Seal Team Ten-Tall Dark and Dangerous 1

Seal Team Ten by Suzanne Brockmann 1 - Prince Joe 2 - Forever Blue 3 - Frisco’s Kid 4 - Everyday, Average Jones 5 - Harvard’s Education (1998) 6 - It Came Upon A Midnight Clear (1998) 7 - The Admiral's Bride (1999) 8 - Identity: Unknown (1999) 9 - Get Lucky (2000) 10 - Taylor’s Temptation (2001)

1 - Prince Joe

For Eric Ruben, my swim buddy.

Prologue Baghdad, January 1991 Friendly fire. It was called friendly because it came from U.S. bombers and missile launchers, but it sure as hell didn't feel friendly to Navy SEAL Lieutenant Joe Catalanotto, as it fell from the sky like deadly rain. Friendly or not, an American bomb was still a bomb, and it would indiscriminately destroy anything in its path. Anything, or anyone, between the U.S. Air Force bombers and their military targets was in serious danger. And SEAL Team Ten's seven-man Alpha Squad was definitely between the bombers and their targets. They were deep behind enemy lines, damn near sitting on top of a factory known to manufacture ammunition. Joe Catalanotto, commander of the Alpha Squad, glanced up from the explosives he and Blue and Cowboy were rigging against the Ustanzian Embassy wall. The city was lit up all around them, fires and explosions hellishly illuminating the night sky. It seemed unnatural, unreal. Except it was real. Damn, it was way real. It was dangerous with a capital D. Even if Alpha Squad wasn't hit by friendly fire, Joe and his men ran the risk of bumping into a platoon of enemy soldiers. Hell, if they were captured, commando teams like the SEALs were often treated like spies and executed—after being tortured for information. But this was their job. This was what Navy SEALs were trained to do. And all of Joe's men in Alpha Squad performed their tasks with clockwork precision and cool confidence. This wasn't the first time they'd had to perform a rescue mission in a hot war zone. And it sure as hell wasn't going to be the last. Joe started to whistle as he handled the plastic explosives, and Cowboy—otherwise known as Ensign Harlan Jones from Fort Worth, Texas— looked up in disbelief. "Cat works better when he's whistling," Blue explained to Cowboy over his headset microphone. "Drove me nuts all through training—until I got used to it. You do get used to it." "Terrific," Cowboy muttered, handing Joe part of the fuse. His hands were shaking. Joe glanced up at the younger man. Cowboy was new to the squad. He was scared, but he was fighting that fear, his jaw tight and his teeth clenched. His hands might be shaking, but the kid was doing his job—he was sticking it out. Cowboy glared back at Joe, daring him to comment. So of course, Joe did. "Air raids make you clausty, huh, Jones?" he said. He had to shout to be heard. Sirens were wailing and bells were ringing and antiaircraft fire was hammering all over Baghdad. And of course there was also the brain-deafening roar of the American bombs that were vaporizing entire city blocks all around them. Yeah, they were in the middle of a damned war. Cowboy opened his mouth to speak, but Joe didn't let him. "I know how you're feeling," Joe shouted as he put the finishing touches on the explosives that would drill one mother of a hole into the embassy foundation. "Give me a chopper jump into cold water, give me a parachute drop from thirty thousand feet, give me a fourteen-mile swim hell, give me hand-to-hand with a religious zealot. But this... I gotta tell you, kid, inserting into Baghdad with these hundred-pounders falling through the sky is making me a little clausty myself." Cowboy snorted. "Clausty?" he said. "You? Shoot, Mr. Cat, if there's anything on earth you're afraid of, they haven't invented it yet." "Working with nukes," Joe said. "That sure as hell gives me the creeps." "Me, too," Blue chimed in. The kid wasn't impressed. "You guys know a SEAL who isn't freaked out by disarming nuclear weapons, and I'll show you someone too stupid to wear the trident pin." "All done," Joe said, allowing himself a tight smile of satisfaction. They'd blow this hole open, go in, grab the civilians and be halfway to the extraction point before ten minutes had passed. And it wouldn't be a moment too soon. What he'd told Ensign Jones was true. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but he hated air raids. Blue McCoy stood and hand-signaled a message to the rest of the team, in case they'd missed hearing Joe's announcement in the din. The ground shook as a fifty-pound bomb landed in the neighborhood, and Blue met Joe's eyes and grinned as Cowboy swore a blue streak. Joe laughed and lit the fuse. "Thirty seconds," he told Blue, who held up the right number of fingers for the rest of the SEALs to see. The squad scrambled to the other side of the street for cover. When a bomb is about to go off, Joe thought, there's always a moment, sometimes just a tiny one, when everything seems to slow down and wait. He looked at the familiar faces of his men, and he could see the adrenaline that pumped through them in their eyes, in the set of their mouths and

jaws. They were good men, and as always, he was going to do his damnedest to see that they got out of this city alive. Forget alive—he was going to get them out of this hellhole untouched. Joe didn't need to look at the second hand on his watch. He knew it was coming, despite the fact that time had seemed to slow down and stretch wa-a-a-ay out.... Boom. It was a big explosion, but Joe barely heard it over the sounds of the other, more powerful explosions happening all over the city. Before the dust even settled, Blue was on point, leading the way across the war-torn street, alert for snipers and staying low. He went headfirst into the neat little crater they had blown into the side of the Ustanzian Embassy. Harvard was on radio, and he let air support know they were going in. Joe was willing to bet big money that the air force was too busy to pay Alpha Squad any real attention. But Harvard was doing his job, same as the rest of the SEALs. They were a team. Seven men—seven of the armed forces' best and brightest—trained to work and fight together, to the death if need be. Joe followed Blue and Bobby into the embassy basement. Cowboy came in after, leaving Harvard and the rest of the team guarding their backsides. It was darker than hell inside. Joe slipped his night-vision glasses on just in time. He narrowly missed running smack into Bobby's back and damn near breaking his nose on the shotgun the big man wore bolstered along his spine. "Hold up," Bob signaled. He had his NVs on, too. So did Blue and Cowboy. They were alone down there, except for the spiders and snakes and whatever else was slithering along the hard dirt floor. "Damned layout's wrong. There's supposed to be a flight of stairs," Joe heard Blue mutter, and he stepped forward to take a look. Damn, they had a problem here. Joe pulled the map of the embassy from the front pocket of his vest, even though he'd long since memorized the basement's floor plan. The map in his hands was of an entirely different building than the one they were standing in. It was probably the Ustanzian Embassy in some other city, in some country on the other side of the damned globe. Damn! Someone had really screwed up here. Blue was watching him, and Joe knew his executive officer was thinking what he was thinking. The desk-riding genius responsible for securing the floor plan of this embassy was going to have a very bad day in about a week. Maybe less. Because the commander and XO of SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad were going to pay him a little visit. But right now, they had a problem on their hands. There were three hallways, leading into darkness. Not a stairway in sight. " Wesley and Frisco," Blue ordered in his thick Southern drawl. "Get your butts in here, boys. We need split teams. Wes with Bobby. Frisco, stay with Cowboy. I'm with you, Cat." Swim buddies. Blue had read Joe's mind and done the smartest thing. With the exception of Frisco, who was babysitting the new kid, Cowboy, he'd teamed each man up with the guy he knew best—his swim buddy. In fact, Blue and Joe went back all the way to Hell Week. Guys who do Hell Week together—that excruciating weeklong torturous SEAL endurance test—stay tight. No question about it. Off they went, night-vision glasses still on, looking like some kind of weird aliens from outer space. Wesley and Bobby went left. Frisco and Cowboy took the right corridor. And Joe, with Blue close behind him, went straight ahead. They were silent now, and Joe could hear each man's quiet breathing over his headset's earphones. He moved slowly, carefully, checking automatically for booby traps or any hint of movement ahead. "Supply room," Joe heard Cowboy breathe into his headset's microphone. "Ditto," Bobby whispered. "We got canned goods and a wine cellar. No movement, no life." Joe caught sight of the motion the same instant Blue did. Simultaneously, they flicked the safeties of their MP5s down to full fire and dropped into a crouch. They'd found the stairs going up. And there, underneath the stairs, scared witless and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, was the crown prince of Ustanzia, Tedric Cortere, using three of his aides as sandbags. “Don't shoot," Cortere said in four or five different languages, his hands held high above his head. Joe straightened, but he kept his gun raised until he saw all four pairs of hands were empty. Then he pulled his NVs from his face, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim red glow of a penlight Blue had pulled from his pocket.

"Good evening, Your Royal Highness," he said. "I am Navy SEAL Lieutenant Joe Catalanotto, and I'm here to get you out." "Contact," Harvard said into the radio, having heard Joe's royal greeting to the prince via his headset. "We have made contact. Repeat, we have picked up luggage and are heading for home plate." That was when Joe heard Blue laugh. "Cat," the XO drawled. "Have you looked at this guy? I mean, Joe, have you really looked?" A bomb hit about a quarter mile to the east, and Prince Tedric tried to burrow more deeply in among his equally frightened aides. If the prince had been standing, he would have been about Joe's height, maybe a little shorter. He was wearing a torn white satin jacket, reminiscent of an Elvis impersonator. The garment was amazingly tacky. It was adorned with gold epaulets, and there was an entire row of medals and ribbons on the chest—for bravery under enemy fire, no doubt. His pants were black, and grimy with soot and dirt. But it wasn't the prince's taste in clothing that made Joe's mouth drop open. It was the man's face. Looking at the Crown Prince of Ustanzia was like looking into a mirror. His dark hair was longer than Joe's, but beyond that, the resemblance was uncanny. Dark eyes, big nose, long face, square jaw, heavy cheekbones. The guy looked exactly like Joe.

Chapter 1 A few years later Washington, D.C. All of the major network news cameras were rolling as Tedric Cortere, crown prince of Ustanzia, entered the airport. A wall of ambassadors, embassy aides and politicians moved forward to greet him, but the prince paused for just a moment, taking the time to smile and wave a greeting to the cameras. He was following her instructions to the letter. Veronica St. John, professional image and media consultant, allowed herself a sigh of relief. But only a small one, because she knew Tedric Cortere very well, and he was a perfectionist. There was no guarantee that Prince Tedric, the brother of Veronica's prep-school roommate and very best friend in the world, was going to be satisfied with what he saw tonight on the evening news. Still, he would have every right to be pleased. It was day one of his United States goodwill tour, and he was looking his best, oozing charm and royal manners, with just enough blue-blooded arrogance thrown in to captivate the royalty-crazed American public. He was remembering to gaze directly into the news cameras. He was keeping his eye movements steady and his chin down. And, heaven be praised, for a man prone to anxiety attacks, he was looking calm and collected for once. He was giving the news teams exactly what they wanted— a close-up picture of a gracious, charismatic, fairy-tale-handsome European prince. Bachelor. She'd forgotten to add "bachelor" to the list. And if Veronica knew Americans—and she did; it was her business to know Americans— millions of American women would watch the evening news tonight and dream of becoming a princess. There was nothing like fairy-tale fever among the public to boost relations between two governments. Fairy-tale fever—and the recently discovered oil that lay beneath the parched, gray Ustanzian soil. But Tedric wasn't the only one playing to the news cameras this morning. As Veronica watched, United States Senator Sam Mc-Kinley flashed his gleaming white teeth in a smile so falsely genuine and so obviously aimed at the reporters, it made her want to laugh. But she didn't laugh. If she'd learned one thing during her childhood and adolescence as the daughter of an international businessman who moved to a different and often exotic country every year or so, she'd learned that diplomats and high government officials—particularly royalty—take themselves very, very seriously. So, instead of laughing, she bit the insides of her cheeks as she stopped several respectful paces behind the prince, at the head of the crowd of assistants and aides and advisers who were part of his royal entourage. "Your Highness, on behalf of the United States Government," McKinley drawled in his thick Texas accent, shaking the prince's hand, and dripping with goodwill, "I'd like to welcome you to our country's capital." "I greet you with the timeless honor and tradition of the Ustanzian flag,” Prince Tedric said formally in his faintly British, faintly French accent, "which is woven, as well, into my heart." It was his standard greeting; nothing special, but it went over quite well with the crowd. McKinley started in on a longer greeting, and Veronica let her attention wander. She could see herself in the airport's reflective glass windows, looking cool in her cream-colored suit, her flame-red hair pulled neatly back into a French braid. Tall and slender and serene, her image wavered slightly as a jet plane took off, thundering down the runway. It was an illusion. Actually, she was giddy with nervous excitement, a condition brought about by the stress of knowing that if Tedric didn't follow her instructions and ended up looking bad on camera, she'd be the one to blame. Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades, another side effect of the stress she was under. No, she felt neither cool nor serene, regardless of how she looked. She had been hired because her friend, Princess Wila, knew that Veronica was struggling to get her fledgling consulting business off the ground. Sure, she'd done smaller, less detailed jobs before, but this was the first one in which the stakes were so very high. If Veronica succeeded with Tedric Cortere, word would get out, and she'd have more business than she could handle. If she succeeded with Cortere... But Veronica had also been hired for another reason. She'd been hired because Wila, concerned about Ustanzia's economy, recognized the importance of this tour. Despite the fact that teaching Wila's brother, the high-strung Prince of Ustanzia, how to appear calm and relaxed while under the watchful eyes of the TV news cameras was Veronica's first major assignment as an image and media consultant, Wila trusted her longtime friend implicitly to get the job done. "I'm counting on you, Veronique," Wila had said to Veronica over the telephone just last night. She had added with her customary frankness, "This American connection is too important. Don't let Tedric screw this up." So far Tedric was doing a good job. He looked good. He sounded good. But it was too early for Veronica to let herself feel truly satisfied. It was her job to make sure that the prince continued to look and sound good. Tedric didn't particularly like his younger sister's best friend, and the feeling was mutual. He was an impatient, short-tempered man, and rather used to getting his own way. Very used to getting his own way.

Veronica could only hope he would see today's news reports and recognize the day's success. If he didn't, she'd hear about it, that was for sure. Veronica knew quite well that over the course of the prince's tour of the United States she was going to earn every single penny of her consultant's fee. Because although Tedric Cortere was princely in looks and appearance, he was also arrogant and spoiled. And demanding. And often irrational. And occasionally, not very nice. Oh, he knew his social etiquette. He was in his element when it came to pomp and ceremony, parties and other social posturing. He knew all there was to know about clothing and fashion. He could tell Japanese silk from American with a single touch. He was a wine connoisseur and a gourmet. He could ride horses and fence, play polo and water-ski. He hired countless aides and advisers to dance attendance upon him, and provide him with both his most trivial desires and the important information he needed to get by as a representative of his country. As Veronica watched, Tedric shook the hands of the U.S. officials. He smiled charmingly and she could practically hear the sound of the news cameras zooming in for a close-up. The prince glanced directly into the camera lenses and let his smile broaden. Spoiled or not, with his trim, athletic body and handsome face, the man was good-looking. Good-looking? No, Veronica thought. To call him good-looking wasn't accurate. Quite honestly, the prince was gorgeous. He was a piece of art. He had long, thick, dark hair that curled down past his shoulders. His face was long and lean with exotic cheekbones that hinted of his mother's Mediterranean heritage. His eyes were the deepest brown, surrounded by sinfully long lashes. His jaw was square, his nose strong and masculine. But Veronica had known Tedric since she was fifteen and he was nineteen. Naturally, she'd developed a full-fledged crush on him quite early on, but it hadn't taken her long to realize that the prince was nothing like his cheerful, breezy, lighthearted yet business-minded sister. Tedric was, in fact, quite decidedly dull—and enormously preoccupied with his appearance. He had spent endless amounts of time in front of a mirror, sending Wila and Veronica into spasms of giggles as he combed his hair, flexed his muscles and examined his perfect, white teeth. Still, Veronica's crush on Prince Tedric hadn't truly crashed and burned until she'd had a conversation with him—and seen that beneath his facade of princely charm and social skills, behind his handsome face and trim body, deep within his dark brown eyes, there was nothing there. Nothing she was interested in, anyway. Although she had to admit that to this day, her romantic vision of a perfect man was someone tall, dark and handsome. Someone with wide, exotic cheekbones and liquid brown eyes. Someone who looked an awful lot like Crown Prince Tedric, but with a working brain in his head and a heart that loved more than his own reflection in the mirror. She wasn't looking for a prince. In fact, she wasn't looking, period. She had no time for romance—at least, not until her business started to turn a profit. As the military band began to play a rousing rendition of the Ustanzian national anthem, Veronica glanced again at their blurry images in the window. A flash of light from the upper-level balcony caught her eye. That was odd. She'd been told that airport personnel would be restricting access to the second floor as a security measure. She turned her head to look up at the balcony and realized with a surge of disbelief that the flash she'd seen was a reflection of light bouncing off the long barrel of a rifle—a rifle aimed directly at Tedric. "Get down!" Veronica shouted, but her voice was drowned out by the trumpets. The prince couldn't hear her. No one could hear her. She ran toward Prince Tedric and all of the U.S. dignitaries, well aware that she was running toward, not away from, the danger. A thought flashed crazily through her head—This was not a man worth dying for. But she couldn't stand by and let her best friend's brother be killed. Not while she had the power to prevent it. As a shot rang out, Veronica hit Tedric bone-jarringly hard at waist level and knocked him to the ground. It was a rugby tackle that would have made her brother Jules quite proud. She bruised her shoulder, tore her nylons and scraped both of her knees when she fell. But she saved the crown prince of Ustanzia's life. When Veronica walked into the hotel conference room, it was clear the meeting had been going on for quite some time. Senator McKinley was sitting at one end of the big oval conference table with his jacket off, his tie loosened, and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Henri Freder, the U.S. ambassador to Ustanzia, sat on one side of him. Another diplomat and several other men whom Veronica didn't recognize sat on the other. Men in dark suits stood at the doors and by the windows, watchful and alert. They were FInCOM agents, Veronica realized, high-tech bodyguards from the Federal Intelligence Commission, sent to protect the prince. But why were they involved? Was Prince Tedric's life still in danger? Tedric was at the head of the table, surrounded by a dozen aides and advisers. He had a cold drink in front of him, and was lazily drawing designs in the condensation on the glass. As Veronica entered the room, Tedric stood, and the entire tableful of men followed suit. "Someone get a seat for Ms. St. John," the prince ordered sharply in his odd accent. "Immediately."

