Cover

About this book

“What You See is the third AMAZINGLY THRILLING book in Cherise Sinclair's Sons Of The Survivalist series and is Bull's story. And what a fantastic, compelling, and soul melting romance it was too!” ~ Marie’s Tempting Reads

She will risk everything to rescue her friend.

Frankie’s BFF and four-year-old son are trapped inside a fanatical militia’s compound. In Alaska, no less. Wilderness rescues are so not in the New Yorker’s skill set. But she’ll figure it out. She must.

Bull’s new roadhouse server is a mass of contradictions.

The city girl’s reasons for being in Alaska don’t add up. Bull’s been burned by liars before. So, why is he falling for this crap again? Maybe it’s her big brown eyes, exuberant personality—or her generous, compassionate heart. Whatever the reason is, he cares. If she’s in trouble, he’ll do his damnedest to get her out.

The huge Alaskan is terrifyingly compelling--and heartwarmingly concerned for her.

But Frankie refuses to involve Bull in the deadly mess. Her plan to rescue her bestie will work without anyone getting hurt. As she tries her best not to fall in love, she doggedly acquires each skill she’ll need.

Getting shot, though…that hadn’t been on her to-do list.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Fiona Archer and Monette Michaels for critting Bull’s story. When you both yell at me for the same problem, I know I’d better fix it.

To my beloved Alaska authorities, JJ Foster and Kathleen Cole: You are so good at keeping me from making any horrible cheechako goofs. (Any errors that slipped in are my very own).

Daniela Gardini, thank you so much for helping with the Italian. You rock, girl! (Any errors are because the author is stubborn).

Many hugs to my wonderful beta readers, Marian Shulman, Lisa White, and Barb Jack.

So much appreciation goes to my Red Quill editors—Ekatarina Sayanova, Rebecca Cartee, and Tracy Damron-Roelle. Because of your hard work and superb skills, Bull’s story will be released before winter…and will be readable. Thank you!

It’s been a rough fall for my team—loss of furbabies, bronchitis, infections, even cancer—and I can’t believe how you each insisted I send the manuscript anyway. Because you wanted to help.

I love you all.

Prologue

The sweet smell of pineapple, coconut, and hot oil jerked nine-year-old Kana Peleki to a stop in front of the small, brick-fronted restaurant. “Dad?”

A woman bumped into him from behind, then stepped around him with an annoyed sigh.

He didn’t apologize. All he could see was the restaurant. All he could hear was an echo of a deep voice, “My little sous chef. Look, hold the knife this way...”

Kana shook his head hard. No, his father wouldn’t be in that restaurant making Samoan half-moon pies. Wouldn’t be giving that booming laugh and pulling over a stepstool so Kana could help.

Dad was dead. Gone.

Kana leaned against the building and scowled at his feet. Big feet.

“I can’t believe how fast you’re growing.”

Dad had said that too.

Would he even know me now? He’d grown a lot since his father died.

Because of that woman.

Anger roused inside him. Dad had died because the owner of the LA restaurant wanted him, always calling him her “handsome chef” and touching him. But after they’d done the sex stuff, she’d changed and got all mean and called Dad names and hit him, even though he never yelled back or anything.

In the car that night, she’d shouted at Dad and slapped him real hard. The car had gone sideways and—

Kana’s belly lurched, and he put his hand over his mouth. Heat ran over his skin, then cold, like he’d fallen in the icy stream outside Mako’s cabin.

Don’t puke.

He pulled in long breaths and fought off the sickness. He wasn’t a little kid anymore, not like when Dad died. He’d been in foster care, been on the LA streets. He was tough now, not a wimp.

He walked on.

“Hey, Bull. Bull.”

He jumped—because Gabe was yelling at him. Bull’s my name now.

Bull. Frigging good name, right? He puffed up his chest to look bigger. Yeah, by the time he was grown up, he’d be as big as the bull moose that Mako had shot last week. The one that had given Kana—no, Bull—his new name.

