearance first. Soon as we get confirmation that they have info on the missing woman, we’re outta here.”

“You think they sold her out to the terror group?”

“I don’t know damn well what to think. But most women don’t travel to Afghanistan alone and then simply disappear. Her colleagues were the ones who went to the American Embassy when they didn’t hear from her. Apparently, they notified the Brits.”

“Shit. That stuff is fucked up.”

“Roger that. Be right back,” Hunter muttered, pushing his barstool back as he stood up.

Mason raised his eyebrows. “Spot a woman you fancy?”

“Gonna hit the head.”

Mason smirked. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“For the men or a woman?”

“Yep.”

Hunter grunted in amusement before sauntering across the pub toward the bathroom. A waitress walked by carrying a tray of sizzling burgers and fries—make that chips—and his stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since lunch but could grab some food after they’d gotten eyes and ears on the men.

It was a damn fucking shame he couldn’t take those assholes out himself, but it wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed if he got into a fight in the middle of a crowded pub. His eyes swept around the area once more, and he nearly missed running into a beautiful redhead rushing the other way.

She was petite, barely coming up to his shoulder, and her fair skin and striking green eyes immediately drew his attention. Not to mention the swell of her breasts beneath the form-fitting, pink cashmere sweater she had on. The soft top hugged her curves enticingly, leaving little to the imagination. The fact that it fit her like a glove, yet didn’t reveal any skin, was intriguing. Normally he was all about short skirts and low-cut tops, but on her? An innocent sweater had never looked so sexy.

“Pardon me,” she said in a smooth British accent, her silky red hair spilling around her shoulders and her intoxicating floral scent filling the air.

“Ma’am,” he said, his fingers just grazing her forearm to steady her.

 “You’re American,” she said in surprise, pulling her arm away.

He quirked a brow. “How could you tell that from one word?”

Hell, if he didn’t already miss the feel of her delicate arm beneath his fingers. He wanted to run his hands all over that soft cashmere and feel her soft, feminine curves beneath it. Trace his thumb over those full pink lips. Crowd into her space and pull her close.

“It’s not common in England. Besides, most English men I know aren’t nearly as tall as you. And they wouldn’t go about manhandling me that way.”

Hunter guffawed. “You almost fell over when you ran into me. Where’s the fire? The way you were tearing through here there must be one somewhere.”

“I most certainly did not run into you,” she said haughtily.

“And what’s preferable to ‘ma’am’ anyway? Would ‘princess’ work for you?”

“To be perfectly clear, you almost ran into me,” she corrected him, her green eyes sparking. “You were looking around, probably at some other woman, like a typical man, and nearly plowed into me.”

Hunter smirked. Hell yeah he’d love to plow into her—probably not in the manner she meant though.

“My apologies from preventing you from falling flat on your face.”

“That’s the worst apology I’ve ever heard.”

He crossed his arms. “That’s because I don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Excuse me,” she huffed indignantly.

Her breasts just grazed against his bicep as she turned to slide by him, evidently ending the conversation, and his groin tightened. She was so damn soft, he couldn’t help but imagine all those curves pressing up against him.

Her soft breasts rubbing against his muscular chest. Her small hands clinging to him as he claimed her. Her pink lips whispering in that sexy-as-fuck accent in his ear.

Why did British women seem so damn irresistible?

He loved the idea of some English chick whispering naughty words to him. It must be like the sexy librarian fantasy all guys had—some prim and proper looking, beautiful woman turning into a sex goddess when a man took her to bed.

Coming alive beneath his solid, muscular frame. Whimpering as he made her orgasm again and again. Begging him for mercy he penetrated her, drawing out her pleasure for as long as possible until she screamed out his name in surrender. Until her tight pussy clenched again and again around his throbbing cock.

Unable to resist, he glanced back over his shoulder, watching her sweet ass sashay back and forth as she walked away in those sexy-as-fuck tight jeans.

Hell, she was a looker.

And he couldn’t resist one last taunt.

“American men are big all over, princess.”

She looked back at him, her face flushing. He couldn’t tell if it was in anger or arousal, but then she retorted, “Arrogant prick.”

He chuckled, his eyes drifting lower to her heart-shaped ass, clad in that tight denim. Damn if he didn’t want to have a closer inspection of those sweet curves.

Preferably without the jeans.

The woman he’d bedded the other night had some naughty lingerie on under her casual clothes. Did all British chicks wear stuff like that? Because he sure as hell might need to give up the Navy and become an Ex-Pat in London if that were the case.

Holy hell.

Forcing himself to look away, he continued toward the men’s room and shoved open the door. He adjusted his earpiece a minute later when he re-emerged.

Mason’s voice was suddenly in his ear, laughing.

“American men are big all over? Who gave you that Hallmark line?”

“It was damn poetic, right?” he asked. “Not sure why she didn’t immediately wrestle me to the ground right then and have her wicked way with me.”

“Yeah, in your dreams,” Mason chuckled. “I’ve never seen a woman move so fast—in the opposite direction.”

“I bet she’s wild in bed. Redheads always are.”

A few men sitting at a table beside him chuckled, and Hunter muttered a curse as he wove his way back through the growing crowd. He was drawing attention to himself all over the damn place.

By the time he’d crossed the pub back toward the bar where he’d been sitting, his gaze was drawn to movement outside.

Hunter’s gaze narrowed as he saw two Middle Eastern men lingering on the sidewalk, animatedly talking with hand gestures. A woman walking by stepped away from them, frowning, and a beat passed before they turned and pushed open the pub’s door.

Even amongst the after-work crowd they stood out.

Expensive suits. Slicked-back hair.

The shorter one carrying an expensive leather briefcase.

He’d memorized the photographs of the men he was seeking earlier. Knew every detail of their faces, from the small scar on the cheek of one to the angular jaw and slightly crooked nose on the other.

Bingo.