One of the lesser aides quickly stepped away from his own chair and offered it to Veronica. "Thank you," she said, smiling at the young man. "Sit down," the prince commanded her, stony-faced, as he returned to his seat. "I have an idea, but it cannot be done without your cooperation.” Veronica gazed steadily at the prince. After she'd tackled him earlier today, he'd been dragged away to safety. She hadn't seen or heard from him since. At the time, he hadn't bothered to thank her for saving his life—-and apparently he had no intention of doing so now. She was working for him, therefore she was a servant. He would have expected her to save him. In his mind, there was no need for gratitude. But she wasn't a servant. In fact, she'd been the maid of honor last year when his sister married Veronica's brother, Jules. Veronica and the prince were practically family, yet Tedric still insisted she address him as "Your Highness," or "Your Majesty." She sat down, pulling her chair in closer to the table, and the rest of the men sat, too. "I have a double," the prince announced. "An American. It is my idea for him to take my place throughout the remaining course of the tour, thus ensuring my safety." Veronica sat forward. "Excuse me, Your Highness," she said. "Please forgive my confusion. Is your safety still an issue?" She looked down the table at Senator McKinley. "Wasn't the gunman captured?" McKinley ran his tongue over his front teeth before he answered. "I'm afraid not," he finally replied. "And the Federal Intelligence Commission has reason to believe the terrorists will make another attempt on the prince's life during the course of the next few weeks." "Terrorists?" Veronica repeated, looking from McKinley to the ambassador and finally at Prince Tedric. "FInCOM has ID'd the shooter," McKinley answered. "He's a well-known triggerman for a South American terrorist organization." Veronica shook her head. "Why would South American terrorists want to kill the Ustanzian crown prince?" The ambassador took off his glasses and tiredly rubbed his eyes. "Quite possibly in retaliation for Ustanzia's new alliance with the U.S.," he said. "FInCOM tells us these particular shooters don't give up easily," McKinley said. "Even with souped-up security, FInCOM expects they'll try again. What we're looking to do is find a solution to this problem." Veronica laughed. It slipped out—she couldn't help herself. The solution was so obvious. "Cancel the tour." "Can't do that," McKinley drawled. Veronica looked down the other side of the table at Prince Tedric. He, for once, was silent. But he didn't look happy. "There's too much riding on the publicity from this event," Senator McKinley explained. "You know as well as I do that Ustanzia needs U.S. funding to get their oil wells up and running." The heavyset man leaned back in his chair, tapping the eraser end of a pencil on the mahogany table. "But the prospect of competitively priced oil isn't enough to secure the size funds they need," he continued, dropping the pencil and running his hand through his thinning gray hair. "And quite frankly, current polls show the public's concern for a little nothing country like Ustanzia—beg pardon, Prince—to be zilch. Hardly anyone knows who the Ustanzians are, and the folks who do know about 'em don't want to give 'em any of their tax dollars, that's for sure as shootin'. Not while there's so much here at home to spend the money on." Veronica nodded her head. She was well aware of everything he was saying. It was one of Princess Wila's major worries. "Besides," the senator added, “we can use this opportunity to nab this group of terrorists. And sister, if they're who we think they are, we want 'em. Bad." "But if you know for a fact that there'll be another assassination attempt... ?" Veronica looked down the table at Tedric. "Your Majesty, how can you risk placing yourself in such danger?" Tedric crossed his legs. "I have no intention of placing myself in any danger whatsoever," he said. "In fact, I will remain here, in Washington, in a safe house, until all danger has passed. The tour, however, will continue as planned, with this lookalike fellow taking my place." Suddenly the prince's earlier words made sense. He'd said he had a double, someone who looked just like him. He'd said this person was an American. "This man," McKinley asked. "What was his name, sir?" The prince shrugged—a slow, eloquent gesture. "How should I remember? Joe. Joe Something. He was a soldier. An American soldier." "'Joe Something," McKinley repeated, exchanging a quick, exasperated look with the diplomat on his left. "A soldier named Joe. Should only be about fifteen thousand men in the U.S. armed forces named Joe." The ambassador on McKinley's right leaned forward. "Your Highness," he said patiently, "when did you meet this man?" "He was one of the soldiers who assisted in my escape from the embassy in Baghdad," Tedric replied.

"A Navy SEAL," the ambassador murmured to McKinley. "We should have no problem locating him. If I remember correctly, only one seven-man team participated in that rescue mission." "SEAL?" Veronica asked, sitting up and leaning forward. "What's a SEAL?" "Part of the Special Forces Division," Senator McKinley told her. "They're the most elite special-operations force in the world. They can operate anywhere—on the sea, in the air and on the land, hence the name, SEALs. If this man who looks so much like the prince really is a SEAL, standing in as the prince's double will be a Cakewalk for him." "He was, however, quite unbearably lower-class," the prince said prudishly, sweeping some imaginary crumbs from the surface of the table. He looked at Veronica. "That is where you would come in. You will teach this Joe to look and act like a prince. We can delay the tour by—" he frowned down the table at McKinley "—a week, is that what you'd said?" "Two or three days at the very most, sir." The senator grimaced. "We can announce that you've come down with the flu, try to keep up public interest with reports of your health. But the fact is, after a few days, you'll no longer be news and the story will be dropped. You know what they say: Out of sight, out of mind. We can't let that happen." Two or three days. Two or three days to turn a rough American sailor—a Navy SEAL, whatever that really meant—into royalty. Who were they kidding? Senator McKinley picked up the phone to begin tracking down the mysterious Joe. Prince Tedric was watching Veronica expectantly. "Can you do it?" he asked. "Can you make this Joe into a prince?" "In two or three days?" Tedric nodded. "I'd have to work around the clock," Veronica said, thinking aloud. If she agreed to this crazy plan, she would have to be right beside this sailor, this SEAL, every single step of the way. She'd have to coach him continuously, and be ready to catch and correct his every mistake. "And even then, there'd be no guarantee" Tedric shrugged, turning back to Ambassador Freder. "She can't do it," he said flatly. "We will have to cancel. Arrange a flight back to—" "I didn't say I couldn't do it," Veronica interrupted, quickly adding, "Your Majesty." The prince turned back to her, one elegant eyebrow raised. Veronica could hear an echo of Wila's voice. "I'm counting on you, Veronique. This American connection is too important." If this tour were canceled, all of Wila's hopes for the future would evaporate. And Wila's weren't the only hopes that would be dashed. Veronica couldn't let herself forget that little girl waiting at Saint Mary's— "Well?" Tedric said impatiently. "All right," Veronica said. "I'll give it a try." Senator McKinley hung up the phone with a triumphant crash. "I think we've found our man," he announced with a wide smile. "His name's Navy Lieutenant Joseph P.—" he glanced down at a scrap of paper he'd taken some notes on "—Catalanotto. They're faxing me an ID photo right now." Veronica felt an odd flash of both hot and cold. Good God, what had she just done? What had she just agreed to? What if she couldn't pull it off? What if it couldn't be done? The fax alarm began to beep. Both the prince and Senator McKinley stood and crossed the spacious suite to where the fax machine was plugged in beneath a set of elegant bay windows. Veronica stayed in her seat at the table. If this job couldn't be done, she would be letting her best friend down. "My God," McKinley breathed as the picture was slowly printed out. "It doesn't seem possible." He tore the fax from the roll of paper and handed it to the prince. Silently, Tedric stared at the picture. Silently, he walked back across the room and handed the sheet of paper to Veronica. Except for the fact that the man in the picture was wearing a relaxed pair of military fatigues, with top buttons of the shirt undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, except for the fact that the man in the picture had dark, shaggy hair cut just a little below his ears, and the strap of a submachine gun slung over one shoulder, except for the fact that the camera had caught him mid-grin, with good humor and sharp intelligence sparkling in his dark eyes, the man in this picture could very well have been the crown prince of Us-tanzia. Or at the very least, he could have been the crown prince's brother. The crown prince's better-looking brother. He had the same nose, same cheekbones, same well-defined jawline and chin. But his front tooth was chipped. Of course, that was no problem. They could cap a tooth in a matter of hours, couldn't they?

He was bigger than Prince Tedric, this American naval lieutenant. Bigger and taller. Stronger. Rougher edged. Much, much more rough-edged, in every way imaginable. Good God, if this picture was any indication, Veronica was going to have to start with the basics with this man. She was going to have to teach him how to sit and stand and walk.... Veronica looked up to find Prince Tedric watching her. “Something tells me," he said in his elegant accent, "your work is cut out for you." Across the room, McKinley picked up the phone and dialed. "Yeah," he said into the receiver. "This is Sam McKinley. Senator Sam McKinley. I need a Navy SEAL by the name of Lieutenant Joseph—" he consulted his notes "—Catalanotto. Damn, what a mouthful. I need that lieutenant here in Washington, and I need him here yesterday."

Chapter 2 Joe lay on the deck of the rented boat, hands behind his head, watching the clouds. Puffs of blinding white in a crystal blue California sky, they were in a state of constant motion, always changing, never remaining the same. He liked that. It reminded him of his life, fluid and full of surprises. He never knew when a cream puff might turn unexpectedly into a ferocious dragon. But Joe liked it that way. He liked never knowing what was behind the door—the lady or the tiger. And certainly, since he'd been a SEAL, he'd had his share of both. But today there were neither ladies nor tigers to face. Today he was on leave—shore leave, it was called in the navy. Funny he should spend the one day of shore leave he had this month far from the shore, out on a fishing boat. Not that he'd spent very much time lately at sea. In fact, in the past few months, he'd been on a naval vessel exactly ninety-six hours. And that had been for training. Some of those training hours he'd spent as an instructor. But some of the time he'd been a student. That was all part of being a Navy SEAL. No matter your rank or experience, you always had to keep learning, keep training, keep on top of the new technology and methodology. Joe had achieved expert status in nine different fields, but those fields were always changing. Just like those clouds that were floating above him. Just the way he liked it. Across the deck of the boat, dressed in weekend grunge clothes similar to his own torn fatigues and ragged T-shirt, Harvard and Blue were arguing good-naturedly over who had gotten the most depressing letter from the weekly mail call. Joe himself hadn't gotten any mail—nothing besides bills, that is. Talk about depressing. Joe closed his eyes, letting the conversation float over him. He'd known Blue for eight years, Harvard for about six. Their voices—Blue's thick, south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-Line drawl and Harvard's nasal, upper-class-Boston accent—were as familiar to him as breathing. It still sometimes tickled him that out of their entire seven-man SEAL team, the man that Blue was closest to, after Joe himself, was Daryl Becker, nicknamed Harvard. Carter "Blue" McCoy and Daryl "Harvard" Becker. The "redneck" rebel and the Ivy League-educated Yankee black man. Both SEALs, both better than the best of the rest. And both aware that there was no such thing as prejudices and pre-judgments in the Navy SEALs. Out across the bay, the blue-green water sparkled and danced in the bright sunshine. Joe took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sharp salty air. "Oh, Lord," Blue said, turning to the second page of his letter. Joe turned toward his friend. "What?" "Gerry's getting married," Blue said, running his fingers through his sun-bleached blond hair. "To Jenny Lee Beaumont." Jenny Lee had been Blue's high school girlfriend. She was the only woman Blue had ever talked about—the only one special enough to mention. Joe exchanged a long look with Harvard. "Jenny Lee Beaumont, huh?" Joe said. "That's right." Blue nodded, his face carefully expressionless. "Gerry's gonna marry her. Next July. He wants me to be his best man." Joe swore softly. "You win," Harvard conceded. "Your mail was much more depressing than mine." Joe shook his head, grateful for his own lack of entanglement with a woman. Sure, he'd had girlfriends down through the years, but he'd never met anyone he couldn't walk away from. Not that he didn't like women, because he did. He certainly did. And the women he usually dated were smart and funny and as quick to shy away from permanent attachments as he was. He would see his current lady friend on occasional weekend leaves, and sometimes in the evenings when he was in town and free. But never, ever had he kissed a woman good-night—or good-morning, as was usually the case—then gone back to the base and sat around daydreaming about her the way Bob and Wesley had drooled over those college girls they'd met down in San Diego. Or the way Harvard had sighed over that Hawaiian marine biologist they'd met on Guam. What was her name? Rachel. Harvard still got that kicked-puppy look in his brown eyes whenever her name came up. The truth was, Joe had been lucky—he'd never fallen in love. And he was hoping his luck would hold. It would be just fine with him if he went through life without that particular experience, thank you very much.

Joe pushed the top off the cooler with one bare toe. He reached into the icy water to pull out a beer, then froze. He straightened, ears straining, eyes scanning the horizon to the east. Then he heard it again. The sound of a distant chopper. He shaded his eyes, looking out toward the California coastline, to where the sound was coming from. Silently, Harvard and Blue got to their feet, moving to stand next to him. Silently, Harvard handed Joe the binoculars that had been stowed in one of the equipment lockers. One swift turn of the dial brought the powerful lenses into focus. The chopper was only a small black dot, but it was growing larger with each passing second. It was undeniably heading directly toward them. "You guys wearing your pagers?" Joe asked, breaking the silence. He'd taken his own beeper off after it—and he—had gotten doused by a pailful of bait and briny seawater. Harvard nodded. "Yes, sir." He glanced down at the beeper he wore attached to his belt. "But I'm clear." "Mine didn't go off, either, Cat," Blue said. In the binoculars, the black dot took on a distinct outline. It was an army bird, a Black Hawk, UH-60A. Its cruising speed was about one hundred and seventy miles per hour. It was closing in on them, and fast. "Either of you in any trouble I should know about?" Joe asked. "No, sir," Harvard said. "Negative." Blue glanced at Joe. "How 'bout you, Lieutenant?" Joe shook his head, still watching the helicopter through the binoculars. "This is weird," Harvard said. "What kind of hurry are they in, they can't page us and have us motor back to the harbor?" "One damn big hurry," Joe said. God, that Black Hawk could really move. He pulled the binoculars away from his face as the chopper continued to grow larger. "It's not World War Three," Blue commented, his troubles with Jenny Lee temporarily forgotten. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the approaching helicopter. "If it was World War Three, they wouldn't waste a Hawk on three lousy SEALs." The chopper circled and then hovered directly above them. The sound of the blades was deafening, and the force of the wind made the little boat pitch and toss. All three men grabbed the railing to keep their footing. Then a scaling rope was thrown out the open door of the helicopter's cabin. It, too, swayed in the wind from the chopper blades, smacking Joe directly in the chest. "Lieutenant Joseph P. Catalanotto," a distorted voice announced over a loudspeaker. "Your shore leave is over." Veronica St. John went into her hotel suite, then leaned wearily back against the closed door. It was only nine o'clock—early by diplomatic standards. In fact, if things had gone according to schedule today, she would still have been at a reception for Prince Tedric over at the Ustanzian Embassy. But things had gone very much not according to schedule, starting with the assassination attempt at the airport. She'd gotten a call from the president of the United States, officially thanking her, on behalf of the American people, for saving Prince Tedric's life. She hadn't expected that. Too bad. If she'd been expecting the man in the White House to call, she might have been prepared to ask for his assistance in locating the personnel records of this mysterious navy lieutenant who looked so much like the crown prince of Ustanzia. Nobody, repeat nobody she had spoken to had been able to help her find the files she wanted. The Department of Defense sent her to the Navy. The Navy representatives told her that all SEAL records were in the Special Forces Division. The clerk from Special Forces was as clandestine and unhelpful as James Bond's personal assistant might have been. The woman wouldn't even verify that Joseph Catalanotto existed, let alone if the man's personnel files were in the U.S. Special Forces Office. Frustrated, Veronica had gone back to Senator McKinley, hoping that he could use his clout to get a fax of Catalanotto's files. But even the powerful senator was told that, for security reasons, personnel records for Navy SEALs were never, repeat never, sent via facsimile. It had been a major feat just getting them to fax a picture of the lieutenant. If McKinley wanted to see Joseph P. Catalanotto's personnel file, he would need to make a formal request, in writing. After the request was received, it would take a mandatory three days for the files to be censored for his—and Ms. St. John's— level of clearance. Three days. Veronica wasn't looking to find Lieutenant Catalanotto's deepest, darkest military secrets. All she wanted to know was where the man came from—

in which part of the country he'd grown up. She wanted to know his family background, his level of education, his IQ scores and the results of personality and psychological tests done by the armed forces. She wanted to know, quite frankly, how big an obstacle this Navy SEAL himself was going to be in getting the job done. So far, she only knew his name, that he looked like a rougher, wilder version of Tedric Cortere, that his shoulders were very broad, that he carried an M60 machine gun as if it were a large loaf of bread, and that he had a nice smile. She didn't have a clue as to whether she'd be able to fool the American public into thinking he was a European prince. Until she met this man, she couldn't even guess how much work transforming him was going to take. It would be better to try not to think about it. But if she didn't think about this job looming over her, she would end up thinking about the girl at Saint Mary's Hospital, a little girl named Cindy who had sent the prince a letter nearly four months ago—a letter Veronica had fished out of Tedric's royal wastebasket. In the letter, Cindy—barely even ten years old—had told Prince Tedric that she'd heard he was planning a trip to the United States. She had asked him, if he was going to be in the Washington, D.C., area, to please come and visit her since she was not able to come to see him. Veronica had ended up going above the prince—directly to King Derrick—and had gotten the visit to Saint Mary's on the official tour calendar. But now what? The entire tour would have to be rescheduled and re-planned, and Saint Mary's and little Cindy were likely to fall, ignored, between the cracks. Veronica smiled tightly. Not if she had anything to say about it. With a sigh, she kicked off her shoes. Lord, but she ached. Tackling royalty could really wear a person out, she thought, allowing herself a rueful smile. After the assassination attempt, she had run on sheer adrenaline for about six hours straight. After that had worn off, she'd kept herself fueled with coffee—hot, black and strong. Right now what she needed was a shower and a two-hour nap. She pulled her nightgown and robe out of the suitcase that she hadn't yet found time to unpack, and tossed them onto the bed as she all but staggered into the bathroom. She closed the door and turned on the shower as she peeled off her suit and the cream-colored blouse she wore underneath. She put a hole in her hose as she took them off, and threw them directly into the wastebasket. It had been a bona fide two-pairs-ofpanty-hose day. Her first pair, the ones she'd been wearing at the airport, had been totally destroyed. Veronica washed herself quickly, knowing that every minute she spent in the shower was a minute less that she'd be able to sleep. And with Lieutenant Joseph P. Catalanotto due to arrive anytime after midnight, she was going to need every second of that nap. Still, it didn't keep her from singing as she tried to rinse the aches and soreness from her back and shoulders. Singing in the shower was a childhood habit. Then, as now, the moments she spent alone in the shower were among the few bits of time she had to really kick back and let loose. She tested the acoustics of this particular bathroom with a rousing rendition of Mary Chapin Carpenter's latest hit. She shut off the water, still singing, and toweled herself dry. Her robe was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and she reached for it. And stopped singing, mid-note. She'd left her robe in the bedroom, on the bed. She hadn't hung it on the door. "No...you're right. You're not alone in here," said a husky male voice from the other side of the bathroom door.