He raised his hand to show he’d heard Gabe but didn’t move. Did he want to hang out with his kinda-sorta foster brother—or the other two?

Mako called them a team. A-huh. Bull wasn’t so sure.

Okay, maybe the four of them had fought back against the foster home perv, even though they hardly knew each other. And when Mako said he’d bring them to Alaska and raise them, they’d all agreed. Better than being homeless on the streets, right?

It still didn’t make them no team or a family either.

“C’mon, Bull!” Dark-haired Gabe, a year older than Bull, motioned toward Caz and Hawk who were surrounded by big-ass teens. The pushy jerks weren’t a gang, though. Not here in bumfuck Seward.

Bull didn’t move. Did he want to get in a fight for the other boys in the sarge’s log cabin?

Gabe was okay. Bossier than anything, but he made up good games—and played fair. Made sure they all played fair.

Caz? Yeah, he was okay, too, even if he didn’t speak English so good. When a bird’s nest fell down off a tree, Caz kept the babies alive, getting up early to feed them and everything.

Hawk? Well, Hawk was weird. If anybody looked at him funny, he’d hit them. Bull had some good bruises since the kid hit hard. But he’d sneak bugs and worms to Caz’s baby birds…and then pretend he hadn’t. Why’d he want them to think he was an asshole?

Wondering what they thought of him, Bull waited to see what’d happen down the street.

Trash-talking, the local kids surrounded Caz and Hawk. “City brats. Go back to the Lower 48 where you belong.” The pimple-faced town boy must’ve been around fifteen, same as the other three circling Hawk and Caz.

Bull growled. Hawk was a jerk sometimes, and Caz just a shrimp, but they were all living together. Kinda makes them, like, mine, right?

“Ugly-face, don’cha got nothing to say?” Another teen poked his finger at the scar on Hawk’s face.

Caz slapped the kid’s arm away. “Chinga su madre, hijo de puta!”

The Alaska dumbasses got even madder. They could probably tell that he’d called them nasty names.

Caz had some guts.

Turning a pissed-off red, Hawk lifted his fists. Uh-oh. When he lost it, no one was safe.

As Bull headed toward the group, the fight busted out.

The pimple-faced kid punched Caz right in the face.

Hawk kicked the jerk’s leg, and then all the town kids jumped in.

Like that was fair?

With a yell, Gabe grabbed a bike from the sidewalk and clobbered one teen right off his feet.

“Go, Gabe!” Bull launched himself into the fight and hit a ginger in the side, knocking him onto his ass.

Next to Bull, Hawk pushed the asshole who’d called him ugly-face. Shoving his head into the kid’s chest, Hawk punched him in the gut, right-left-right-left. Getting hit back didn’t slow the crazy hawk down any. Screaming bloody murder, the teen fell over, got up, and ran like a chickenshit.

Cheering, Bull realized he was bouncing on the ginger’s back and had rammed the kid’s face into the pavement. Oh, crap.

The weenie was crying.

“Yeah, scram.” Bull rolled off, and the ginger ran.

Caz was fighting pimple-face and, shit, using one of his knives!

Coming from behind, Gabe bashed the bike into the teen. Bleeding already—go, Caz!—the teen staggered back and ran after his wannabe gang.

Gabe scowled. “Put those knives away before someone sees them.”

Slicker than snot, Caz made the knives disappear.

Bull snorted. If he’d been littler, he’d want knives, too. And Caz could sure work those blades.

“Fighting, huh?” The deep gravelly voice made Bull jump and spin.

Mako stood right behind him. The big-shouldered man used to be in the military and was hard as steel. His blue eyes saw everything.

Fuck.

He’d promised he would keep them till they were grown up. Maybe they shouldn’t’ve got in a fight the first time he brought them to town.

Tensing, Bull backed up until his shoulder was against Gabe’s. Caz was on Gabe’s other side, and after a second, Hawk wiped the blood from his mouth and stood next to Bull.

They’d done okay, Bull decided, against all those bigger kids. Felt kinda good.

Gabe looked Mako straight in the face. “They were picking on Hawk and Caz. That’s not right.”

