Sandra Hill by Down, Dirty

her up.”
    At first, the woman was all afluster. He had that effect on women sometimes, and he wasn’t above bleeding it for all it was worth. With that in mind, he smiled.
    The woman practically swooned and pressed the button on the intercom, relaying his message. Within seconds, her face turned red, and she told him, “Petty Officer Asado says…uh…begone.”
    No way was she going to blow him off now. “Give me that phone.”
    The woman tried to hold it out of his reach. “Hey, you can’t do that.”
    “Wanna bet?” He took the phone, punched in the same number he’d seen the petty officer use, and said, “Britta, honey, we’re going to a party. Either you come down, or I come up.”
    “Go away, lout. I am tired. I am sore. And I am not going anywhere—”
    “You’re on liberty for a day and a half, honey. You don’t have to muster till Sunday morning.” This was the only liberty WEALS were going to have for three weeks. “C’mon, take advantage of the little free time you have.”
    She said something nasty in Old Norse. He could tell it was nasty by the tone of her voice.
    He was already going up the stairs, three steps at a time, with the officer screaming after him, and him yelling “Briiiiitta! Where are you?”
    Doors were opening. Women half-dressed, many of whom knew him, called out greetings and hoots of encouragement. When he got to Britta’s room, he saw her three roommates—all hottied up for a night on the town, he would guess—but Britta was lying on her cot, propped up on her elbows.
    She wore low-riding black jeans that covered about a mile of her legs and exposed a patch of skin around the cutest belly button God ever gifted a female. On top was a stretchy red tank top that matched her red sandals. She was wearing a bra— Darn it! —and, yeah, he could tell, even from across the room. He wondered irrelevantly where the modern clothes came from. She was taller than most of the women, which precluded borrowing. He shrugged, figuring they were either from the mysterious missing Norse officer, or God, who was surely responsible for this whole time-travel scenario. But, really, would God dress her in siren red?
    Britta had probably intended to join her friends as they went clubbing…a prospect he did not like at all for what he considered his Viking babe. Despite he and the commander being relatively easy on the WEALS this week, compared to first week of BUD/S for regular SEALs, it must have seemed brutal to them. In fact, there were bruises galore up and down Britta’s arms and a half-healed cut on her chin, all of which went with hard PT. Five women had rung out already, and he guessed ten times that number would ring out eventually. The women trainees had no idea how much worse it was going to be next week when the program went into full gear. Yep, Britta had probably fallen to her bed with exhaustion and couldn’t get back up.
    But hey, he was a SEAL, and a SEAL on a mission never failed…or hardly ever. He’d get her up, all right.
    Her hair, damp from a shower, was twisted into a single braid that hung below her shoulder blades. Even though the women slathered on sunscreen all day long, they all sported suntans. That included Britta, whose healthy tan contrasted sharply with her pale blonde hair.
    Man, she was so sexy she could jump-start a Taliban corpse. If he wasn’t already in full-blown, hot-tilt boogie lust with her, he would be now.
    “Okay, sweetie,” he said, checking his wristwatch, “you’ve got exactly two minutes to get up and haul ass before the MPs get here.”
    “Why me? There are women aplenty smitten with your charms. Ask them.”
    “I think you’re smitten, too. You just don’t wanna admit it yet. Playing hard to get, that’s what you’re doing.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
    “Methinks you need a good dose of meekness, you misguided clodpole.
    He still stared at his watch. “One minute.”
    “Desist!”
    The three woman gawked at her as