Chapter 3 Veronica's heart nearly stopped beating, and she lunged for the door and turned the lock. "I figured you didn't know I was in your room," the voice continued as Veronica quickly slipped into her white terry-cloth bathrobe. "I also figured you probably wouldn't appreciate coming out of the bathroom with just a towel on—or less. Not with an audience, anyway. So I put your robe on the back of the door." Veronica tightened the belt and clutched the lapels of the robe more closely together. She took in a deep breath, then let it slowly out. It steadied her and kept her voice from shaking. "Who are you?" she asked. "Who are you?" the voice countered. It was rich, husky, and laced with more than a trace of blue-collar New York. "I was brought here and told to wait, so I waited. I've been hustled from one coast to the other like some Federal Express overnight package, only nobody has any explanations as to why or even who I'm waiting to see. I didn't even know my insertion point was the District of Columbia until the jet landed at Andrews. And as long as I'm complaining I might as well tell you that I'm tired, I'm hungry and my shorts have not man aged to dry in the past ten hours, a situation that makes me very, very cranky. I would damn near sell my soul to get into that shower that you just stepped out of. Other than that, I'm sure I'm very pleased to meet you." "Lieutenant Catalanotto?" Veronica asked. "Bingo," the voice said. "Babe, you just answered your own question." But had she? "What's your first name?" she asked warily. "Joe. Joseph." "Middle name?" "Paulo," he said. Veronica swung open the bathroom door. The first thing she noticed about the man was his size. He was big—taller than Prince Tedric by about two inches and outweighing him in sheer muscle by a good, solid fifty pounds. His dark hair was cut much shorter than Tedric's, and he had at least a two-day growth of beard darkening his face. He didn't look as exactly like the prince as she'd thought when she saw his photograph, Veronica realized, studying the man's face. On closer inspection, his nose was slightly different—it had been broken, probably more than once. And, if it was possible, this navy lieutenant's cheekbones were even more exotic-looking than Tedric's. His chin was slightly more square, more stubborn than the prince's. And his eyes... As he returned her inquisitive stare, his lids dropped halfway over his remarkable liquid brown eyes, as if he was trying to hide his innermost secrets from her. But those differences—even the size differences between the two men—were very subtle. They wouldn't be noticed by someone who didn't know Prince Tedric very well. Those differences certainly wouldn't be noticed by the array of ambassadors and diplomats Tedric was scheduled to meet. "According to the name tag on your suitcase, you've gotta be Veronica St. John, right?" he said, pronouncing her name the American way, as if it were two words, Saint and John. "Sinjin," she said distractedly. "You don't say Saint John, you say 'Sinjin.'" He was looking at her, examining her in much the same way that she'd looked at him. The intensity of his gaze made her feel naked. Which of course, underneath her robe, she was. But he didn't win any prizes himself for the clothing he was wearing. From the looks of it, his T-shirt had had its sleves forcibly removed without the aid of scissors, his army fatigues had been cut off into ragged shorts, and on his feet he wore a pair of dirty canvas deck shoes with no socks. He looked as if he hadn't showered in several days, and, Lord help her, he smelled that way, too. "Dear God," Veronica said aloud, taking in all of the little details she'd missed at first. He wasn't wearing a belt. Instead, a length of fairly thick rope was run through the belt loops in his pants, and tied in some kind of knot at the front. He had a tattoo—a navy anchor—on his left biceps. His fingers were blackened with stains of grease, his fingernails were short and rough—a far cry from Prince Tedric's carefully manicured hands. Lord, if she had to start by teaching this man the basics of personal hygiene, there was no way she'd have him impersonating a prince within her three-day deadline. "What?" he said with a scowl. Defensiveness tinged his voice and darkened his eyes. "I'm not what you expected?" She couldn't deny it. She'd expected the lieutenant to arrive wearing a dress uniform, stiff and starched and perfectly military—-and smelling a little more human and a little less like a real-life marine mammal-type seal. Wordlessly, she shook her head no. Joe gazed silently at the girl. She watched him, too, her eyes so wide and blue against the porcelain paleness of her skin. It was hard for him to tell the color of her hair—it was wet. It clung, damp and dark, to the sides of her head and neck. Red, he guessed. It was probably some shade of red, maybe even strawberry blond, probably curly. Yet, if there really was a God and He was truly righteous, she would have nondescript straight hair, maybe the color of mud. It didn't seem fair that this girl should have wealth, a powerful job,

refined manners, a pair of beautiful blue eyes and curly red hair. Without makeup, her face looked alarmingly young. Her features were delicate, almost fragile. She wasn't particularly pretty, at least not in the conventional sense. But her cheekbones were high, showcasing enormous crystal blue eyes. And her lips were exquisitely shaped, her nose small and elegant. No, she wasn't pretty. But she was incredibly attractive in a way he couldn't even begin to explain. The robe she wore was too big for her. It drew attention to her slight frame, accentuating her slender wrists and ankles. She looked like a kid playing dress up in her mommy's clothes. Funny, from the cut and style of the business suits that had been neatly packed in her suitcase, Joe had expected this Veronica St. John—or "Sinjin," as she'd pronounced it with her slightly British, extremely monied upper-class accent—to be, well... less young. He'd expected someone in their mid-forties at least, maybe even older. But this girl couldn't be a day over twenty-five. Hell, standing here like this, just out of the shower, still dripping wet, she barely looked sixteen. "You aren't what I expected, either," Joe said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "So I guess that makes us even." He knew he was making her nervous, sitting there like that. He knew she was nervous about him getting the bedspread dirty, nervous about him leaving behind the lingering odor of dead fish—bait from the smelly bucket Blue had knocked over earlier that morning. Hell, he was nervous about it himself. And damn, but that made him angry. This girl was somehow responsible for dragging him away from his shore leave. She was somehow responsible for the way he'd been rushed across the country without a shower or a change of clothes. Hell, it was probably her fault that he was in this five-star hotel wearing his barnacle-scraping clothes, feeling way out of his league. He didn't like feeling this way. He didn't like the barely concealed distaste he could see in this rich girl's eyes. He didn't like being reminded that he didn't fit into this opulent world of hers—a world filled with money, power and class. Not that he wanted to fit in. Hell, he wouldn't last more than a few months in a place like this. He preferred his own world— the world of the Navy SEALs, where a man wasn't judged by the size of his wallet, or the price of his education, or the cut of his clothes. In his world, a man was judged by his actions, by his perseverance, by his loyalty and stamina. In his world, a man who'd made it into the SEALs was treated with honor and respect— regardless of the way he looked. Or smelled. He leaned back on the big, fancy, five-star bed, propping himself up on his elbows. "Maybe you could give me some kind of clue as to what I'm doing here, honey," he said, watching her wince at his term of endearment. "I'm pretty damn curious." The rich girl's eyes widened, and she actually forgot to look disdainful for a few minutes. "Are you trying to tell me that no one's told you any thing?" Joe sat up. 'That's exactly what I'm telling you." She shook her head. Her hair was starting to dry, and it was definitely curly. "But that's impossible." "Impossible it ain't, sweetheart," he said. A double wince this time. One for the bad grammar, the other for the "sweetheart." "I'm here in D.C. without the rest of my team, and I don't know why." Veronica turned abruptly and went into the hotel suite's living room. Joe followed more slowly, leaning against the frame of the door and watching as she sifted through her briefcase. "You were supposed to be met by—" she pulled a yellow legal pad from her notebook and flipped to a page in the back "—an Admiral Forrest?" She looked up at him almost hopefully. The navy lieutenant just shrugged, still watching her. Lord, but he was handsome. Despite the layers of dirt and his dark, scowling expression, he was, like Prince Tedric, almost impossibly good-looking. And this man was nearly dripping with an unconscious virility that Tedric didn't even begin to possess. He was extremely attractive underneath all that grime—if she were the type who went for that untamed, rough-hewn kind of man. Which, of course, Veronica wasn't. Dangerous, bad-boy types had never made her heart beat faster. And if her heart seemed to be pounding now, why, that was surely from the scare he'd given her earlier. No, she was not the type to be attracted by steel-hard biceps and broad shoulders, a rough-looking five o'clock shadow, a tropical tan, a moltenlava smile, and incredible brown bedroom eyes. No. Definitely, positively not. And if she gave him a second glance, it was only to verify the fact that Lieutenant Joseph P. Catalanotto was not going to be mistaken for visiting European royalty. Not today, anyway. And not tomorrow. But, for Wila's sake, for her own career, and for little Cindy at Saint Mary's, Veronica was going to see to it that two days from now, Joe would be a prince. But first things first. And first things definitely included putting her clothes back on, particularly since Lieutenant Catalanotto wasn't attempting to hide the very, very male appreciation in his eyes as he looked at her.

"Why don't you help yourself to something to drink," Veronica said, and Joe's gaze flickered across the suite, toward the elaborate bar that was set up on the other side of the room. "Give me a minute to get dressed," she added. "Then I'll try to explain why you're here." He nodded. She walked past him, aware that he was still watching right up to the moment she closed the bedroom door behind her. The man's accent was atrocious. It screamed New York City—blue-collar New York City. But okay. With a little ingenuity, with the right scheduling and planning, Joe wouldn't have to utter a single word. His posture, though, was an entirely different story. Tedric stood ramrod straight. Lieutenant Catalanotto, on the other hand, slouched continuously. And he walked with a kind of relaxed swagger that was utterly un-princely. How on earth was she going to teach him to stand and sit up straight, let alone walk in that peculiar, stiff, princely gait that Tedric had perfected? Veronica pulled fresh underwear and another pair of panty hose—number three for the day—from her suitcase. Her dark blue suit was near the top of the case, so she pulled it on, then slipped her tired feet into a matching pair of pumps. A little bit of makeup, a quick brush through her almost-dry hair... Gloves would cover his hands, she thought, her mind going a mile a minute. Even if that engine grease didn't wash off, it could be hidden by a pair of gloves. Tedric himself often wore a pair of white gloves. No one would think that was odd. Joe's hair was an entirely different matter. He wore his hair short, while Tedric's flowed down past his shoulders. They could get a wig for Joe. Or hair extensions. Yes, hair extensions would be even better, and easier to keep on. Pro vided Joe would sit still long enough to have them attached ... This was going to work. This was going to work. Taking a deep breath and smoothing down her suit jacket, Veronica opened the door and went back into the living room. And stopped short. The living room of her hotel suite was positively crowded. Senator McKinley, three different Ustanzian ambassadors, an older man wearing a military dress uniform covered with medals, a half-dozen FInCOM security agents, Prince Tedric and his entire entourage all stood frozen and staring at Joe Catalanotto, who had risen to his feet in front of the sofa. The tension in the room could have been cut by a knife. The man in uniform was the only one who spoke. "Nice to see that you dressed for the occasion, Joe," he said with a chuckle. Joe crossed his arms. "The guys who shanghaied me forgot to bring my wardrobe trunk," he said dryly. Then he smiled. It was a genuine, sincere smile that warmed his face and touched his eyes. "Good to see you, Admiral." Joe looked around the room, his gaze landing on Prince Tedric's face. Tedric was staring at him as if he were a rat that had made its way into the hotel room from the street below. Joe's smile faded, and was replaced by another scowl. "Well," he said. “I’ll be damned. If it isn't my evil twin." Veronica laughed. She couldn't help it. It just came bubbling out. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, and all but clamped her hand across her mouth. But no one seemed to notice—no one but Joe, who glanced over at her in surprise. "Don't you know who you're talking to, young man? This is the crown prince of Ustanzia," Senator McKinley said sternly to Joe. "Damn straight I know who I'm talking to, Pop," Joe said tightly. "I'm the kind of guy who never forgets a face—particularly when I see it every morning in the mirror. My team of SEALs pulled this bastard's sorry butt out of Baghdad." He turned back to Tedric. "Keeping free and clear of war zones these days, Ted, you lousy bastard?" Everyone in the room, with the exception of Joe and the still-grinning admiral, drew in a shocked breath. Veronica was amazed that her ears didn't pop from the sudden drop in air pressure. The crown prince's face turned an interesting shade of royal purple. "How dare you?" he gasped. Joe seemed to grow at least three feet taller and two feet broader. He took a step or two toward Tedric, and everyone in the room—with the exception of the admiral—drew back. "How dare you put yourself into a situation where my men had to risk their lives to pull you back out?" Joe all but snarled. "One of my men spent months in intensive care because of you, dirtwad. I'll tell you right now, you're damned lucky—damned lucky—he didn't die." The deadly look in Joe's eyes was enough to make even the bravest man quiver with fear. They were all lucky that Joe's friend hadn't died, Veronica thought with a shiver, or else they'd be witnessing a murder. And unlike the morning's assassination attempt, she had no doubt that Joe would succeed. "Mon Dieu," Tedric said, hiding the fact that his hands were shaking by slipping into his native French and turning haughtily to his aides. "This...

this... creature is far more insolent than I remembered. Obviously we cannot risk sending him into public, masquerading as me. He would embarrass my heritage, my entire country. Send him back to whatever rock he crawled out from under. There is no other option. Cancel the tour." On the other side of the room, one of the senator's assistants quickly translated Tedric's French into English, whispering into McKinley's ear. With a humph, the prince stalked toward the door, taking with him Senator McKinley's hopes for lower-priced oil and Wila's dreams of economic security for her country. But McKinley moved quickly, and cut Prince Tedric off before he reached the door. "Your Highness," McKinley said soothingly. "If you're serious about obtaining the funding for the oil wells—" "He's a monster," Tedric proclaimed loudly in French. McKinley's assistant translated quietly for the senator. "Even Ms. St. John cannot turn such a monster into a prince." Across the room, Joe watched as Veronica hurried over to the prince and Senator McKinley and began talking in a lowered voice. Turn a monster into a prince, huh? he thought. "You always did know how to liven up a party, son." Joe turned to see Admiral Michael "Mac" Forrest smiling at him. He gave the older man a crisp salute. The admiral's familiar leathery face crinkled into a smile. "Cut the bulldinky, Catalanotto," he said. "Since when did you start saluting? For criminy's sake, son, shake my hand instead." The admiral's salt-and-pepper hair had gone another shade whiter, but other than that, the older man looked healthy and fit. Joe knew that Mac Forrest, a former SEAL himself, still spent a solid hour each day in PT—physical training—despite the fact that he needed a cane to walk. Ever since Joe first met him, the Admiral's left leg had been shorter than his right, courtesy of the enemy during the Vietnam War. Mac's handclasp was strong and solid. With his other hand, he clapped Joe on the shoulder. "It's been nearly a year and you haven't changed the least bit," Admiral Forrest announced after giving Joe a once-over. The older man wrinkled his nose. "Including your clothes. Jumping Jesse, what hole did we drag you out of?" "I was on leave," Joe said with a shrug. "I was helping Blue pull in a major tuna and the bait bucket spilled on me. The boys in the Black Hawk didn't give me a chance to stop at my apartment to take a shower and pick up a change of clothes." "Yeah." The admiral's blue eyes twinkled. "We were in kind of a hurry to get you out here, in case you didn't notice." "I noticed," Joe said, crossing his arms. "I take it I'm here to do some kind of favor for him." With his chin, Joe gestured across the room toward Prince Tedric, who was still deep in discussion with Senator McKinley and Veronica. "Something tells me you're not happy about the idea of doing Tedric Cortere any favors," Mac commented. "Damn straight," Joe said, adding, "sir. That bastard nearly got Frisco killed. We were extracting from Baghdad with a squad of Iraqi soldiers on our tail. Frisco took a direct hit. The kid nearly bled to death. What's maybe even worse, at least in his eyes, is that his knee was damn near destroyed. Kid's in a wheelchair now, and fighting hard to get out." Mac Forrest stood quietly, just letting Joe tell the story. "We'd reached the Baghdad extraction point when Prince Charming over there refused to board the chopper. We finally had to throw him inside. It only gave us about a thirty-second delay, but it was enough to put us into the Iraqi soldiers' firing range, and that's when Frisco was hit. Turns out His Royal Pain-in-the-Butt refused to get into the bird because it wasn't luxurious enough. He nearly got us all killed because the interior of an attack helicopter wasn't painted in the colors of the Ustanzian flag." Joe looked steadily at the admiral. "So go ahead and reprimand me, Mac," he added. "But be warned—there's nothing you can say that'll make me do any favors for that creep." "I'm not so sure about that, son," Mac said thoughtfully, running his hand across the lower part of his face. Joe frowned. "What's going on?" "Have you seen the news lately?" Mac asked. Joe looked at him for several long moments. "You're kidding, right?" "Just asking." "Mac, I've been in a chopper, a transport jet and a jeep tonight. None of them had in-flight entertainment in the form of the evening news," Joe said. "Hell, I haven't even seen a newspaper in the past eighteen hours." "This morning there was an assassination attempt on Ted-ric." Aha. Now it suddenly all made sense. Joe nodded. "Gee, sir," he said. "And I already smell like bait. How appropriate."

Mac chuckled. "You always were a smart mouth, Catalanotto." "So what's the deal?" Joe asked. "Where am I inserting? Ustanzia? Or, oh joy, are we going back to Baghdad?" Inserting. It was a special-forces term for entering—either stealthily or by force—an area of operation. The admiral perched on the arm of the sofa. "You've already inserted, son," he said. "Here in D.C. is where we want you—for right now. That is, if I can convince you to volunteer for this mission." Briefly, he outlined the plan to have Joe stand in for the crown prince for the remainder of the American tour—at least until the terrorists made another assassination attempt and were apprehended. "Let me get this straight," Joe said, sitting down on the couch. "I play dress-up in Cortere's clothes—which is the equivalent of painting a giant target on my back, right? And I'm doing this so that the United States will have more oil? You've got to do better than that, Mac. And don't start talking about protecting Prince Ted, because I don't give a flying fig whether or not that bastard stays alive long enough to have his royal coffee and doughnut tomorrow morning." Mac looked across the room, and Joe followed the older man's gaze. Veronica was nodding at Prince Tedric, her face serious. Red. Her hair was dry, and it was definitely red. Of course. It had to be red. "I don't suppose working with Veronica St. John would be an incentive?" Mac said. "I had the opportunity to meet her several weeks ago. She's a real peach of a girl. Rock-solid sense of humor, though you wouldn't necessarily know it to look at her. Pretty, too." Joe shook his head. "Not my type," he said flatly. "Mrs. Forrest wasn't my type when I first met her," Mac stated. Joe stood. "Sorry, Mac. If that's the best you can do, I'm outtahere." "Please," Mac said quietly, putting one hand on Joe's arm. "I'm asking for a personal favor here, Lieutenant. Do this one for me." The admiral looked down at the floor, and when he looked back at Joe, his blue eyes were steely. "Remember that car bomb that took out a busload of American sailors in London three years ago?" Silently, Joe nodded. Oh, yeah. He remembered. Mac Forrest's nineteen-year-old son had been one of the kids killed in that deadly blast, set off by a terrorist organization called the Cloud of Death. "My sources over at Intelligence have hinted that the assassins who are gunning for Prince Tedric are the same terrorists who set off that bomb," the admiral said. His voice trembled slightly. "It's Diosdado and his damned Cloud of Death again. I want them, Lieutenant. With your help, I can get them. Without your help..." He shook his head in despair. Joe nodded. "Sir, you've got your volunteer."

Chapter 4 It was nearly two-thirty in the morning before Veronica left the planning meeting. All of the power players had been there—Senator McKinley, whose million-dollar smile had long since faded; Henri Freder, the Ustanzian Ambassador; Admiral Forrest, the salty-looking military man Veronica had met several weeks ago at an embassy function in Paris; stern-faced Kevin Laughton, the Federal Intelligence Commission agent in charge of security; and Prince Tedric's four chief aides. It had been decided that Prince Tedric should be spirited away from the hotel to a safe house where he'd be guarded by FInCOM agents and Ustanzian secret service men. The American sailor, Joe Catalanotto, would simply move into Tedric's suite of rooms on the tenth floor, thus arousing no suspicion among the hotel staff and guests—or even among the prince's own lesser servants and assistants, who would not be told of the switch. After convincing the prince to give Veronica St. John a chance to work with the sailor, McKinley had gotten the ball rolling. Prince Tedric was gone, much to everyone's relief. Veronica and the prince's main staff were working to reschedule the beginning of the tour. The idea was to organize a schedule that would require Joe to have the least amount of contact with diplomats who might recognize that he was not the real prince. And the FInCOM agents put in their two cents worth, trying to set up times and places for Joe to appear in public that would provide the assassins with an obvious, clear target without putting Joe in more danger than necessary. "Where's Catalanotto?" Admiral Forrest kept asking. "He should be here. He should be part of this op's planning team." "With all due respect, Admiral," Kevin Laughton, the FInCOM chief, finally said, "it's better to leave the strategiz-ing to the experts." Laughton was a tall man, impeccably dressed, with every strand of his light brown hair perfectly in place. His blue eyes were cool, and he kept his emotions carefully hidden behind a poker face. "In that case, Mr. Laughton," Forrest said tartly, "Catalanotto should definitely be here. And if you paid close attention, sir, you might even learn a thing or two from him." "From a navy lieutenantl" "Joe Cat is a Navy SEAL, mister," Forrest said. There was that word again. SEAL. But Laughton didn't look impressed. He looked put-upon. "I should've known this was going too smoothly," he said tiredly. He turned to Forrest. "I'm sure you're familiar with the expression, Admiral: Too many cooks spoil the broth?" The admiral fixed the younger man with a decidedly fishlike stare. "This man is going to be your bait," he said. "Can you honestly tell me that if your roles were reversed, you wouldn't want in on the planning stages?" "Yes," Laughton replied. "I can." "Bulldinky." Forrest stood. He snapped his fingers and one of his aides appeared. "Get Joe Cat down here," he ordered. The man fired off a crisp salute. "Yes, sir." He turned sharply and disappeared. Laughton was fuming. "You can't pull rank on me. I'm FInCOM-" "Trust me, son," Forrest interrupted, sitting down again and rocking back in his chair. "See these do-hickeys on my uniform? They're not just pretty buttons. They mean when I say 'stop,' you stop. And if you need that order clarified, I'd be more than happy to call Bill and have him explain it to you." Veronica bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. By Bill, the admiral was referring to the President. Of the United States. The look on Kevin Laughton's face was not a happy one. The admiral's young aide returned and stood patiently at attention just behind Forrest's chair. Forrest tipped his head to look up at him, giving him permission to speak with a nod. "Lieutenant Catalanotto is unable to attend this meeting, sir," the aide said. "He's getting a tooth capped, and... something done with his hair, sir. I think." "Thank you, son," Forrest said. He stood, pushing his chair back from the conference table. "In that case, I suggest we adjourn and resume in the morning, when Lieutenant Catalanotto can attend." "But-" The admiral fixed Laughton with a single look. "Don't make me make that phone call, mister," he said. "I may have phrased it kind of casually, but my suggestion to adjourn was an order." He straightened and picked up his cane. "I'm going to give you a little hint, Laughton, a hint that most folks usually learn the first day of basic training. When an officer gives an order, the correct response is, 'Yes, sir. Right away, sir.'" He glanced around the table, giving Veronica a quick wink before he headed toward the door.