“No, it’s not.” Mako eyed the street. The teens had disappeared. “Doubt they’ll try it again.”

Bull folded his arms over his chest. “Cuz we won.”

“You did.” The sarge actually grinned. “You’ll do even better when you learn to work together.”

They all looked at each other. Together?

Maybe.

“You got a fat lip, boy.” Mako slapped Hawk’s shoulder. “An ice pack’d help—but winning a fight deserves ice cream.”

They all grinned—even Hawk, although it made his lip bleed more.

A bit later, with a strawberry ice cream cone, Bull sat with the others at a patio table outside. It was a cool town. The sea gulls strutted around at their feet, begging for food and acting like clowns. Big planters had dark blue and yellow flowers matching the colors of the flag hanging overhead from a light pole.

While Bull slowly licked his ice cream, Mako told them to guess stuff about the people who walked past. What they did for a living. If they were good people. If they could fight.

Bull pointed his chin at a guy in mud-covered clothes who was leaning on a lamppost. “Homeless, no job, asshole, probably he’d fall over if he tried to fight.”

Mako snorted. “You’re seeing the dirt and the clothes. Look past that shit, boy.”

Bull scowled.

“He’s wearing fancy cowboy boots. Good ones.” Gabe tilted his head. “An’ his jeans ’n’ shirt aren’t new, but not cheap, either.”

Mako nodded. “Better. Keep going.”

“Got knife in boot,” Caz said.

Bull blinked, and yeah, there was a hilt at the top. So much for being worthless in a fight.

A big pickup pulled up to the curb. The big shell on the back had ten tiny doors in it, and dogs were whining behind them.

The guy climbed into the passenger side and leaned over to kiss a really hot woman.

Mako said, “He owns the sports store. He and his wife aren’t millionaires, but well enough off. That’s a dog truck, and he’s muddy from training his new sled-dog team, fixin’ to race them. Probably took himself a spill.”

“Crap,” Bull muttered. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Exactly. Learn to see past the surface—with men and women. It’ll save you a world of hurt.”

Hurt. Bull turned away, mouth tight. If Dad had really seen the restaurant owner who wanted him, maybe he’d have stayed away from her. Maybe he’d still be alive.

And Bull wouldn’t be in Alaska with a bunch of strangers.

Chapter One

It is not your outward appearance that you should beautify, but your soul, adorning it with good works. ~ Clement of Alexandria

“I’ll speak to the stylist about her schedule and see if she can fit in more time for you,” Frankie Bocelli told the woman in the doorway, who was afraid the newer and younger models were getting more attention from the stylist than she was.

Che cavolo. What the heck? How petty. Typing a reminder to follow through, Frankie put a stranglehold on her mouth. She must be polished and gracious. Always. No matter what.

Besides, fighting amongst the models was to be expected. To them, hair and makeup stylists were as important as her organizational software was to her. So, don’t be judgy.

“Thanks, Francesca.”

Francesca. Ugh. “You’re very welcome.” Watching the model strut out of the office, Frankie rubbed her face. Why in the world was she so grumpy these days? It seemed as if everything irritated her recently—although her annoyance with her given name was long-standing.

Fran-chess-kah. Could anything sound fussier? And it had so many letters. In preschool, she’d still been printing her endless name as the short-named classmates like Eve and Ann headed out to play.

In elementary school, hadn’t she just adored being called Frankenstein or Frankfurter? Not. But it was worse when her breasts appeared, and the boys took to calling her Chesty. Really, her breasts were awesome—thank you, Italian genes—but at the time, well…

Things changed when she started college. Her new friends decided her stuffy name didn’t suit her, and her roommate, Kirsten—Kit—dubbed her Frankie. When everyone started calling her Frankie, her world expanded.

Names were important, a kind of acknowledgment. “I see you.” Being called the wrong name constantly felt like a slow erosion of her identity.

But after graduation, she’d fulfilled her parents’ expectations and returned to work in the family business. Mama insisted her daughter mustn’t be called something as masculine-sounding as Frankie. No matter what Frankie wanted, she’d be known by the name on her birth certificate.

