Conceit (Se7en Deadly SEALs Book 1) by Alana Albertson

was pretty confident that I had him fooled. Even so, I knew Grant would never look at me with such tenderness again.
    Focus, woman.
    I was so pathetic, thinking about my relationship with my ex-boyfriend instead of clearing my brother’s name. No more. From here on out, Grant was nothing more than a job to me.
    He draped his strong around my waist. I pursed my lips.
    We approached the door of the townhouse, and my fists tightened. I had to be on my game tonight. This was my big chance to find a clue. The last time Joaquín had been free was at a party like this. I said a silent prayer, closed my eyes, and hoped our parents were watching over me, guiding me toward the right path.
    The door opened. Damn, guess I wasn’t the only one who’d brought friends. It was like bring-your-own-stripper night, with a proper threesome ratio of two women for every SEAL. At least twenty women in various stages of undress were cuddling the men, limbs draped over each other, bodies entwined. I counted thirteen men besides Grant, but I only cared about Mitch and Paul for now—SEALs on Joaquín’s Squad. I needed to either eliminate them as suspects or focus my investigation on their actions the night of the murder.
    My friends from Panthers dispersed and were quickly introducing themselves to the other guys. I’d chosen the girls at random, the ones who had been nicest to me, but these ladies clearly knew how to work the room. And as any girl in her twenties who partied hard in San Diego knew, these men—no matter what they claimed they did for a living—were clearly Navy SEALs.
    Once you’d been to Coronado a few times, SEALs were easy to identify. Longer hair, fuller beards, massive muscles sculpted from carrying Zodiac boats, tan skin, weathered hands, cocky attitudes that oozed through the air. Basically a gang of hard bodies who could easily star in the latest summer blockbuster.
    Grant seemed distracted, his gaze focused on something or someone. “Ksenya, can I get you a drink?”
    I glanced in the direction of his gaze and saw a young woman with short blond hair standing near the refrigerator. “Yes, please. I want vodka and the cranberry juice.”
    Grant headed to the kitchen. My eyes followed his movements.
    Mitch eyed me from across the room. He could be the one who killed Tiffany. I recalled his vile comments to me at the Pickled Frog. April, his long-suffering wife was probably sitting at home, doing his laundry, putting their kids to bed, while he was out getting lap dances from strippers.
    Mitch walked over and sat down next to me. “So you’re Grant’s latest piece of ass? Nice to meet you. I’m Mitch.”
    I studied his face—something was off about him. His massive dilated pupils crowded out the pigment of his brown eyes, and his nose was shaded red. “Nice to meet with you also. You sell the drugs, too?” I contained a laugh, delighted at my pharmaceutical pun.
    His eyebrows lifted, but his calm face didn’t react to Grant’s lie. These men were used to covering for each other. “Nah, I’m a tattoo artist. My brother has a shop.” He leaned into me; his alcohol-spiked breath blew hot on my neck. “Man, you’re a knockout. Have I seen you somewhere before?”
    I scanned the room, but Grant had vanished. And so had the girl I’d seen earlier. Did he know her? “I work at Panthers. I saw you other night when you came in together with Grant.”
    He laughed and placed his hand on my upper thigh, squeezing my skin so tight I was sure he had left a mark. “No, baby. Not then. You’re a porn star, aren’t you?”
    I pressed my hands against my stomach. Where was Grant? Why was he taking so long? In all the time I dated him as Mia, not one of his Teammates ever so much as winked at me. They knew the rules—a Team guy’s woman was off-limits—no exceptions. But I wasn’t Grant’s woman anymore. I was a stripper. Not an equal partner, a mere possession. Did he intend to pass me around to his