She gathered up her papers and briefcase and followed, catching up with him in the corridor. "Excuse me, Admiral," she said. "I haven't had time to do any research—I haven't had time to think—and I was hoping you could clue me in. What exactly is a SEAL?" Forrest's leathery face crinkled into a smile. "Joe's a SEAL," he said. Veronica shook her head. "Sir, that's not what I meant." His smile became a grin. "I know," he said. "You want me to tell you that a Navy SEAL is the toughest, smartest, deadliest warrior in all of the U.S. military. Okay. There you have it. A SEAL is the best of the best, and he's trained to specialize in unconventional warfare." His smile faded, giving his face a stern, craggy cast. "Let me give you an example. Lieutenant Catalanotto took six men and went one hundred miles behind the lines during the first night of Operation Desert Storm in order to rescue Tedric Cortere—who was too stupid to leave Baghdad when he was warned of the coming U.S. attack. Joe Cat and his Alpha Squad—they're part of SEAL Team Ten-went in undetected, among all the bombs that were falling from U.S. planes, and pulled Cortere and three aides out without a single fatality." Admiral Forrest smiled again as he watched an expression of disbelief flit across Veronica's face. "How on earth... ?" she asked. "With a raftload of courage," he answered. "And a whole hell of a lot of training and skill. Joe Cat's an expert in explosives, you know, both on land and underwater. And he knows all there is to know about locks and security systems. He's a top-notch mechanic. He understands engines in a way that's almost spiritual. He's also an expert marksman, a sharpshooter with damn near any ordnance he can get his hands on. And that's just the tip of the iceberg, missy. If you want me to continue, then we'd better find a place to sit and get comfortable, because it's going to take a while." Veronica tried hard to connect everything she'd just heard with the grimy, unkempt, seemingly uneducated man who had appeared in her hotel room. "I see," she finally said. "No, you don't," Forrest countered, a smile softening his words. "But you will. Best thing to do is go find Joe. And when he talks to you, really listen. You'll know soon enough what being a SEAL means." Joe sat in the hairdresser's portable chair, looking at himself in the hotel-room mirror. He looked... different. A dentist had come in and capped the tooth he'd chipped three years ago while on a training mission and had never had fixed. Joe had stopped noticing it after a while. He'd had the rough edges filed down the day of the accident, but he'd never had the time or inclination to get the damn thing capped. The capped tooth wasn't the only thing different about him now. Joe's short dark hair was about six inches longer—and no longer short—thanks to the hair extensions the tired-looking stylist had almost finished attaching. It was odd, seeing himself with long hair like this. Joe had grown his hair out before, when he'd had advance warning of covert operations. But he liked wearing his hair short. It wasn't militaryregulation short, just a comfortable length that was easy to deal with. Long hair got in the way. It worked its way into his mouth, hung in his face, and got in his eyes at inopportune moments. And it made him look like that cowardly idiot, Tedric Cortere. Which was precisely the point, right now. God help them, Joe vowed, if they expected him to wear those satin suits with the ruffles and metallic trim, and those garish rings on his fingers. No, God help him. This was a job, and if the powers that be wanted him to dress like an idiot, he was going to have to dress like an idiot. Like it or not. Joe stared into the mirror at the opulence of the hotel room. This place gave him the creeps. He was nervous he might break something or spill something or touch something he wasn't supposed to touch. And his nervousness really annoyed him. Why should he be nervous? Why should he feel intimidated? It was only a lousy hotel room, for Pete's sake. The only difference between this room and the cheap motel rooms he stayed in when he traveled was that here the TV wasn't chained down. Here there was a phone in the bathroom. And the towels were thick and plentiful. And the carpets were plush and clean. And the wallpaper wasn't stained, and the curtains actually closed all the way, and the furniture wasn't broken and mismatched. Oh yeah, and the price tag for a one-night stay—that was different, too. Sheesh, this place was as different from the places he usually stayed as night was to day, Joe reminded himself. But the truth was, he wished he was staying at a cheap motel. At least then he could lie on the bed and put his feet up without being afraid he'd ruin the bedspread. At least he wouldn't feel so goddammed out of his league. But he was stuck here until another assassination attempt was made or until the prince's U.S. tour ended in five weeks. Five weeks.

Five weeks of feeling out of place. Of being afraid to touch anything. "Don't touch!" he could still hear his mother say, when as a kid, he went along on her trips to Scarsdale, where she cleaned houses that were ten times the size of their tiny Jersey City apartment. "Don't touch, or you'll hear from your father when we get home." Except Joe didn't have a father. He had a whole slew of stepfathers and "uncles," but no father. Still, whoever was temporarily playing the part of dear old dad at home would have leaped at any excuse to kick Joe's insolent butt into tomorrow. Jeez, what was wrong with him? He hadn't thought about those "happy" memories in years. The hotel-room door opened with an almost-inaudible click and Joe tensed. He looked up, turning his head and making the hairdresser sigh melodramatically. But Joe had been too well-trained to let someone come into the room without giving them the once-over. Not while he was looking more and more like a man who'd been an assassin's target just this morning. It was only the media consultant. Veronica St. John. She posed no threat. Joe turned his head, looking back into the mirror, waiting for the rush of relief, for the relaxation of the tension in his shoulders. But it never came. Instead of relaxing, he felt as if all of his senses had gone on alert. As if he'd suddenly woken up. It was as if he were about to go into a combat situation. The colors in the wallpaper seemed sharper, clearer. The sounds of the hairdresser behind him seemed louder. And his sense of smell heightened to the point where he caught a whiff of Veronica St. John's subtle perfume from all the way across the room. "Good God," she said in her crisp, faintly British-accented voice. "You look... amazing." "Well, thank you, sweetheart. You're not so bad yourself." She'd moved to where he could see her behind him in the mirror, and he glanced up, briefly meeting her gaze. Blue eyes. Oh, baby, those eyes were blue. Electric blue. Electric-shock blue. Joe looked up at her again and realized that the current of awareness and attraction that had shot through him had gone through her, as well. She looked as surprised as he felt. Surprised, no doubt, that a guy from his side of the tracks could catch her eye. Except he didn't look like himself anymore. He looked like Prince Tedric. It figured. "I see you had the opportunity to take a shower," she said, no longer meeting his eyes. "Did your clothes get taken down to the laundry?" "I think so," he said. "They were gone when I got out of the bathroom. I found this hotel robe… I'd appreciate it if you could ask Admiral Forrest to send over a uniform in the morning. And maybe some socks and shorts…?" Veronica felt her cheeks start to heat. Lord, what was wrong with her? Since when did the mention of men's underwear make her face turn as red as a schoolgirl's? Or maybe it wasn't the mention of unmentionables that was making her blush. Maybe it was the thought that this very large, very charismatic, very handsome, and very, very dangerous man was sitting here, with absolutely nothing on underneath his white terry-cloth robe. From the glint in his dark brown eyes, it was clear that he was able to read her mind. She used every ounce of her British schooling to keep her voice sounding cool and detached. "There's no need, Your Majesty," she said. "We go from here to your suite. A tailor will be arriving soon. He'll provide you with all of the clothing you'll need for the course of the next few weeks." "Whoa," Joe said. "Whoa, whoa! Back up a sec, will ya?" "A tailor," Veronica repeated. "We'll be meeting with him shortly. I realize it's late, but if we don't get started with—" "No, no," Joe said. "Before that. Did you just call me 'Your Majesty’?” "I'm done here,” the hairdresser said. In a monotone, he quickly ran down a quick list of things Joe could and could not do with the extensions in his hair. “Swim—yes. Shower—yes. Run a comb through your hair—no. You have to be careful to comb only above and below the attachment." He turned to Veronica. "You have my card if you need me again." "Find Mr. Laughton on your way out," Veronica said as Joe stood and helped the man fold up his portable chair. "He'll see that you get paid." She watched, waiting until the hairdresser had closed the hotel-room door tightly behind him. Then she turned back to Joe. "Your Majesty," she said again. "And Your Highness. And Your Excellency. You'll have to get used to it. This is the way you're going to be addressed."

"Even by you?" Joe stood very still, his arms folded across his chest. It was as if he were afraid to touch anything. But that was ridiculous. From the little information Veronica had gleaned from Admiral Forrest, Joe Catalanotto, or Joe Cat as the admiral had called him, wasn't afraid of anything. She crossed the room and sat down in one of the easy chairs by the windows. "Yes, even by me." Veronica gestured for him to sit across from her. "If we intend to pull off this cha- rade-" "You're right," Joe said, sitting down. "You're absolutely right. We need to go the full distance or the shooters will smell that something's not right." He smiled wryly. "It's just, after years of 'Hey, you!' or 'Yo, paesan!' 'Your Majesty' is a little disconcerting." Veronica's eyebrows moved upward a fraction of an inch. It figured she'd be surprised. She probably thought he didn't know any four-syllable words. Damn, what was it about her? She wasn't pretty, but.. .at the same time, she was. Her hair was gorgeous—the kind of soft curls he loved to run his fingers through. Joe found his eyes drawn to her face, to her delicate, almost-pointed nose, and her beautifully shaped lips. And those eyes... His gaze slid lower, to the dark blue blazer that covered her shoulders, tapering down to her slender waist. She wore a matching navy skirt that ended a few inches above her knees yet still managed to scream of propriety. Her politely crossed legs were something else entirely. Not even the sturdy pumps she wore on her feet could hide the fact that her legs were long and graceful and sexy as hell—the kind of legs a man dreams about. This man, anyway. Joe knew that she was well aware he was studying her. But she had turned away, pretending to look for something in her briefcase, purposely ignoring the attraction he knew was mutual. And then the phone rang—a sudden shrill noise that broke the quiet. “Excuse me for a moment, please," Veronica said, gracefully standing and crossing the room to answer it. "Hello?" she said, glancing back at Joe. As she watched, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Thank goodness. He couldn't undress her any further with eyes that were closed. And with his eyes closed, she didn't have to be afraid that the warmth that spread throughout her entire body at his unmasked interest would somehow show. Heaven help her if this man got the idea that he could make her heart beat harder with a single look. She had enough to worry about without having to fight off some sailor's amorous advances. "The tailor has arrived," one of Tedric's aides told her. "May I ask how much longer you'll be?" "We'll be up shortly," Veronica said. "Please arrange to have coffee available. And something to eat. Doughnuts. Chocolate ones." Lt. Joe Catalanotto looked the chocolate-doughnut type. They could all certainly use some extra sugar to keep them awake. She hung up the phone and crossed back to Joe. His head was still back, and his eyes were closed. He'd slumped down in the chair as if he had no bones in his entire body. He was totally, absolutely and quite soundly asleep. Veronica sat down across from him and leaned forward, studying his face. He'd shaved and somehow managed to get all of the grease and dirt off in the shower. Even his hands were free of grime. His hair was clean and now, with the extensions, quite long. To the average eye, he might have looked quite a bit like Prince Tedric, but Veronica knew better. Tedric had never been—and never would be—this handsome. There was an edge to Joe Catalanotto's good looks. A sharpness, a definition, an honesty that Tedric didn't have. There was something vibrant about Joe. He was so very alive, so vital, as if he took each moment and lived it to its very fullest. Veronica had never met anyone quite like him before. Imagine taking a squad of seven men deep behind enemy lines, she thought, with bombs falling, no less. Imagine having the courage and the confidence to risk not just one's own life, but six other lives, as well. And then imagine actually enjoying the danger. Veronica thought of the men she knew, the men she was used to working with. They tended to be so very...careful. Not that they weren't risk takers —oftentimes they were. But the risks they took were financial or psychological, never physical. Not a single one would ever put himself into any real physical danger. A paper cut was the worst they could expect, and that usually required a great deal of hand-holding. Most men looked softer, less imposing when asleep, but not Joe. His body may have been relaxed, but his jaw was tightly clenched, his lips pulled back in what was almost a snarl. Underneath his lids, his eyes jerked back and forth in REM sleep. He slept ferociously, almost as if these five minutes of rest were all he'd get for the next few days. It was strange. It was very strange. And it was stranger still when Veronica sighed. It wasn't a particularly weighty sigh, just a little one, really. Not even very loud. Still, Joe's eyes flew open and he sat up straight. He was instantly alert, without a hint of fatigue on his lean face. He took a sip directly from a can of soda that was sitting on the glass-topped end table and looked at Veronica steadily, as if he hadn't been fast asleep mere seconds earlier. "Time for the tailor?" he said.

She was fascinated. "How do you do that?" she asked, leaning forward slightly, searching his eyes for any sign of grogginess. "Wake up so quickly, I mean." Joe blinked and then smiled, clearly surprised at her interest. His smile was genuine, reaching his eyes and making the laugh lines around them deepen. Lord, he was even more attractive when he smiled that way. Veronica found herself smiling back, hypnotized by the warmth of his eyes. "Training." He leaned back in his chair and watched her. "SEALs take classes to study sleep patterns. We learn to catch catnaps whenever we can." "Really?" Joe could see the amusement in her eyes, the barely restrained laughter curving the corners of her mouth. Her natural expression was a smile, he realized. But she'd taught herself to put on that serious, businesslike facade she wore most of the time. "Classes to learn how to sleep and wake up?" she asked, letting a laugh slip out. Was she laughing at him or with him? He honestly couldn't tell, and he felt his own smile fade. Damn, what was it about this particular girl that he found so intimidating? With any other woman, he'd assume the joke was shared, and he'd feel glad that he was making her smile. But this one... There was attraction in her eyes, all right. Genuine animal attraction. He saw it there every time she glanced in his direction. But there was also wariness. Maybe even fear. She didn't want to be attracted to him. She probably didn't think he was good enough for her. Damn it, he was a Navy SEAL. There was nobody better. If she wanted to ignore the fire that was ready to ignite between them, then so be it. Her loss. He would find plenty of women to distract him during this way-too-simple operation, and— With a hiss of silk, she crossed her long legs. Joe had to look away. Her loss. It was her loss. Except every cell in his body was screaming that the loss was his. Okay. So he'd seduce her. He'd ply her with wine—no, make that expensive champagne—and he'd wait until the heat he saw in her eyes started to burn out of control. It would be that easy. And then... Oh, baby. It didn't take much to imagine his hands in her soft red hair, then sweeping up underneath the delicate silk of her blouse, finding the soft, sweet fullness of her breasts. He could picture one of those sexy legs wrapped around one of his legs, as she pressed herself tightly against him, her fingers reaching for the buckle of his belt as he plundered her beautiful mouth with his tongue and... Sure, it might be that easy. But then again, it might not. He had no reason on earth to believe that a woman like this one would want anything to do with him. From the way she dressed and acted, Joe was willing to bet big bucks that she wouldn't want any kind of permanent thing with a guy like him. Veronica St. John—"Sinjin," she pronounced it with that richer-than-God accent—could probably trace her bloodline back to Henry the Eighth. And Joe, he didn't even know who the hell his father was. And wouldn't that just make dicey dinner conversation. "Catalanotto... Italian name, isn't it? Where exactly is your father from, Lieutenant?" “Well, gee, I don't know, Ronnie." He wondered if anyone had ever called her Ronnie, probably not. "Mom says he was some sailor in port for a day or two. Catalanotto is her name. And where she came from is anyone's guess. So is it really any wonder Mom drank as much as she did?" Yeah, that would go over real well. But he wasn't talking about marriage here. He wasn't talking about much more than quenching that sharp thirst he felt whenever he looked into Veronica St. John's eyes. He was talking about one night, maybe two or three or four, depending on how long this operation lasted. He was talking short-term fling, hot affair—not a lot of conversation required. It was true, he didn't have a lot of experience with debutantes, but hell, her money and power were only on the surface. Peel the outer trappings away, and Veronica St. John was a woman. And Joe knew women. He knew what they liked, how to catch their eye, how to make them smile. Usually women came to him. It had been a long while since he'd actively pursued one. This could be fun. "We trained to learn how to drop instantly into rapid-eye-movement sleep," Joe said, evenly meeting the crystal blue-ness of Veronica's eyes. "It comes in handy in a combat situation, or a covert op where there may be only brief stretches of time safe enough to catch some rest. It's kept more than one SEAL alive on more than one occasion." "What else do SEALs learn how to do?" Veronica asked.. Oh, baby, what you don't know... "You name it, honey," Joe said, "we can do it."

"My name," she declared in her cool English accent, sitting back in her chair and gazing at him steadily, "is Veronica St. John. Not honey. Not babe. Veronica. St. John. Please refrain from using terms of endearment. I don't care for them." She was trying to look as chilly as her words sounded, but Joe saw heat when he looked into her eyes. She was trying to hide it, but it was back there. He knew, with a sudden odd certainty, that when they made love, it was going to be a near religious experience. Not if they made love, When.. It was going to happen. "It's a habit that's gonna be hard to break," he said. Veronica stood, briefcase in hand. "I'm sure you have a number of habits that will be a challenge to break," she said. "So I suggest we not keep the tailor waiting a minute longer. We have plenty of work to do before we can get some sleep." But Joe didn't move. "So what am I supposed to call you?" he asked. "Ronnie?" Veronica looked up to find a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. He knew perfectly well that calling her "Ronnie" would not suit. He was smiling, and she was struck by the even whiteness of his teeth. He may have chipped one at one time, but the others were straight and well taken care of. "I think Ms. St. John will do quite well, thank you," she said. "That is how the prince addresses me." "I see," Joe murmured, clearly amused. "Shall we?" she prompted. "Oh, yes, please," Joe said overenthusiastically, then tried to look disappointed. "Oh...you mean shall we leave? I thought you meant..." But he was only pretending that he misunderstood. He couldn't keep a smile from slipping out. Veronica shook her head in exasperation. "Two days, Lieutenant," she said. "We have two days to create a miracle, and you're wasting time with sophomoric humor." Joe stood, stretching his arms above his head. His feet and legs were bare underneath his robe. So was the rest of him, but Veronica was determined not to think about that. "I thought you were going to call me 'Your Majesty.'" "Two days, Your Majesty," Veronica repeated. "Two days is a breeze, Ronnie," he said. "And I've decided if I'm the prince I can call you whatever I want, and I want to call you Ronnie." "No, you most certainly will not!" "Why the hell not? I'm the prince," Joe said. "It's your choice—Ronnie or Honey. I don't care." "My Lord, you're almost as incorrigible as Tedric," Veronica sputtered. "'My Lord,'" Joe mused. "Yeah, you can call me that. Although I prefer 'Your All-Powerful Mightiness.' Hey, while I'm making royal decrees, why don't you go ahead and give the serfs a day off." He was laughing at her. He was teasing her, and enjoying watching her squirm. "You know, this is going to be a vacation for me, Ron," he added. "Two days of prep is a Cakewalk." Veronica laughed in disbelief. How dare he...? "Two days," she said. "You're going to have to completely relearn how to walk and talk and stand and sit and eat. Not to mention memorizing all the names and faces of the aides and ambassadors and government officials that the prince is acquainted with. And don't forget all the rules and protocols you'll have to learn, all of the Ustanzian customs and traditions..." Joe spread his hands and shrugged. "How hard could it be? Give me a videotape of Tedric and half an hour, and you'll think I'm the same guy," he said. "I've gone on far tougher missions with way less prep time. Two days—forty-eight hours—is a luxury, sweetheart." How could he think that? Veronica was so stressed out by the rapidly approaching deadline she could barely breathe. "Less than forty-eight hours," she told him sharply. "You have to sleep some of that time." "Sleep?" Joe smiled. "I just did."