Lucky me. Needing a moment, Frankie walked over to water the plants that lined her window. The African violets were blooming in bright lavenders and pinks as if to urge her to cheer up. Beside them were two plants her bestie had given her—a so-called “money” plant and one to clean the air. Kit was all about useful plants.

From outside came the low hum of traffic, punctuated by honks and beeps. New York cabbies loved their horns.

She braced her hands on the sill. Through the drizzling rain on the glass, her tenth-floor office window gave a dreary view of skyscrapers. Spring was late arriving in New York.

The gray, smoggy sky suited her mood.

However, moods could be improved by food—and she had something to eat. She’d bribed one of the gofers to get her a Shake Shack burger.

Back at her desk, Frankie opened the sack and grabbed a crinkle-cut fry. Yum.

“Francesca, I need your help.” Birgit, her oldest sister, entered with the signature catwalk strut that’d made her famous. A second later, she reclined in a chair in such a perfect picture of anguish that there should have been a violin accompaniment.

“What’s up?” With a sigh, Frankie set her burger to one side. Alas, it’d be cold by the time she got to eat it.

Her sister gave the food an appalled look. “You can’t seriously be planning to eat that disgusting monstrosity. Think of your hips. You’re already way too—”

“You don’t have to eat it.” My burger. Mine, mine, mine.

“Come to my exercise class tonight. It’s weightlifting and aerobic dance. That’ll sweat the pounds away.” Birgit patted her concave stomach.

Honestly, my family. All of them obsessed with schedules and nutrition and exercise.

“I prefer my aikido classes, thanks.” Way back in grade school, she’d won a rare battle with Mama and was allowed to take aikido instead of following her oh-so-graceful older sisters into dance classes. “And I jog, too.”

At Birgit’s skeptical expression, Frankie smirked. “Just yesterday, in fact.”

A friend’s crazy kids loved to fly drones. Unfortunately, the so-called drone obstacle avoidance stuff didn’t always work, and there were plenty of drone-meets-light pole crashes. She’d gotten plenty of exercise while chasing after the silly machines.

“Stunning bodies take dedication, Francesca,” Birgit said.

Don’t roll your eyes; don’t roll your eyes. Both of Frankie’s siblings approached exercise like a nun would the rosary. Why couldn’t Mama have been a lawyer or doctor? Or a farmer. Farming would be cool.

But nooo. Norwegian and gorgeous, Mama had been a top model, married her favorite fashion photographer, the Bocelli, and opened a modeling agency.

Birgit and Anja resembled Mama and were models.

Frankie, the baby of the family, got Papà’s Italian DNA. Brown eyes, brown hair, and big breasts. At least she’d managed to be five-six, or she would’ve felt like a Hobbit. Papà’s mama was only five-one.

“Really,” her sister continued, “you need to get into HIIT and alternate that with Pilates and—”

“Birgit.” Years of experience let Frankie interrupt the rant. “What was it you needed?”

“Oh, darling.” Birgit sat up. “You have to help me. Tomorrow, I have a fitting for an exercise clothing shoot, but there’s an afternoon reception for that new Vogue photographer, and I want to go. Can’t you talk with the wardrobe stylist and get her to move the time? She’s a self-centered putz, but everybody listens to you.”

Frankie smothered a sigh. Despite the fancy “human resources coordinator” title, her job was basically running around and making sure everything went smoothly, even though problems should really be handled by the models’ agents. Even worse, her siblings always came to her, rather than their handlers.

“Let me give Alsace a call and see if we can slide the fitting forward an hour. I’ll arrange a driver, so you won’t have to wait for a taxi.”

“Perfect. Thanks, sis.”

“Sure.”

Birgit sauntered out of the room, her predatory runway strut so much a part of her that she probably couldn’t walk normally at this point. The high heels on her feet brought her height to well over six feet.

