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She doubted that he’d found a threat. The only person he seemed likely to attack, Jared, the backup singer who was supposed to be out here suffering under the afternoon desert sun, had called in sick.
“Jared bailed because of you,” she continued. “And now, Mr. SEAL, I’m paying a crew to stand around.”
“Dante,” he said, his gaze landing on her for a brief second before returning to the open space. “Please call me Dante.”
She cocked her head and examined the wall of muscle. “Named after the author who wrote about the layers of hell?”
“After my Neapolitan grandfather.”
The corner of his mouth twitching upward. Finally, a reaction from Mr. No Nonsense SEAL.
“That explains the Italian features,” she muttered, studying his profile. His dark Patrick Dempsey locks would probably look great on-camera. And he was 100 percent alpha male.
But he wasn’t a cowboy. She needed the all-American look for her video love interest.
She turned and glanced back at the crew. Mason, her manager, was on his phone, trying to find a replacement for Jared.
Some people probably considered a Navy SEAL as all-American as a cowboy. And women might forgive the Italian features for a glimpse at those muscles…
Me! Me! Me!
“Seeing as this is your fault,” she began, her tone professional. Businesslike even. Because she was about to ask for a favor that had nothing to do with wanting to feel his body up against hers one more time.
“That’s a matter of opinion, Ms. Tate,” he said blandly.
“Seeing as I feel this is your fault, you could offer to fill in for Jared.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, eyes front as if he was expecting an attack at any moment. “But I have a job. And I’m afraid it doesn’t involve starring in your show.”
“I thought SEALs were training to adapt to the situation.”
He glanced at her. “Combat situations, reconnaissance missions—those scenarios don’t involve impromptu music video shoots.”
“This one does,” she said firmly. “If you don’t, I’ll have to send the crew home and make the video another day. I know Mason”—she nodded toward her manager—“might have given you and Ronan the impression that I’m a big-deal star. But right now, I have one album, one major hit, and one tour. I’m paying for this video. Not my label. And it needs to be good. I can’t afford to waste money like this.”
“I’m sorry. But I suggest that you talk to your manager.” He returned to scanning the video shoot. Thanks to her no-show backup singer, watching this scene was about as exciting as watching paint dry in the freaking desert.
“Have you ever been poor?” she demanded.
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, I have. So have my younger brothers and my little sister. The money from this tour, from my shows, supports my family. They are counting on it. If I don’t deliver another hit, the money will dry up.”
“That’s a hell—a lot—of responsibility on your shoulders,” he said, tearing his gaze away from the rocks to look at her.
She shook her head. “I’m not risking my life or trying to save the world. I’m just trying to make things easier for my family. And right now, that means I need you to kiss me up against that rock.”
“On-camera,” he pointed out.
She nodded. “I’ll pay you what I offered Jared. It’s not much. But it will be in addition to your daily wages. Plus, you have a better chance of keeping me safe if you’re holding on to me.”
“That’s not how this works.” He raised his arm and ran his hand through his movie star hair. “Look, maybe Ronan would be willing—”
“I don’t want to kiss Ronan.” She forced a smile, determined to walk away with a yes. Because she needed to make this video. And she wanted to kiss him. “Please, Dante. Tell me you’ll give it a shot.”
“All right,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “But I’m not tossing you up against that rock. If we do this, we do it my way.”
“As long as you take off your shirt and wear a cowboy hat, we can do it anyway you want, Mr. SEAL.”