Chapter 5 And never, ever open the door yourself," Veronica said. "Always wait for someone—a servant—-to do it for you." Joe gazed at her across the top of his mug as he sat on the other side of the conference table in Tedric's royal suite. "Never?" he said. He took a sip of coffee, still watching her, his dark eyes mysterious, unreadable. "Old Ted never opens the door for anyone?" "If he were with a king or a queen, he might open the door," Veronica said, glancing down at her notes. And away from those eyes. "But I doubt you'll be running into any such personages on this tour." "What does Ted do when he's all alone?" Joe started to put his mug down on the richly polished oak tabletop, but stopped as if he were afraid to mar the wood. He pulled one of Veronica's file folders closer and set his mug down on top of the stiff manila. "Just stand there until a servant comes along to open the door? That could be a real drag if he's in a rush to use the head." He rested his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow on the table, as he continued to gaze at her. "Your Highness, an Ustanzian prince never rests his elbows on the top of a table," Veronica said with forced patience. Joe smiled and didn't move. He just watched her with half-closed bedroom eyes that exuded sexuality. They'd been working together all night, and not once had he let her forget that she was a woman and he was a man. "I'm not a Ustanzian prince," he said. "Yet." Veronica folded her hands neatly on top of her notes. "And it's not called a 'head,'" she said. "Not John, not toilet, not bathroom. It's a water closet. W.C. We went through this already, remember, Your Majesty?" "How about I call it the Little Prince's Room?" Joe asked. Veronica laughed despite her growing sense of doom. Or maybe because of it. What was she going to do about Joe Catalanotto's thick New Jersey accent? And what was she going to do about the fact that this man didn't, for even one single second, take anything they were doing seriously? And to further frustrate her, she was ready to drop from exhaustion, while he looked ready to run laps. "My mother's name is Maria. She was an Italian countess before she met my father. My father is King Derrick the Fourth, his father was Derrick the Third," Joe recited. "I was born in the capital city on January 7, 1961— You know, this would be a whole lot easier on both of us if you would just hand me your file on this guy, and give me a videotape so I can see firsthand the way he walks and stands and..." "Excuse me, Lieutenant." A FInCOM agent by the name of West stood politely to one side. Joe looked up, an instant Naval Officer. He sat straighter and even looked as if he was paying attention. Now, why couldn't Veronica get him to take her that seriously? "At Admiral Forrest's request, Mr. Laughton requires your consultation, sir, in planning the scheduling of the tour, and the strategy for your protection," West continued. "That is, if you wish to have any input." Joe stood. "Damn straight I do," he said. "Your security stinks. Fortunately those terrorists took the night off, or I'd already be dead." West stiffened. "The security we've provided has been top level." "What I'm saying is your so-called top-level security isn't good enough, pal," Joe countered. He looked back at Veron ica. "What do you say you go take a nap, Ronnie, and we meet back at..." He glanced at his watch. "How's eleven-hundred hours? Just over two hours." But Veronica stood, shaking her head. She wanted desperately to sleep, but unless she attended this meeting, the visit to Saint Mary's would be removed from the tour schedule. She spoke directly to the FInCOM agent. "I'd like to have some input in this meeting, too, Mr. West," she said coolly. "I'm sure Mr. Laughton—or Admiral Forrest—won't mind if I sit in." Joe shrugged. "Suit yourself." "Princes don't shrug, Your Highness," Veronica reminded him as they followed West out into the corridor and toward the conference room. Joe rolled his eyes. "And princes don't roll their eyes," she said. "Sheesh," he muttered. "They don't swear, either, Your Majesty," Veronica told him. "Not even those thinly veiled words you Americans use in place of the truly nasty ones." "So you're not an American," Joe said, walking backward so he could look at her. "Mac Forrest must've been mistaken. He told me, despite your fancy accent, that you were." Joe had talked about her with Admiral Forrest. Veronica felt a warm flash of pleasure that she instantly tried to squelch. So what if Joe had talked with the admiral about her. She'd talked to the admiral about Joe, simply to get some perspective on whom she'd be dealing with, who she'd be working closely with for the next few weeks.

"Oh, I'm American," Veronica said. "I even say a full variety of those aforementioned nasty words upon occasion." Joe laughed. He had a nice laugh, rich and full. It made her want to smile. "That I won't believe until I hear it." "Well, you won't hear it, Your Majesty. It wouldn't be polite or proper." Her shoe caught in the thick carpeting, and she stumbled slightly. Joe caught and held her arm, stopping to make sure she had her balance. Veronica looked really beat. She looked ready to fall on her face—which she just about did. Joe could feel the warmth of her arm, even through the sleeve of her jacket and blouse. He didn't want to let her go, so he didn't. They stood there in the hotel corridor, and FInCOM Agent West waited impatiently nearby. Joe was playing with fire. He knew that he was playing with fire. But, hell. He was a demolitions expert. He was used to handling materials that could blow sky-high at any time. Veronica looked down at his hand still on her arm, then lifted enormous blue eyes to his. "I'm quite all right, Your Royal Highness," she said in that Julie Andrews accent. "You're tired as hell," he countered bluntly. "Go get some sleep." "Believe it or not, I do have some information of importance to add to this scheduling meeting," she said hotly, the crystal of her eyes turning suddenly to blue flame. "I'd truly appreciate it if you'd unhand me so we could continue on our way, Your Majesty." "Wait," Joe said. "Don't tell me. A prince never offers a helping hand, is that it? A prince lets a lady fall on her face, right?" "A prince doesn't take advantage of a lady's misfortune," Veronica said tightly. "You helped me—thank you. Now let me go. Please. Your Excellency." Joe laughed. This time it was a low, dangerous sound. His hand tightened on her arm and he drew her even closer to him, so that their noses almost touched, so that Veronica could feel his body heat through the thin cotton shirt and dark slacks the tailor had left him with after the earlymorning fitting. "Babe, if you think this is taking advantage, you've never been taken advantage of." He lowered his voice and dropped his head down so he was speaking directly into her ear. "If you want, I'll demonstrate the differences. With pleasure." She could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck as he waited for her to react. He was expecting her to run, screaming, away from him. He was expecting her to be outraged, upset, angry, offended. But all she could think about was how utterly delicious he smelled. What would he say, what would he do if she moved her head a fraction of an inch to the right and pressed her cheek against the roughness of his chin. What would he do if she lifted her head to whisper into his ear, "Oh, yes"? It wouldn't be the response he was expecting, that was certain. But the truth was, this wasn't about sex, it was about power. Veronica had played hardball with the big boys long enough to know that. It wasn't that he wasn't interested—he'd made that more than clear in the way he'd looked at her all night long. But Veronica was willing to bet that right now Joe was bluffing. And while she wasn't going to call his bluff, she was going to let him know that merely because he was bigger and stronger than she, didn't mean he'd automatically win. So she lifted her head and, keeping her voice cool, almost chilly, said, "One would think that a Navy SEAL might be aware of the dangers of standing too long in a public corridor, considering someone out there wants Tedric—whom, by the way, you look quite a bit like these days—dead." Joe laughed. Not exactly the response she was expecting after her verbal attack. Another man might have been annoyed that his bluff hadn't worked. Another man might have pouted or glowered. Joe laughed. "I don't know, Ron," he said, letting her go. His dark eyes were genuinely amused, but there was something else there, too. Could it possibly be respect? "You sound so.. .proper, but I don't think you really are, are you? I think it's all an act. I think you go home from work, and you take off the Margaret Thatcher costume, and let down your hair and put on some little black sequined number with stiletto heels, and you go out and mambo in some Latin nightclub until dawn." Veronica crossed her arms. "You forgot my gigolo," she said crisply. "I go pick up my current gigolo and then we mambo till dawn." "Let me know when there's an opening, honey," Joe said. "I'd love to apply for the job." All humor had gone from his eyes. He was dead serious. Veronica turned away, afraid he'd see just from looking at her how appealing she found the thought of dancing with him until dawn, their bodies clasped together, moving to the pulsing beat of Latin drums. "We'd best not keep Mr. Laughton waiting," she said. "Your Majesty."

"Damn," Joe said. "Margaret Thatcher's back." "Sorry to disappoint you," Veronica murmured as they went into the secret-service agents' suite. "But she never left." "Saint Mary's, right here in Washington," Veronica said from her seat next to Joe at the big conference table. "Someone keeps taking Saint Mary's off the schedule." "It's unnecessary," Kevin Laughton said in his flat, almost-bored-sounding Midwestern accent. "I disagree." Veronica spoke softly but firmly. "Look, Ronnie," Senator McKinley said, and Veronica briefly shut her eyes. Lord, but Joe Catalanotto had all of them calling her Ronnie now. "Maybe you don't understand this, dear, but Saint Mary's doesn't do us any good. The building is too small, too well protected, and too difficult for the assassins to penetrate. Besides, it's not a public event. The assassins are going to want news coverage. They're going to want to make sure millions of people are watching when they kill the prince. Besides, there's no clear targeting area going into and out of the structure. It's a waste of our time." "This visit's been scheduled for months," Veronica said quietly. "It's been scheduled since the Ustanzian secretary of press announced Prince Tedric's American tour. I think we can take one hour from one day to fulfill a promise the prince made." Henri Freder, the Ustanzian ambassador to the United States, shifted in his seat. "Surely Prince Tedric can visit this Saint Mary's at the end of the tour, after the Alaskan cruise, on his way back home." "That will be too late," Veronica said. "Cruise?" Joe repeated. "If the assassins haven't been apprehended before the cruise to Alaska is scheduled, there's no way in hell we're getting on that loveboat." He looked around the table. "A cruise ship's too isolated. It's a natural target for tangos." He smiled at their blank expressions. "Tangos," Joe repeated. "T's. Terrorists. The bad guys with guns." Ah. There was understanding all around. "Unless, of course, we're ready and waiting for 'em," Joe continued. "And maybe that's not such a bad idea. Replace the ship's personnel and passenger list with platoons of SEALs and-" "No way," Laughton said. "FInCOM is handling this. It isn't some military operation. SEALs have no place in it." "Terrorists are involved," Joe countered. "SEAL Team Ten has had extensive counterterrorist training. My men are prepared for—" "War," Laughton finished for him. "Your men are prepared and trained for war. This is not a war, Lieutenant." Joe pointed to the cellular phone on the table in front of Laughton. "Then you'd better call the terrorists. Call the Cloud of Death, call up Diosdado. Call him up and tell him that this is not a war. Because he sure as hell thinks it's one." "Please," Veronica interjected. "Before we continue, may we all agree to keep Saint Mary's on the schedule?" McKinley frowned down at the papers in front of him. "I see from the previous list that there weren't going to be any media present at the event at Saint Mary's." "Not all of the events scheduled were for the benefit of the news cameras, Senator," Veronica said evenly. She glanced around the table. "Gentlemen. This rescheduling means hours and hours of extra work for all of us. I'm trying my best to cooperate, as I'm sure you are, too. But I happen to know that this appearance at Saint Mary's was of utmost importance to Prince Tedric." She widened her eyes innocently. "If necessary, I'll ring up the prince and ask for his input and—" "No need to do that," Senator McKinley said hastily. Getting self-centered Prince Tedric in on this scheduling nightmare was the last thing anyone wanted, Veronica included. His so-called "input" would slow this process down to a crawl. But she was prepared to do whatever she had to do to keep the visit to Saint Mary's on the schedule. McKinley looked around the table. "I think we can keep Saint Mary's on the list." There was a murmur of agreement. Joe watched Veronica. Her red curls were up in some kind of feminine arrangement on the top of her head. With her delicate features and innocent blue eyes, she looked every inch the demure, cool English lady; and again, Joe was struck by the feeling that her outward appearance was only an act. She wasn't demure or cool, and if his gut feelings were right, she could probably outmanipulate the entire tableful of them. Hell, she just had. But she'd done it so subtly that no one was even aware they'd been manipulated. "About the Alaskan cruise," Senator McKinley said. "That's not until later in the tour." Joe leaned back in his chair. "Let's keep it off the public schedule for now. We don't want the T's—terrorists— choosing that opportunity above everything else. We want 'em to strike early on. But still, we can start making arrangements with the SEAL teams, start getting 'em prepped for a potential operation aboard ship." "No SEALs," Kevin Laughton said tersely.

Joe gave the FInCOM agent a disbelieving look. "You want high casualties? Is that your goal here?" "Of course not—" "We're all on the same team, pal," Joe said. "We all work for the U.S. Government. Just because I'm Navy and you're Fink-" "No SEALs." Laughton turned to an aide. "Release this schedule to the news media ASAP, keeping the cruise information off the list." He stood. "My men will start scouting each of these sites." Joe stood up, too. "You should start right here in this hotel," he said. "If you're serious about making the royal suite secure, you're understaffed. And the sliding door to the balcony in the bedroom doesn't lock. What kind of security is that?" Laughton stared at him. "You're on the tenth floor." "Terrorists sometimes know how to climb," Joe said. "I can assure you you're quite safe," Laughton said. "And I can assure you that I'm not. If security stays as is, if Diosdado and his gang decide to come into this hotel to rid the world of Prince Tedric, then I'm as good as dead." "I can understand your concern," Laughton said. "But—" "Then you won't have any objection to bringing the rest of my Alpha Squad out here," Joe interrupted. "You're obviously undermanned, and I'd feel a whole hell of a lot better if…" "No," Laughton said. "Absolutely not. A squad of Navy SEALs? Utter chaos. My men won't stand for it. I won't have it." "I'm going to be standing around, wearing a damned shooting target on my chest," Joe retorted. "I want my own guys nearby, watching my back, plugging the holes in FlnCOM's security net. I can tell you right now, they won't get in your boys' way." "No," Laughton said again. "I'm in charge of security, and I say no. This meeting is adjourned." Joe watched the FInCOM chief leave the room, then glanced up to find Veronica's eyes on him. "I guess we're going to have to do this the hard way," he said. The man known only as Diosdado looked up from his desk as Saiustiano Vargas was shown into the room. "Ah, old friend," Vargas greeted him with relief. "Why did your men not say it was you they were bringing me to see?" Diosdado was silent, just looking at the other man as he thoughtfully stroked his beard. Vargas threw himself down into a chair across from the desk and casually stretched his legs out in front of him. "It has been too long, no?" he said. "What have you been up to, man?" "Not as much as you have, apparently." Diosdado smiled, but it was a mere shadow of his normally wide, toothy grin. Vargas's own smile was twisted. "Eh, you heard about that, huh?" His smile turned to a scowl. "I would have drilled the bastard through the heart if that damned woman hadn't pushed him out of the way." Diosdado stood. "You are lucky—very, very lucky—that your bullet missed Tedric Cortere," he said harshly. Vargas stared at him in surprise. "But—" "If you had kept in touch, you would have been aware of what I have spent months planning." Diosdado didn't raise his voice when he was angry. He lowered it. Right now, it was very, very quiet. Vargas opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but he wisely shut it tightly instead. “The Cloud of Death intended to take Cortere hostage," Diosdado said. "Intends," he corrected himself. "We still intend to take him." He began to pace—a halting, shuffling process as he dragged his bad leg behind him. "Of course, now that you have intervened, the prince's security has been strengthened. FInCOM is involved, and my contacts tell me that the U.S. Navy is even playing some part in Cortere's protection." Vargas stared at him. "So what," Diosdado continued, turning to face Salustiano Vargas, "do you suggest we do to bring this high level of security and protection back to where it was before you fouled things up?" Vargas swallowed, knowing what the other man was going to tell him, and knowing that he wasn't going to like what he heard. "They are all waiting for another assassination attempt," Diosdado said. "Until they get another assassination attempt, security will be too tight. Do you know what you are going to do, my old friend Salustiano?"

Vargas knew. He knew, and he didn't like it. "Diosdado," he said. "Please. We're friends. I saved your life—" "You will go back," Diosdado said very, very softly, "and you will make another attempt on the prince's life. You will fail, and you will be apprehended. Dead or alive—your choice." Vargas sat in silence as Diosdado limped, shuffling, from the room. "Tell me what it is about Navy SEALs. that makes Kevin Laughton so upset, Your Majesty," Veronica said as she and Joe were delivered safely back to Prince Tedric's hotel suite. "Why doesn't he want your Alpha Squad around?" "He knows his guys would give him problems if my guys were brought in to do their job," Joe said. "It's a slap in the face. It implies I don't think FInCOM can get the job done." "But obviously, you don't think they can." Joe shook his head and sat down heavily in one of the plush easy chairs in the royal living room. "I think they're probably top-notch at mid-level protection,” he said. "But my life's on the line here, and the bad guys aren't street punks or crazy people with guns. They're professionals. Diosdado runs a top-notch military organization. He's a formidable opponent. He could get through this kind of security without blinking. But he couldn't get through the Alpha Squad. I know my SEALs are the best of the best. SEAL Team Ten is elite, and the Alpha Squad is made up of the best men in Team Ten. I want them here, even if I have to step on some toes or offend some FInCOM agents. The end result is I stay alive. Are you following me?" Veronica nodded, sitting down on the sofa and resting her briefcase on a long wooden coffee table. The sofa felt so comfortable, so soft. It would be so easy to let her head fall back and her eyes close "Maybe we should take a break," Joe said. "You can barely keep your eyes open." "No, there's so much more you need to learn," Veronica said. She made herself sit up straight. If he could stay awake, she could, too. "The history of Ustanzia. The names of Us-tanzian officials." She pulled a file from her briefcase and opened it. "I have fifty-seven pictures of people you will come into contact with, Your Highness. I need you to memorize these faces and names, and—Lord, if there were only another way to do this." "Earphone," Joe said, flipping through the file. "Excuse me?" He looked up at her. "I wear a concealed earphone," he said. "And you have a mic. We set up a video camera so that you can see and hear everything I'm doing while you're some safe distance away—maybe even out in a surveillance truck. When someone comes up to shake my hand, you feed me his name and title and any other pertinent info I might need." He flipped through the photos and handed them back to Veronica. "Pick out the top ten and I'll look 'em over. The others I don't need to know." Veronica fixed him with a look, suddenly feeling extremely awake. What did he mean, the others he didn't need to know? "All fifty-seven of these people are diplomats Tedric knows quite well. You could run into any one of these people at any time during the course of this tour,” she said. "The original file had over three hundred faces and names." Joe shook his head. "I don't have time to memorize faces and names," he said. "With the high-tech equipment we have access to—" "You don't have time?" Veronica repeated, eyebrows lifted. "We're all running out of time, Lieutenant. It's my task to prepare you. Let me decide what there is and isn't time for." Joe leaned forward. "Look, Ronnie, no offense, but I'm used to preparing for an operation at my own speed," he said. "I appreciate everything you're trying to do, but in all honesty, the way that Ted walks and talks is the least of my concerns. I've got this security thing to straighten out and—" "That's Kevin Laughton's job," she interrupted. "Not yours." "But it's my ass that's on the line," he said flatly. "FInCOM's going to change their security plans, or this operation is not going to happen." Veronica tapped her fingernails on the legal pad she was holding. "And if you don't look and act enough like Prince Tedric," she said tartly, "this operation is not going to happen, either." "Get me a tape," Joe countered. "Get me a videotape and an audiotape of the guy, and I promise you, I swear to you, I will look and act and sound exactly like Ted." Veronica's teeth were clenched tightly together in annoyance. "Details," she said tightly. "How will you learn the details? Assuming, of course, that you are able to miraculously transform yourself into European royalty simply by viewing a videotape?" "Write 'em down," Joe said without hesitation. "I retain written information better, anyway." The telephone rang and he paused briefly, listening while West answered it. "Lieutenant, it's for you," the FInCOM agent said. Joe reached for the extension. "Yo. Catalanotto here." Yo. The man answered the phone with "Yo" and Veronica was supposed to believe he'd be able to pass himself off as the prince, with little or no instruction from her?