Just looking at those shoes hurt. Frankie wiggled her toes. No matter what Mama thought about dressing up and wearing makeup to enhance an image, Frankie stuck to professional, but comfortable. There was a benefit to being in administration rather than on the catwalk.

Before she could start on her lunch, two more models stopped in for advice on dealing with an overly handsy agent.

Then a male model got sent to her office to discuss his temper, which was causing problems with…oh, just about everyone. After a chat, she gave him a card for a therapist who understood the odd stresses of the modeling profession.

He scowled. “This’ll ruin my rep.”

“Hey, this is New York.” Frankie motioned to the skyscrapers outside the window—probably still a great sight to someone from Nebraska. “Everyone’s in therapy.”

His lips curved, and he grinned reluctantly. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Francesca.”

“Sure.”

Before she could snatch a bite, a new model stopped in, an eighteen-year-old who was having problems coping. So young.

Frankie dealt out her usual advice—having friends elsewhere and cultivating hobbies. If a person’s only form of validation came from her career, then any upset in the job world could be devastating. Someone with a variety of interests could shrug off an ugly comment about her appearance by thinking, maybe I messed this up, but I’m a good cook and great with people and can beat anyone at Monopoly.

Once the girl was settled and thinking more clearly, Frankie rearranged schedules and recruited an older model who agreed to serve as mentor.

The office empty again, she glanced at her burger. Cold. Yuck.

Oh, well. Ruined lunch or not, she did enjoy keeping people happy and making things run smoothly. This was what she was good at.

What her family needed from her.

“Baby, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve seen today.” The silky-smooth voice from down the hall was all too recognizable—as was the line. Her ex-husband was trying to con another woman in his quest to get to the top.

Giggles, murmurs.

Wanting to gag, she considered shutting her door. Trying to warn Jaxson’s newest target wouldn’t work—Frankie would simply be considered a vindictive ex. Then again, if he hadn’t had an ironclad contract with Bocelli’s, she really would have asked Mama to show him the door. So, yes, maybe she was a little bit vindictive.

Stopping in the doorway, Jaxson gave her a patronizing smile. He knew he was drop-dead gorgeous and could have any woman in the world.

Except her, at this point.

These days, oh-so-perfect males froze her emotions like a midwinter blizzard.

“Did you need something, Jaxson?”

“Love, Francesca, I need love.” His voice was raised enough for his latest conquest to hear.

She snorted. “I think you’re getting adoration mixed up with love. Buy a dictionary.”

He scowled, then spotted her lunch. “Pitiful. You know, if you’d go on a diet, fix yourself up, you might get a little love—or even adoration. Try it some time.”

“Really?” she cooed in a breathy voice. “You really think so?”

Before he could respond, she gave him a thin smile and turned her attention to her in-basket. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

With a grumble that sounded insulting, he disappeared.

She shook her head. Not your best moment, Frankie. She didn’t usually let his slurs or her family’s obsession with appearance make her feel like the ugly runt of the litter.

No, she wasn’t up to model standards, but she didn’t want to be a model. I’m healthy, pretty, have a lovely, lush body, gorgeous hair and eyes, and even better, a marvelous personality.

Exactly so. Now move on.

Exasperated with herself, she tossed the cold burger and fries into the wastebasket and returned to perusing her mail.

Announcements. Office supplies. Schedule changes. Usually applications and resumes went to Mama, but, currently, Frankie received the business-related ones. If she ever wanted a vacation, she would need an assistant who could take her place, not a shared admin. Right now, anytime she mentioned time off, everyone in her family insisted she couldn’t be spared. That she was needed there, making things work right and smoothing over the entitled-diva messes.

Frowning, she picked up the last piece of mail. Addressed to Francesca Bocelli, care of The Bocelli Agency.

Frankie,

I need help so bad.

I’m trapped. Obadiah joined a militia—the Patriot Zealots—and brought us into their compound. He won’t let me leave. In fact, we moved someplace even more isolated—Rescue, Alaska.

You were right, Frankie; he was such a mistake. He’s getting meaner, and he lets the leaders—

The rest of the sentence was blotted out.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!