"Mac," Joe said into the telephone. It was Admiral Forrest on the other end. "Great. Thanks for calling me back. What's the word on getting Alpha Squad out here?" How did a lieutenant get away with calling an admiral by his first name, anyway? Veronica had heard that Forrest had been a SEAL himself at one time in his long navy career. And from what little she knew about SEALs so far, she suspected they were unconventional in more than just their warfare tactics. Joe's jaw was tight and the muscles in the side of his face were working as he listened to Forrest speak. He swore sharply, not bothering to try to disguise his bad language. As Veronica watched, he rubbed his forehead—the first sign he'd given all day that he was weary. "FInCOM has raised hell before," he said. "That hasn't stopped us in the past." There was a pause and he added hotly, "Their security is lax, sir. Damn, you know that as well as I do." Another pause. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to do that." Joe glanced up and into Veronica's watching eyes. She looked away, suddenly self-conscious about the fact that she was openly eavesdropping. As she shuffled through the file of photographs, she was aware of his gaze still on her. "Before you go, sir," he said into the telephone. "I need another favor. I need audio- and videotapes of Tedric sent to my room ASAP." Veronica looked up at that, and directly into Joe's eyes. "Thanks, Admiral," he said and hung up the phone. "He'll have 'em sent right over," he said to Veronica as he stood. He looked as if he were about to leave, to go somewhere. But she didn't even get a chance to question him. "FInCOM's having a briefing about the tour locations here in D.C.," Joe said. "I need to be there." "But-" "Why don't you take a nap?" Joe said. He looked at his watch, and Veronica automatically glanced at hers. It was nearly five o'clock in the evening. "We'll meet back here at twenty-one hundred hours." Veronica quickly counted on her fingers. Nine o'clock. "No," she said, standing. "That's too long. I can give you an hour break, but—" "This briefing's important," Joe said. "It'll be over at twenty-hundred, but I'll need an extra hour." Veronica shook her head in exasperation. "Kevin Laughton doesn't even want you there," she said. "You'll spend the entire time arguing—" "Damn straight, I'm going to argue," Joe said. "If FlnCOM insists on assuming the tangos are going to mosey on up to the front door and ring the bell before they strike, then I've got to be there, arguing to keep the back door protected." Joe was already heading toward the door. West and Freeman scrambled to their feet, following him. "Put those details you were talking about in writing," Joe suggested. "I'll see you in a few hours." Veronica all but stamped her foot. "You're supposed to be working with me," she said. "You can't just... leave…" But he was gone. Veronica threw her pad and pen onto the table in frustration. Time was running out.

Chapter 6 Veronica woke up from her nap at seven-thirty, still exhausted but too worried to sleep. How was Joe going to learn to act like Prince Tedric if he wouldn't give her any time to properly teach him? She'd made lists and more lists of details and information Joe had no way of knowing—things like, the prince was right-handed. That was normally not a problem, except she'd noticed that Joe was a lefty. She'd written down trivial information such as the fact that Tedric always twirled the signet ring he wore on his right hand when he was thinking. Veronica got up from the table and started to pace, alternately worried, frustrated and angry with Joe. Who in blazes actually cared what Tedric did with his jewelry? Who, truly, would notice? And why was she making lists of details when basic things such as Tedric's walk and ramrod-straight posture were being ignored? Restless, Veronica pawed through the clothes in her suitcase, searching for a pair of bike shorts and her exercise bra. It was time to try to release some of this nervous energy. She dug down farther and found her favorite tape. Smiling grimly, she crossed to the expensive stereo system built into the wail and put the tape into the tape deck. She pushed Play and music came on. She cranked the volume. The tape contained an assorted collection of her favorite songs—loud, fast songs with pulsating beats. It was good music, familiar music, loud music. Her sneakers were on the floor of the closet near the bathroom. As Veronica sat on the floor to slip them onto her feet and tie them tightly, she let the music wash over her. Already she felt better. She scrambled up and into the center of the living room, pushing the furniture back and away, clearing the floor, giving herself some space to move. With the furniture out of the way, Veronica started slowly, stretching out her tired muscles. When she was properly warmed up, she closed her eyes and let the music embrace her. And then she began to dance. Halfway through the tape, it came to her—the answer to her frustration and impotent anger. She had been hired to teach Joe to act like the prince. With his cooperation, the task was formidable. Without his cooperation, it was impossible. If he failed to cooperate, she would have to threaten to withdraw. Yes, that was exactly what she had to do. At nine o'clock, when she went down the hall to the royal suite, she would march right up to Joe and look him in the eye and— A man wearing all black was standing just inside her balcony doorway, leaning against the wall, watching her dance. Veronica leaped backward, her body reacting to the unannounced presence of a large intruder before her brain registered the fact that it was Joe Catalanotto. Heart pounding, chest heaving, she tried to catch her breath as she stared at him. How in God's name had Joe gotten into her room? Joe stared, too, caught in the ocean-blueness of Veronica's eyes as the music pounded around them. She looked frightened, like a wild animal, uncertain whether to freeze or flee. Turning suddenly, she reached for the stereo and switched the music off. The silence was abrupt and jarring. Her red curls swung and bounced around her shoulders as she turned rapidly back to look at him again. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "Proving a point," he replied. His voice sounded strained and hoarse to his own ears. There was no mystery as to why that was. Seeing her like this had made his blood pressure rise, as well as other things. "I don't understand," she said, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face, searching for an answer. "How did you get in? My door was locked." Joe gestured to the sliding door that led to the balcony. "No, it wasn't. In fact, it was open. Warm night. If you breathe deeply, you can almost smell the cherry blossoms." Veronica was staring at him, struggling to reconcile his words with the truth as she knew it. This room was on the tenth floor. Ten stories up, off the ground. Visitors didn't simply stroll in through the balcony door. Joe couldn't keep his gaze from sliding down her body. Man, she was one hot package. In those skintight purple-and-turquoise patterned shorts and that tight, black, racer-backed top that exposed a firm, creamy midriff, with all those beautiful red curls loose around her pale shoulders, she looked positively steamy. She was slender, but not skinny as he'd thought. Her waist was small, her stomach flat, flaring out to softly curving hips and a firm, round rear end. Her legs were incredible, but he'd already known that. Still, in those tight shorts, her shapely legs seemed to go on and on and on forever, leading his eyes to her derriere. Her breasts were full, every curve, every detail intimately outlined by the stretchy fabric of her top. And, God, the way she'd been dancing when he'd first climbed onto the balcony had exuded a raw sensuality, a barely contained passion. He'd been right about her. She had been hiding something underneath those boxy, conservative suits and that cool, distant attitude. Who would have guessed she would spend her personal time dancing like some vision on MTV?

She was still breathing hard from dancing. Or maybe—and more likely—she was breathing hard from the sudden shock he'd given her. He'd actually been standing inside the balcony door for about ten minutes before she looked up. He'd been in no hurry to interrupt. He could have stayed there, quite happily, and watched her dance all night. Well, maybe not all night... Veronica took a step back, away from him, as if she could see his every thought in his eyes. Her own eyes were very wide and incredibly, brilliantly blue. "You came in...from the balcony?" Joe nodded and held something out to her. It was a flower, Veronica realized. He was holding a rather tired and bruised purple-and-gold pansy, its petals curled up for the night. She'd seen flowers just like it growing in flower beds outside the hotel. "First I climbed down to the ground and got this," Joe said, his husky voice soft and seductive, warmly intimate. "It's proof I was actually there." He was still holding the flower out to her, but Veronica couldn't move, her mind barely registering the words he spoke. A black band was across his forehead, holding his long hair in place. He was wearing black pants and a long-sleeved black turtleneck, with some kind of equipment vest over it, even though the spring night was quite warm. Oddly enough, his feet were bare. He wasn't smiling, and his face looked harsh and unforgiving. And dangerous. Very, very dangerous. Veronica gazed at him, her heart in her throat. As he stepped closer and pressed the flower into her hand, she was pulled into the depths of his eyes. The fire she saw there became molten. His mouth was hard and hungry as his gaze raked her body. And then his meaning cut through. He'd climbed down to the ground... ? And back up again? Ten stories? "You climbed up the outside of the hotel and no one stopped you?" Veronica looked down at the flower, hoping he wouldn't notice the trembling in her voice. He crossed to the sliding door and pulled the curtain shut. Was that for safety's sake, or for privacy? Veronica wondered as she turned away. She was afraid he might see his unconcealed desire echoed in her own eyes. Desire? What was wrong with her? It was true, Joe Catalanotto was outrageously good-looking. But despite his obvious physical attributes, he was rude, tactless and disrespectful, rough in his manners and appearance. In fact, he was about as far from a being a prince as any man she'd ever known. They'd barely even exchanged a civil conversation. All they did was fight. So why on earth could she think of nothing but the touch of his hands on her skin, his lips on hers, his body... ? "No one saw me climbing down or up," Joe said, his voice surrounding her like soft, rich velvet. “There are no guards posted on this side of the building. The FInCOM agents don't see the balcony for what it is—a back door. An accessible and obvious back door." "It's so far from the ground," she countered in disbelief. "It was an easy climb. Under an hour." Under an hour. This is what he'd been doing with his time, Veronica realized suddenly. He should have been working with her, learning how to act like Tedric, and instead he was climbing up and down the outside of the hotel like some misguided superhero. Anger flooded through her. Joe took a step forward, closing the small gap between them. The urge to touch her hair, to skim the softness of her cheek with his knuckle, was overpowering. This was not the scenario he'd imagined when he'd climbed up the side of the hotel and onto her balcony. He'd expected to find Veronica hard at work, scribbling furiously away on the legal pad she always carried, or typing frantically into her laptop computer. He'd expected her to be wearing something that hid her curves and disguised her femininity. He'd expected her hair to be pinned up off her neck. He'd expected her to look up at him, gasping in startled surprise, as he walked into the room. And, yeah, he'd expected her to be impressed when he told her he'd scaled the side of the hotel in order to prove that FInCOM's security stank. Instead, finally over her initial shock at seeing him there, Veronica folded her arms across her delicious-looking breasts and glared at him. "I can't believe this," she said. "I'm supposed to be teaching you how to fool the bloody world into thinking you're Prince Tedric and you're off playing commando games and climbing ten stories up the outside of this hotel?" "I'm not a commando, I'm a SEAL," Joe said, feeling his own temper rise. "There's a difference. And I'm not playing games. FInCOM's security stinks." "The President of the United States hasn't had any qualms about FInCOM's ability to protect him," Veronica said tersely. "The President of the United States is followed around by fifteen Finks, ready to jump into the line of fire and take a bullet for him if necessary," Joe countered. He broke away, pulling off the headband and running his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. "Look, Ronnie, I didn't come here to fight with you." "Is that supposed to be an apology?" It wasn't, and she knew it as well as he did. "No."

Veronica laughed in disbelief at his blunt candor. "No," she repeated. "Of course not. Silly me. Whatever could I have been thinking?" "I can't apologize," Joe said tightly. "Because I haven't done anything wrong." "You've wasted time," Veronica told him. "My time. Maybe you don't understand, but we now have less than twenty-four hours to make this charade work." "I'm well aware of the time we have left," Joe said. "I've looked at those videotapes Mac Forrest sent over. This is not going to be hard. In fact, it's going to be a piece of cake. I can pose as the prince, no problem. You've gotta relax and trust me." He turned and picked up the telephone from one of the end tables Veronica had pushed aside to clear the living-room floor of furniture. "I need you to make a phone call for me, okay?" Veronica took the receiver from his hand and hung the phone back up. "No," she said, icily. "I need you to stop being so bloody patronizing, to stop patting my hand and telling me to relax. I need you to take me seriously for one damned minute." Joe laughed. He couldn't help himself. She was standing there, looking like some kind of hot, steamed-up-windows dream, yet sounding, even in anger, as if she was trying to freeze him to death. "Ah, you find this funny, do you?" Her eyes were blue ice. "I assure you, Lieutenant, you can't do this without me, and I am very close to walking out the bloody door." She was madder than hell, and Joe knew the one thing he shouldn't do was keep laughing. But damned if he couldn't stop. "Ronnie," he said, pretending he was coughing instead of laughing. Still, he couldn't hide his smile. “Ronnie, Ronnie, I do take you seriously, honey. Honest." Her hands were on her hips now, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. "You are such a....a jerk!" she said. "Tell me, is your real intention to... to... foul this up so royally that you won't have to place yourself in danger by posing as the prince?" Joe's smile was wiped instantly off his face, and Veronica knew with deadly certainty that she'd gone too far. He took a step toward her, and she took a step back, away from him. He was very tall, very broad and very angry. "I volunteered for this job, babe," he told her, biting off each word. "I'm not here for my health, or for a paycheck, or for fame and fortune or for whatever the hell you're here for. And I'm sure as hell not here to be some kind of lousy martyr. If I end up taking a bullet for Prince Tedric, it's going to be despite the fact that I've done everything humanly possible to prevent it. Not because some pencil-pushing agency like FInCOM let the ball drop on standard security procedures years ago." Veronica was silent. What could she possibly say? He was right. If security wasn't tight enough, he could very well be killed. She couldn't fault him for wanting to be sure of his own safety. And she didn't want to feel this odd jolt of fear and worry she felt, thinking about all of the opportunities the terrorists would have to train their gunsights on Joe's head. He was brave to have volunteered for this mission—particularly since she knew he had no love for Tedric Cortere. She shouldn't have implied otherwise. "I'm sorry," Veronica murmured. She looked down at the carpet, unable to meet his eyes. "And as for taking you seriously..." Joe reached out and with one finger underneath her chin, he lifted her head so that she was forced to look up into his eyes. "You're wrong. I take you very seriously." The connection was there between them—instant and hot. The look in Joe's eyes was mesmerizing. It erased everything, everything between them —all the angry words and mistrust, all the frustration and misunderstandings—and left only this basic, almost primitive attraction, this simplest of equations. Man plus woman. It would be so easy to simply give in. Veronica felt her body sway toward him as if pulled by the tides, ancient and unquestioning. All she had to do was let go, and there would be only desire, consuming and overpowering. It would surround them, possess them. It would take them on a flight to paradise. But that flight was a round trip. When it ended, when they lay spent and exhausted, they'd be right here—right back where they'd started. And then reality would return. Veronica would be embarrassed at having been intimate with a man she barely knew. Joe would no doubt be smug. And they would have wasted yet another hour or two of their precious preparation time. Joe was obviously thinking along the exact same lines. He ran his thumb lightly across her lips. "What do you think, Ronnie?" he asked, his voice husky. "Do you think we could stop after just one kiss?" Veronica pulled away, her heart pounding even harder. If he kissed her, she would be lost. "Don't be foolish," she said, working hard to keep her voice from shaking. "When I make love to you," he said, his voice low and dangerous and very certain, "I'm going to take my sweet time." She turned to face him with a bravado she didn't quite feel. "When?" she said. "Of all the macho, he-man audacity! Not if, but when I make love to you.... Don't hold your breath, Lieutenant, because it's not going to happen." He smiled a very small, very infuriating smile and let his eyes wander down her body. "Yes, it is."

"Ever hear the expression 'cold day in hell'?" Veronica asked sweetly. She crossed the room toward her suitcase, found a sweatshirt and pulled it over her head. She was still perspiring and was still much too warm, but she would have done damn near anything to cover herself from the heat of his gaze. He picked up the telephone again. "Look, Ronnie, I need you to call my room and ask to speak to me." "But you're not there." "That's the point," he said. "The boys from FlnCOM think I'm napping, nestled all snug in my bed. It's time to shake them up." Careful to keep her distance, careful not to let their fingers touch, Veronica took the phone from Joe and dialed the number for the royal suite. West picked up the phone. "This is Ms. St. John," she said. "I need to speak to Lieutenant Catalanotto." "I'm sorry, ma'am," West replied. "He's asleep." "This is urgent, Mr. West," she said, glancing up at Joe, who nodded encouragingly. "Please wake him." "Hang on." There was silence on the other end, and then shouting, as if from a distance. Veronica met Joe's eyes again. "I think they're shaken up," she said. "Hang up," he said, and she dropped the receiver into the cradle. He picked up the phone then, and dialed. "Do you. have a pair of sweats or some jeans to pull on over those shorts?" he asked Veronica. "Yes," she said. "Why?" "Because in about thirty seconds, fifty FInCOM agents are going to be pounding on your door— Hello? Yeah. Kevin Laughton, please." Joe covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked at Veronica who was standing, staring at him. "Better hurry." He uncovered the phone. "Yeah, I'm still here." Veronica scrambled for her suitcase, yanking out the one pair of blue jeans she'd packed for this trip. "He is?" she heard Joe say into the telephone. "Well, maybe you should interrupt him." She kicked off her sneakers and pulled the jeans on, hopping into them one leg at a time. "Why don't you tell him Joe Catalanotto's on the line. Catalanotto." He sighed in exasperation. "Just say Joe Cat, okay? He'll know who I am." Veronica pulled the jeans up and over her hips, aware that Joe was watching her dress. She buttoned the waistband and drew up the zipper, not daring to look in his direction. When / make love to you... Not if, when. As if their intimate joining were already a given—indisputable and destined to take place. "Yo, Laughton," Joe said into the telephone. "How's it going, pal?" He laughed. "Yeah, I thought I'd give you a lit tle firsthand demonstration, and identify FInCOM's security weak spots. How do you like it so far?" He pulled the receiver away from his ear. "That good, huh? Yeah, I went for a little walk down in the gardens.” He met Veronica's eyes and grinned, clearly amused. "Yeah, I was struck by the beauty of the flowers, so I brought one with me up to Ms. St. John's room to share with her, and—" He looked at the receiver, suddenly gone dead in his hands, and then at Veronica. "I guess they're on their way," he said.

Chapter 7 “I need more coffee," Veronica said. How could Joe be so awake? She hadn't seen him yawn even once as they'd worked through the night. "I think my laryngitis idea might work-after all, we've been giving the news media reports that Prince Tedric is ill. You wouldn't have to speak and—" "You know, I'm not a half-bad mimic," Joe insisted. "If I work on it more, I can do a decent imitation of Prince Tedric." Veronica closed her eyes. "No offense, Joe, but I seriously doubt you can imitate Tedric's accent just from listening to a tape," she said. "We have better things to do with your time." Joe stood and Veronica opened her eyes, gazing up at him. "I'm getting you that coffee," he said. "You're slipping. You just called me 'Joe.'" "Forgive me, Your Royal Highness," she murmured. But he didn't smile. He just looked down at her, the expression in his eyes unreadable. "I like Joe better," he finally said. "This isn't going to work, is it?" she asked quietly. She met his eyes steadily, ready to accept defeat. Except he wasn't defeated. Not by any means. He'd been watching videotapes and listening to audiotapes of Prince Tedric in all of his spare moments. It was true that he hadn't had all that many spare moments, but he was well on his way to understanding the way Tedric moved and spoke. "I can do this," Joe said. "Hell, I look just like the guy. Every time I catch my reflection and see my hair this way, I see Ted looking back at me and it scares me to death. If it can fool me, it can fool everyone else. The tailor's delivering the clothes he's altered sometime tomorrow. It'll be easier for me to pretend I'm Tedric if I'm dressed for the part." Veronica gave him a wan smile. Still, it was a smile. She was so tired, she could barely keep her eyes open. She'd changed out of her jeans and back into her professional clothes hours ago. Her hair was up off her shoulders once again. "We've got to work on Tedric's walk. He's got this rather peculiar, rolling gait that…" "He walks like he's got a fireplace poker in his pants," Joe interrupted her. Veronica's musical laughter echoed throughout the quiet room. One of the FInCOM agents glanced up from his position guarding the balcony entrance. "Yes," she said to Joe. "You're right. He does. Although I doubt anyone's described it quite that way before." "I can walk that way," Joe said. He stood, and as Veronica watched, he marched stiffly across the room. "See?" He turned back to look at her. She had her face in her hands and her shoulders were shaking, and Joe was positive for one heart-stopping moment that she was crying. He started toward her, and knelt in front of her and— She was laughing. She was laughing so hard, tears were rolling down her face. "Hey," Joe said, faintly insulted. "It wasn't that bad." She tried to answer, but could get no words out. Instead, she just waved her hand futilely at him and kept on laughing. Her laughter was infectious, and before long, Joe started to chuckle and then laugh, too. "Do it again," she gasped, and he stood and walked, like Prince Tedric, across the room and back. Veronica laughed even harder, doubling over on the couch. The FInCOM agent was watching them both as if they were crazy or hysterical—-which probably wasn't that far from the truth. Veronica wiped at her face, trying to catch her breath. "Oh, Lord," she said. "Oh, God, I haven't laughed this hard in years." Her eyelashes were wet with her tears of laughter, and her eyes sparkled as, still giggling, she looked up at Joe. "I don't suppose I can talk you into doing that again?" "No way," Joe said, grinning back at her. "I draw the line at being humiliated more than twice in a row." "I wasn't laughing at you," she said, but her giggles intensified. "Yes, I was," she corrected herself. "I was laughing at you. I'm so sorry. You must think I'm frightfully rude." She covered her mouth with her hand, but still couldn't stop laughing—at least not entirely. "I think I only looked funny because I'm not dressed like the prince," Joe argued. "I think if I were wearing some sequined suit and walking that way, you wouldn't be able to tell the two of us apart." "And / think," Veronica said. "/ think... I think it's hopeless. I think it's time to give up." Her eyes suddenly welled with real tears, and all traces of her laughter vanished. "Oh, damn..." She turned away, but she could neither stop nor hide her sudden flow of tears. She heard Joe's voice, murmuring a command to the FInCOM agents, and then she felt him sit next to her on the sofa. "Hey," he said softly. "Hey, come on, Veronica. It's not that bad."

She felt his arms go around her and she stiffened only slightly before giving in. She let him pull her back against his chest, let him tuck her head in to his shoulder. He was so warm, so solid. And he smelled so wonderfully good... He just held her, rocking slightly, and let her cry. He didn't try to stop her. He just held her. Veronica was getting his shirt wet, but she couldn't seem to stop, and he didn't seem to mind. She could feel his hand in her hair, gently stroking, calming, soothing. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. She could hear it rumble slightly in his chest. "You know, this guy we're after?" Joe said. "The terrorist? His name's Diosdado. One name. Kind of like Cher or Madonna, but not so much fun. Still, I bet he's as much of a celebrity in Peru, where he's from. He's the leader of an organization with a name that roughly translates as 'The Cloud of Death.' He and a friend of his—a man named Salustiano Vargas—have claimed responsibility for more than twelve hundred deaths. Diosdado's signature was on the bomb that blew up that passenger flight from London to New York three years ago. Two hundred and fifty-four people died. Remember that one?" Veronica nodded. She most certainly did. The plane had gone down halfway across the Atlantic. There were no survivors...Her tears slowed as she listened to him talk. "Diosdado and his pal Vargas took out an entire busload of U.S. sailors that same year," Joe said. "Thirty-two kids—the oldest was twenty-one years old." He was quiet for a moment. "Mac Forrest's son was on that bus." Veronica closed her eyes. "Oh, God..." "Johnny Forrest. He was a good kid. Smart, too. He looked like Mac. Same smile, same easygoing attitude, same tenacity. I met him when he was eight. He was the little brother I never had." Joe's voice was husky with emotion. He cleared his throat. "He was nineteen when Diosdado blew him to pieces." Joe fell silent, just stroking Veronica's hair. He cleared his throat again, but when he spoke, his voice was still tight. "Those two bombings put Diosdado and The Cloud of Death onto the Most Wanted list. Intel dug deep and came up with a number of interesting facts. Diosdado had a last name, and it was Perez. He was born in 1951, the youngest son in a wealthy family. His name means, literally, 'God's gift.'" Joe laughed a short burst of disgusted air. "He wasn't God's gift to Mac Forrest, or any of the other families of those dead sailors. Intel also found out that the sonuvabitch had a faction of his group right here in D.C. But when the CIA went to investigate, something went wrong. It turned into a firefight, and when it was over, three agents and ten members of The Cloud of Death were dead. Seven more terrorists were taken prisoner, but Diosdado and Salustiano Vargas were gone. The two men we'd wanted the most got away. They went deep underground. Ru mor was Diosdado had been shot and badly hurt. He was quiet for years—no sign of him at all—until a few days ago, when apparently Vargas took a shot at Prince Tedric." Joe was quiet again for another moment. "So there it is," he said. "The reason we can't just quit. The reason this operation is going to work. We're going to stop those bastards for good, one way or another." Veronica wiped her face with the back of her hand. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried like this. It must have been the stress getting to her. The stress and the fatigue. Still, to burst into tears like that and... She sat up, pulling away from Joe and glancing around the room, alarmed, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She'd lost it. She'd absolutely lost it—and right in front of Joe and all those FInCOM agents. But the FInCOM agents were gone. "They're outside the door," Joe said, correctly reading her thoughts. "I figured you'd appreciate the privacy." "Thank you," Veronica murmured. She was blushing, and the tip of her nose was pink from crying. She looked exhausted and fragile. Joe wanted to wrap her back in his arms and hold her close. He wanted to hold her as she closed her eyes and fell asleep. He wanted to keep her warm and safe from harm, and to convince her that everything was going to be all right. She glanced at him, embarrassment lighting her crystal blue eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to—" "You're tired." He gave her an easy excuse and a gentle smile. They were alone. They were alone in the room. As Joe held her gaze, he knew she was aware of that, too. Her hair was starting to come free from its restraints, and strands curled around her face. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and lightly brushing the last of her tears from her cheek. Her skin was so soft and warm. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't even move. She just gazed at him, her eyes blue and wide and so damned innocent. Joe couldn't remember ever wanting to kiss a woman more in his entire life. Slowly, so slowly, he leaned forward, search ing her eyes for any protest, alert for any sign that he was taking this moment of truce too far. Her eyes flickered and he saw her desire. She wanted him to kiss her, too. But he also saw doubt and a flash of fear. She was afraid. Afraid of what? Of him? Of herself? Or maybe she was afraid that the overwhelming attraction they both felt would ignite in a violent, nearly unstoppable explosion of need.

Joe almost pulled back. But then her lips parted slightly, and he couldn't resist. He wanted a taste—just a taste—of her sweetness. So he kissed her. Slowly, gently pressing his lips to hers. A rush of desire hit him low in the gut and it took every ounce of control to keep from giving in to his need and pulling her hard into his arms, kissing her savagely, and running his hands along the curves of her body. Instead, he made himself slow down. Gently, so gently, he ran his tongue across her lips, slowly gaining passage to the softness of her mouth. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to move still more slowly, even slower now. She tasted of strawberries and coffee—an enticing combination of flavors. He caressed her tongue with his own and when she responded, when she opened her mouth to him, granting him access and deepening their kiss, he felt dizzy with pleasure. This was, absolutely, the sweetest kiss he'd ever shared. Slowly, still slowly, he explored the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her lips. He touched only her mouth with his, and the side of her face with the tips of his fingers. She wasn't locked in his arms, their bodies weren't pressed tightly together. Still, with this gentle, purest of kisses, she had the power to make his blood surge through his veins, to make his heart pound in a wild, frantic rhythm. He wanted her desperately. His body was straining to become joined with hers. And yet... This kiss was enough. It was exhilarating, and it made him feel incredibly happy. Happy in a way he'd never been even while making love to the other women he'd had relationships with—women he'd been attracted to and slept with, but hadn't particularly cared for. He felt a tightness in his chest, a weight of emotion he'd never felt before as, beneath his fingers, Veronica trembled. He pulled back then, and she locked away, unable to meet his eyes. "Well,” she said. "My word." "Yeah," Joe agreed. He hadn't intended to whisper, but he couldn't seem to speak any louder. "That was... unexpected." He couldn't entirely agree. He'd been expecting to kiss her ever since their eyes first met and the raw attraction sparked between them. What was unexpected was this odd sense of caring, this emotional noose that had somehow curled itself around his chest. It was faintly uncomfortable, and it hadn't disappeared even when he'd ended their kiss. She glanced at him. "Maybe we should get back to work." Joe shook his head. "No," he said. "I need a break, and you do, too." He stood, holding out his hand to her. "Come on, I'll walk you to your room. You can take a nap. I'll meet you back here in a few hours." Veronica didn't take his hand. She simply gazed up at him. "Come on," he said again. "Cut yourself some slack." But she shook her head. "There's no time." He gently touched her hair. "Yes, there is. There's definitely time for an hour of shut-eye," he said. "Trust me, Ronnie, you're gonna need it to concentrate." Joe could see indecision on her face. "How about forty minutes?" he added. "Forty winks. You can crash right here on the couch. I'll order some coffee and wake you up at—" he glanced at his watch " —oh-six-twenty." Slowly she nodded. "All right." He bent down and briefly brushed her lips with his. "Sleep tight," he said. She stopped him, touching the side of his face. "You're so sweet," she said, surprise in her voice. He had to laugh. He'd been called a lot of things in his life, and "sweet" wasn't one of them. "Oh, no, I'm not." Veronica's lips curved into a smile. "I didn't mean that to be an insult." Her smile faded and she looked away, suddenly awkward. "Joe, I have to be honest with you," she said quietly. "I think that kiss...was a mistake. I'm so tired, and I wasn't thinking clearly and, well, I hope you don't think that I... Well, right now it's not... We're not... It's a mistake. Don't you think?" Joe straightened. The noose around his chest was so damn tight he could hardly breathe. A mistake. Veronica thought kissing him had been a mistake. He shook his head slowly, hiding his disappointment behind a tight smile. "No, and I'm sorry you think that," he replied. "I thought maybe we had something there." "Something?" Veronica echoed, glancing up at him. This time it was Joe who looked away. He sat down next to her on the couch, suddenly tired. How could he explain what he meant, when he didn't

even know himself? Damn, he'd already said too much. What if she thought by "something" he meant he was falling in love with her? He pushed his hair back with one hand and glanced at Veronica. Yeah, she wanted him to fall in love with her about as much as she wanted a hole in the head. In the space of a heartbeat, he could picture her dismay, picture her imagining the restraining order she'd have to get to keep him away from her. He was rough and uncultured, blue-collar through and through. She hung out with royalty. It would be embarrassing and inconvenient for her to have some crazy, rough-edged, lovesick sailor following her around. Gazing into her eyes, he could see her trepidation. So he gave her a cocky smile and prayed that she couldn't somehow sense the tightness in his chest. "I thought we had something great between us," he said, leaning forward and putting his hand on her thigh. Veronica moved back on the couch, away from him. His hand fell aside. "Ah, yes," she said. "Sex. Exactly what I thought you meant." Joe stood. "Too bad." She glanced at him but didn't meet his gaze for more than a fraction of a second. "Yes, it is." He turned away, heading for the bedroom and his bed. Maybe some sleep would make this pressure in his chest lighten up or—please, God— even make it go away. "Please, don't forget to wake me," Veronica called. "Right," he said shortly and closed the door behind him. The knock on the door came quickly, no less than five minutes after Joe had called for coffee from room service. Man, he thought, people really hopped to it when they thought a guy had blue blood. West and the other FInCOM agent, Freeman, both drew their guns, motioning for Joe to move away from the door. It was an odd sensation. He was the one who usually did the protecting. The door opened, and it was the room-service waiter. West and Freeman handed Joe two steaming mugs of fragrant coffee. Joe carried them to the coffee table and set them down. Veronica was still asleep. She'd slid down on the couch so that her head was resting on the seat cushion. She clutched a legal pad to her chest. She looked incredibly beautiful. Her skin was so smooth and soft looking, it was all he could do not to reach out with one knuckle to touch her cheek. Veronica St. John. Who would have guessed he would have a thing for a prim-and-proper society girl named Veronica St. John? "Sinjin," for Pete's sake. But she wasn't interested in him. That incredible, perfect kiss they'd shared had been "a mistake." Like hell it had. Joe had had to force himself to fall asleep. Only his extensive training had kept him from lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and expending his energy by playing their kiss over and over and over again in his mind. He'd spent enough time doing that while he was in the shower, after he woke up. Each time he played that kiss over in his head, he tried to figure out what he'd done wrong, and each time, he came up blank. Finally he'd had to admit it—he'd done nothing wrong. That kiss had been perfect, not a mistake. Now all he had to do was convince Veronica of that fact. Yeah, right. She was stubborn as hell. He'd have a better chance of convincing the Mississippi River to flow north. The hell of it was, Joe found himself actually liking the girl, trying to make her smile. He wanted to get another look behind her so-very-proper British facade. Except he wasn't sure exactly where the facade ended and the real girl began. So far, he'd seen two very conflicting images— Veronica in her prim-and-proper work clothes, and Veronica dressed down to dance. He was willing to bet that the real woman was hidden somewhere in the middle. He was also willing to bet that she would never willingly reveal her true self. Especially not to him. Joe had more than just a suspicion that Veronica considered him substandard. He was the son of a servant, while she was a daughter of the ruling class. If she had a relationship with him, it would be a lark, a kick. She'd be slumming. Slumming. God, it was an ugly word. But, so what? So she'd be slumming. Big deal. What was he going to do if she approached him? Was he going to turn her down? Yeah, right. Like hell he'd turn her down. He could just picture the scenario.

Veronica knocks on his door in the middle of the night and he says, "Sorry, babe, I'm not into being used by curious debutantes who want a peek at the way the lower half lives and loves." Yeah, right. If she knocked on his door, he'd fling it open wide. Let her go slumming. Just let him be the one she was slumming with. Veronica stirred slightly, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch, and the legal pad she'd been holding fell out of her arms. Joe moved quickly and caught it before it hit the floor. Her hair was starting to come undone, and soft red wisps curled around her face. Her lips were slightly parted. They were so soft and delicate and delicious. He knew that firsthand. It didn't take much to imagine her lifting those exquisite lips to his for another perfect kiss—for a deep, demanding, soulful kiss that would rapidly escalate into more. Way more. And then what? Then they'd be lovers until she got tired of him, or he got tired of her. It would be no different from any of the other relationships he'd had. But so far, everything about this was different. Veronica St. John wasn't some woman he'd met in a bar. She hadn't approached him, handed him the keys to her car or her motel room and asked if he was busy for the next twenty-four hours. She hadn't even approached him at all. She wasn't his type. She was too high-strung, too uptight. But something he'd seen in her eyes promised a paradise the likes of which he'd never known. Hell, it was a paradise he was probably better off never knowing. Because what if he never got tired of her? There it was. Right out in the open. The big, ugly question he'd been trying to avoid. What if this noose that had tightened around his chest never went away? But that would never happen, right? He couldn't let Veronica's wealth and high-class manners throw him off. She was just a woman. All those differences he'd imagined were just that— imagined. So how come he was standing there like an idiot, staring at the girl? Why was he too damned chicken to touch her, to wake her up, to see her sleepy blue eyes gazing up at him? The answer was clear—because even if the impossible happened, and Joe actually did something as idiotically stupid as fall in love with Veronica St. John, she would never, not in a million years, fall in love with him. Sure, she might find him amusing for a few weeks or even months, but eventually she'd come to her senses and trade him in for a more expensive model. And somehow the thought of that stung. Even now. Even though there was absolutely nothing between them. Nothing, that is, but one perfect kiss and its promise of paradise. "Yo, Ronnie," Joe said, hoping she'd wake up without him touching her. But she didn't stir. He bent down and spoke directly into her ear. "Coffee's here. Time to wake up." Nothing. He touched her shoulder, shaking her very slightly. Nothing. He shook her harder, and she stirred, but her eyes stayed tightly shut. "Go away," she mumbled. Joe pulled her up into a sitting position. Her head lolled against the back of the couch. "Come on, babe," he said. "If I don't wake you up, you're going to be madder than hell at me." He gently touched the side of her face. "Come on, Ronnie. Look at me. Open your eyes." She opened them. They were astonishingly blue and very sleepy. "Be a dear, Jules, and ring the office. Tell them I'll be a few hours late. I'm bushed. Out too late last night." She smiled and blew a kiss into the air near his face. "Thanks, luv." Then she tucked her perfect knees primly up underneath her skirt, put her head back down on the seat cushions and tightly closed her eyes. Jules? Who the hell was Jules? "Come on, Veronica," Joe said almost desperately. He had no right to want to hog-tie this Jules, whoever the hell he was. No right at all. "You

wanted me to wake you up. Besides, you can't sleep on the couch. You'll wake up with one hell of a backache." She didn't open her eyes again, didn't sigh, didn't move. She was fast asleep, and not likely to wake up until she was good and ready. Gritting his teeth, Joe picked Veronica up and carried her into the bedroom. He set her gently down on the bed, trying to ignore the way she fit so perfectly in his arms. For half a second, he actually considered climbing in under the covers next to her. But he didn't have time. He had work to do. Besides, when he got in bed with Veronica St. John, it was going to be at her invitation. Joe took off her remaining shoe and put it on the floor, then covered her with the blankets. She didn't move, didn't wake up again. He didn't give in to the desire to smooth her hair back from her face. He just stared down at her for another brief moment, knowing that the smart thing to do would be to stay far, far away from this woman. He knew that she was trouble, the likes of which he'd never known. He turned away, needing a stiff drink. He settled for black coffee and set to work.

Chapter 8 Veronica sat bolt upright in the bed. Dear Lord in heaven, she wasn't supposed to be asleep, she was supposed to be working and—What time was it? Her watch read twelve twenty-four. Oh, no, she'd lost the entire morning. But she must have been exhausted. She couldn't even remember coming back here to her own room and— Oh, Lord! She realized she wasn't in her own room. She was in the prince's bedroom, in the prince's bed. No, not the prince's…Joe's…Joe's bed. With a dizzying flash, Veronica remembered Joe pulling her into his arms and kissing her so slowly, so sensuously that every bone in her body seemed to melt. He had rid them of their clothes like a seasoned professional and… But... she was still dressed. Right down to her hose, which were twisted and uncomfortable. She'd only dreamed about Joe Catalanotto and his seductive eyes and surprisingly gentle hands. The kiss had been real, though; and achingly, shockingly tender. It figured. Joe would know exactly how to kiss her to make her the most vulnerable, to affect her in the strongest possible way. She'd expected him to kiss her almost roughly—an echo of the sexual hunger she'd seen in his eyes. She could have handled that. She would have known what to say and do. Instead, Joe had given her a kiss that was more gentle than passionate, although the passion had been there, indeed. But Veronica was still surprised by the restraint he'd shown, by the sweetness of his mouth against hers, by the slow, lingering sensuality of his lips. She could very well have kissed him that way until the end of time. Time. Lord! She'd wasted so much time. Veronica swung her legs out of bed. She'd told Joe to wake her up. Obviously, he hadn't. Instead of waking her, he'd carried her here, into his bedroom. She found one of her shoes on the floor, and searched to no avail for the other. Perfect. One shoe off and one shoe on, having slept away most of the day, her dignity in shreds, she'd have to go out into the living room where the FInCOM agents were parked. She'd have to endure their knowing smirks. She was a wimp. She'd fallen asleep—and stayed asleep for hours—while on the job. And Joe... Joe hadn't kept his promise to wake her up. She'd been starting to...like him. She'd been attracted from the start, but this was different. She actually, genuinely liked him, despite the fact that he came from an entirely different world, despite the fact that they seemed to argue almost constantly. She even liked him despite the fact that he clearly wanted to make their relationship sexual. Despite all that, she'd thought he had been starting to like her, too. Her disappointment flashed quickly into anger. How dare he just let her sleep the day away? The bastard... Veronica fumed as she tucked her blouse back into the top of her skirt and straightened her jacket, thankful her suit was permanent-press and wrinkle-proof. Her hair wasn't quite so easy to fix, but she was determined not to emerge from the bedroom with it down and flowing around her shoulders. It was bad enough that she'd been sleeping in Joe's bed. She didn't want it to look as if he'd been in there with her. Finally, she took a deep breath and, single shoe in her hand and head held high, she went into the living room. If the FInCOM agents smirked condescendingly, Veronica refused to notice. All she knew was, Joe was not in the room. Good thing, or she might have lost even more of her dignity by throwing her shoe directly at his head. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," she said briskly to West and Freeman as she gathered up her briefcase. Ah, good. There was her missing shoe, on the floor in front of the sofa. She slipped them both onto her feet. "Might I ask where the lieutenant has gone?" "He's up in the exercise room," one of them answered. "Thanks so very much," Veronica said and breezed out the door. Joe had already run seven miles on the treadmill when Veronica walked into the hotel's luxuriously equipped exercise room. She looked a whole lot better. She'd showered and changed her clothes. But glory hallelujah, instead of putting on another of those Margaret Thatcher suits, she was wearing a plain blue dress. It was nothing fancy, obviously designed to deemphasize her femininity, yet somehow, on Veronica, it hugged her slender figure and made her look like a million bucks. Her shoes were still on the clunky side, but oh, baby, those legs... Joe wiped a trickle of sweat that ran down the side of his face. When had it gotten so hot in here? But her greeting to him was anything but warm.

"I'd like to have a word with you," Veronica said icily, without even a hello to start. "At your convenience, of course." "Did you have a good nap?" Joe asked. "Will you be much longer?" she asked, staring somewhere off to his left. That good, huh? Something had ticked her off, and Joe was willing to bet that that something was him. He'd let her sleep. Correction—he'd been unable to wake her up. It wasn't his fault, but now he was going to pay. "Can you give me five more minutes?" he countered. "I like to do ten miles without stopping." Joe wasn't even out of breath. Veronica could see from the computerized numbers lit up on the treadmill's controls, that he'd already run eight miles. But he didn't sound winded. He was sweating, though. His shorts were soaking wet. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his smooth, tanned skin was slick as his muscles worked. And, dear Lord, he had so many muscles. Beautifully sculpted, perfect muscles. He was gorgeous. He was watching her in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that covered the walls of the exercise room. Veronica leaned against the wall near the door and tried not to look at Joe, but everywhere she turned, she saw his reflection. She found herself staring in fascination at the rippling muscles in his back and thighs and arms, and then she started thinking about their kiss. Their fabulous, heart-stoppingly romantic kiss. Despite his nonchalant attitude, that kiss had been laced with tenderness and laden with emotion. It was unlike any kiss she'd experienced ever before. Veronica had been well aware that Joe had been holding back when he kissed her that way. She'd felt his restraint and the power of his control. She had seen the heat of desire in his eyes and known he wanted more than just a simple, gentle kiss. Veronica couldn't forget how he'd searched her eyes as he'd leaned toward her and… Excellent. Here she was, standing there reliving Joe's kiss while staring at his perfect buttocks. Veronica glanced up to find his amused dark eyes watching her watch his rear end. No doubt he could read her mind. Of course the fact that she'd been nearly drooling made it all the easier for him to know what she'd been thinking. She might as well give in, Veronica admitted to herself. She might as well sleep with the man and get it over with. After all, he was so bloody positive that it was going to happen. And after their kiss, despite her best intentions, all Veronica could think about was "When was he going to kiss her again?" Except he hadn't woken her up, which meant that he probably didn't even like her, and now she was mad as hell at him. Yes, kissing him had been a royal mistake. Although at the time, when she'd said those words, she'd meant another kind of mistake entirely. She'd meant their timing had been wrong. She'd meant it had been a mistake to add a romantic distraction to all of the other distractions already driving her half mad. Then, of course, he'd said what he'd said, and... The fact that Joe saw their growing relationship as one based purely on sex only added to Veronica's confusion. She knew that a man like Joe Catalanotto, a man accustomed to intrigue and high adventure, would never have any kind of long-term interest in a woman who worked her hardest to be steady and responsible and, well, quite frankly, boring. And even if that wasn't the case, even if by some miracle Joe fell madly and permanently in love with her, how on earth would she handle his leaving on dangerous, top-secret missions? How could she simply wave goodbye, knowing she might never again see him alive? No, thank you very much. So maybe this pure sex thing didn't add to her confusion. Maybe it simplified things. Maybe it took it all down to the simplest, most basic level. Lord knew, she was wildly attracted to him. And so what if she was watching him? Veronica met Joe's gaze almost defiantly, her chin held high. One couldn't have a body like that and expect people not to look. And watching Joe run was like watching a dancer. He was graceful and surefooted, his motion fluid and effortless. She wondered if he could dance. She wondered— not for the first time—what it would feel like to be held in his arms, dancing with him. As Veronica watched, Joe focused on his running, increasing his speed, his arms and legs churning, pumping. The treadmill was starting to whine, and just when Veronica was sure Joe was going to start to slow, when she was positive he couldn't keep up the pace a moment longer, he went even faster. His teeth were clenched, his face a picture of concentration and stamina. He looked like something savage, something wild. An untamed mancreature from the distant past. A ferocious, barbaric warrior come to shake up the civility of Veronica's carefully polite twentieth-century world. "Hoo-yah!" someone called out, and Joe's face broke into a wide smile as he looked up at three men, standing near the weight machine in the corner of the room. As quickly as his smile appeared, the barbarian was gone. Odd, Veronica hadn't noticed the other men before this. She'd been aware of the FInCOM agents lurking near her, but not these three men dressed in workout clothes. They seemed to know Joe. SEALs, Veronica guessed. They had to be the men Joe had asked Admiral Forrest to send. Joe slowed at last, returning the treadmill to a walking speed as he caught his breath. He stepped off and grabbed a towel, using it to mop his face as he came toward Veronica.

"What's up?" Joe was steaming. There was literally visible heat rising from his smooth, powerful shoulders. He stopped about six feet away from her, clearly not wanting to offend her by standing too close. His friends came and surrounded him, and Veronica was momentarily silenced by three additional pairs of eyes appraising her with frank male appreciation. Joe's eyes alone were difficult enough to handle. Joe glanced at the other men. "Get lost," he said. "This is a private conversation." "Not anymore," said one of them with a Western twang. He was almost as tall as Joe, but probably weighed forty pounds less. He held out his hand to Veronica. "I'm Cowboy, ma'am." She shook Cowboy's hand, and he held on to hers far longer than necessary, until Joe gave him a dark look. "All right, quick introductions," Joe said. "Lieutenant McCoy, my XO—executive officer—and Ensigns Becker and Jones. Also known as Blue, Harvard and Cowboy. Miss Veronica St. John. For you illiterates, it's spelled Saint and John, two words, but pronounced Sinjin. She's Prince Tedric's media consultant, and she's on the scheduling team for this op." Lt. Blue McCoy looked to be about Joe's age—somewhere in his early thirties. He was shorter and smaller than the other men, with the build of a long-distance runner and the blue eyes, wavy, thick blond hair and handsome face of a Hollywood star. Harvard—Ensign Becker—was a large black man with steady, intelligent brown eyes and a smoothly shaven head. Cowboy's hair was even longer than Blue McCoy's, and he wore it pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His eyes were green and sparkling, and his smile boyishly winsome. He looked like Kevin Costner's younger brother, and he knew it. He kept winking at her. "Pleased to meet you," Veronica said, shaking hands with both Blue and Harvard. She was afraid if she offered Cowboy her hand again, she might never get it back. "The pleasure's ail ours, ma'am," Cowboy said. "I love what you've done with the captain's hair." "Captain?" Veronica looked at Joe. "I thought you were a Lieutenant." "It's a term of endearment, ma'am," Blue said. He,too, had a thick accent, but his was from the Deep South. "Cat's in command, so sometimes he gets called Captain." "It's better than some of the other things they call me," Joe said. Cat. Admiral Forrest had also called Joe by that nickname. Cat. It fit. As Joe ran on the treadmill, he looked like a giant cat, so graceful and fluid. The nickname, while really just a shortened form of Catalanotto, wasn't too far off. "Okay, great," Joe said. "We've made nice. Now you boys get lost. Finish your PT, and let the grown-ups talk." Lt. McCoy took the other two men by the arms and pulled them toward weight-lifting equipment. Harvard began to bench-press heavy-looking weights while Cowboy spotted him, one eye still on Joe and Veronica. "Now let's try this one more time," Joe said with a smile. "What's up? You look like you want to court-martial me." "Only if the punishment for mutiny is still execution," Veronica said, smiling tightly. Joe looped his towel around his neck. "Mutiny," he said. "That's a serious charge—especially considering I did my damnedest to wake you up." Veronica crossed her arms. "Oh, and I suppose your 'damnedest' included putting me in a nice soft bed, where I'd be sure to sleep away most of the day?" she said. She glanced around, at both the FInCOM agents and the other SEALs, and lowered her voice. "I might also point out that it was hardly proper for me to sleep in your bed. It surely looked bad, and it implied...certain things." "Whoa, Ronnie." Joe shook his head. "That wasn't my intention. I thought you'd be more comfortable, that's all. I wasn't trying to—" "I'm an unmarried woman, Lieutenant," Veronica interrupted. "Regardless of what you intended, it is not in my best interests to take a nap in any man's bed." Joe laughed. "I think maybe you're overreacting just a teeny little bit. This isn't the 1890s. I don't see how your reputation could be tarnished simply from napping in my bed. If I were in there with you, it'd be an entirely different matter. But if you want to know the truth, I'd be willing to bet no one even noticed where you were sleeping this morning, or even that you were asleep. And if they did, that's their problem." "No, it's my problem," Veronica said sharply, her temper flaring. "Tell me, Lieutenant, are there many women in the SEALs?" "No," Joe said. "There're none. We don't allow women in the units." "Aha," Veronica retorted. "In other words, you're not familiar with sexual discrimination, because your organization is based on sexual discrimination. That's just perfect."

"Look, if you want to preach feminism, fine," Joe said, his patience disintegrating, "but do me a favor—hand me a pamphlet to read on the subject and be done with it. Right now, I'm going to take a shower." By now they had the full, unconcealed attention of the three other SEALs and the FInCOM agents, but Veronica was long past caring. She was angry—angry that he had let her sleep, angry that he was so macho, angry that he had kissed her—and particularly angry that she had liked his kiss so damn much. She blocked Joe's way, stabbing at his broad chest with one finger. "Don't you dare run away from me, Lieutenant," she said, her voice rising with each word. "You're operating in my world now, and I will not have you jeopardizing my career through your own stupid ignorance." He flinched as if she'd slapped him in the face and turned away, but not before she saw the flash of hurt in his eyes. Hurt that was rapidly replaced by anger. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Joe said through clenched teeth. "I was only trying to be nice. I thought sleeping on the couch would screw up your back, but forget it. From now on, I won't bother, okay? From now on, we'll go by the book." He pushed past her and went into the locker room. The FInCOM agents and the three other SEALs followed, leaving Veronica alone in the exercise room. Her reflection gazed back at her from all angles. Perfect. She'd handled that just perfectly. Veronica had come down here to find out why he'd let her sleep so long, and wound up in a fierce argument about sexual discrimination and her pristine reputation. That wasn't the real issue at all. It had just been something to shout about, because Lord knew she couldn't walk up to him and shout that his kiss had turned her entire world upside down and now she was totally, utterly and quite thoroughly off-balance. Instead, she had called him names. Stupid. Ignorant. Words that had clearly cut deep, despite the fact that he was anything but stupid and far from ignorant. What Veronica had done was take out all her anger and frustration on the man. But if anyone was to blame here, it was herself. After all, she was the one foolish enough to have fallen asleep in the first place. "Hey, Cat!" Cowboy called loudly as he showered in the locker room. "Tell me more about fair Veronica 'Sinjin.'" "There's nothing to tell," Joe answered evenly. He glanced up to find Blue watching him. Damn. Blue could read his mind. Joe's connection to Blue was so tight, there were few thoughts that appeared in Joe's head that Blue wasn't instantly aware of. But what would Blue make of the thoughts Joe was having right now? What would he make of the sick, nauseous feeling Joe had in the pit of his stomach? Stupid. Ignorant. Well, that about summed it all up, didn't it? Joe certainly knew now exactly what Veronica St. John thought of him, didn't he? He certainly knew why she'd thought that kiss was a mistake. Cowboy shut off the water. Dripping, he came out of the stall and into the room. "You sure there's nothing you can tell us about Veronica, Cat? Oh, come on, buddy, I can think of a thing or two,” he said, taking a towel from a pile of clean ones and giving himself a perfunctory swipe. "Like, are you and she doing the nightly naked two-step?" "No," Joe replied flatly, pulling on his pants. "You planning on it?" Cowboy asked. He slipped into one of the plush hotel robes that were hanging on the wall. "Back off, Jones," Blue said warningly. "No." Joe answered Cowboy tersely as he yanked his T-shirt over his head and thrust his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. "Cool," Cowboy said. "Then you don't mind if I give her a try…" Joe spun and grabbed the younger man by the lapels of his robe, slamming him up against a row of metal lockers with a crash. "Stay the hell away from her," he snapped. He let go of Cowboy, and turned to include Blue and Harvard in his glare. "All of you. Is that clear?" He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The noise echoed as Cowboy stared at Harvard and Blue. "Shoot," he finally said. "Anybody have any idea what the hell's going on?"

Chapter 9 Room service arrived at the royal suite before Joe did. "Set it out on the table, please," Veronica instructed the waiter. She'd ordered a full-course meal, from appetizers to dessert, complete with three different wines. This afternoon's lesson was food—or more precisely, eating food. There was a hundred-dollar-a-plate charity luncheon in Boston, Massachusetts, that had been left on the prince's tour schedule. Both the location and the visibility of the event were right for a possible assassination attempt, but it was more than a hi-and-bye appearance. It would involve more than Joe's ability to stand and wave as if he were Prince Tedric. The hotel-suite door opened, and Joe came inside, followed by three FInCOM agents. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his T-shirt underneath, and he met Veronica's eyes only briefly before turning to the laden dining table. It was quite clear that he was still upset with her. "What's this?" he asked. "This is practice for the Boston charity luncheon," Veronica replied. "I hope you're hungry." Joe stared at the table. It was loaded with dishes covered with plate-warmers. It was set for two, with a full array of cutlery and three different wineglasses at each setting. What, didn't Miss High-and-Mighty think he knew how to eat with a fork? Didn't she know he dined with admirals and four-star generals at the Officers' Club? Stupid. Ignorant. Joe nodded slowly, wishing he was still pissed off, wishing he was still nursing the slow burn he'd felt upstairs in the exercise room. But he wasn't. He was too tired to be angry now. He was too tired to feel anything but disappointment and hurt. Damn, it made him feel so vulnerable. The room-service waiter was standing next to the table, looking down his snotty nose at Joe's unbuttoned shirt. Gee, maybe the waiter and Veronica had had a good laugh about Joe before he'd arrived. “This is unnecessary," he said, turning back to look at Veronica. Man, she looked pretty in that blue dress. Her hair was tied back with some kind of ribbon, and— Forget about her, he told himself harshly. She was just some rich girl who'd made it more than clear that they lived in two different worlds, and there was no crossing the border. He was stupid and ignorant, and kissing him had been a mistake. ' 'Believe it or not, I already know which fork is for the salad and which fork is for the dessert. It might come as a shock to you, but I also know how to use a napkin and drink from a glass." Veronica actually looked surprised, her blue eyes growing even wider. "Oh," she said. "No. No, I knew that. That's not what this is." She let a nervous laugh escape. "You actually thought / thought I'd need to teach you how to eat?" Joe was not amused. "Yeah." My God, he was serious. He was standing there, his powerful arms folded across his broad chest, staring at her with those mystifying dark eyes. Veronica remembered that flash of hurt in Joe's eyes when they'd argued in the exercise room. What had she said? She'd called him stupid and ignorant. Oh, Lord. She still couldn't believe those words had come out of her mouth. "I'm so sorry," she said. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I owe you an apology," Veronica explained. "I was very angry this afternoon, and I said some things I didn't mean. The truth is, I was frustrated and angry with myself. / was the one who fell asleep. It was all my fault, and I tried to take it out on you. I shouldn't have. I am sorry." Joe looked at the waiter and then at the FlnCOM agents who were sitting on the sofa, listening to every word. He crossed to the door and opened it invitingly. "You guys mind stepping outside for a sec?" The FlnCOM agents looked at each other and shrugged. Rising to their feet, they crossed to the door and filed out into the corridor. Joe turned to the waiter. "You, too, pal." He gestured toward the open door. "Take a hike." He waited until the waiter was outside, then closed the door tightly and crossed back to Veronica. "You know, these guys will give you privacy if you ask for it," he said. She nodded. "I know," she said. She lifted her chin slightly, steadily meeting his gaze. "It's just…I was rude to you in public, I felt I should apologize to you in public, too." Joe nodded, too. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. That sounds fair." He looked at her, and there was something very close to admiration in his eyes. "That sounds really fair." Veronica felt her own eyes flood with tears. Oh, damn, she was going to cry. If she started to cry, she was going to feel once more just how gentle Joe's hard-as-steel arms could be. And Lord, she didn't want to be reminded of that. "I am sorry," she said, blinking back the tears. Oh, damn, Veronica was going to cry, Joe thought as he took a step toward her, then stopped himself. No, she was trying hard to hide it. It was

better if he played along, if he pretended he didn't notice. But, man, the sight of those blue eyes swimming in tears made his chest ache, reminding him of this morning, when he'd held her in his arms. Reminding him of that unbelievable kiss... Veronica forced a smile and held out her hand to him. "Still friends?" she asked. Friends, huh? Joe had never had a friend before that he wanted to pull into his arms and kiss the living daylights out of. As he gazed into her eyes, the attraction between them seemed to crackle and snap, like some living thing. Veronica was okay. She was a decent person—the fact that she'd apologized proved that. But she came from miles on the other side of the railroad tracks. If their relationship became intimate, she'd still be slumming. And he'd be... He'd be dreaming about her every night for the rest of his life. Joe let go of Veronica's hand as if he'd been stung. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, where had that thought come from... ? "Are you all right?" The concern in her eyes was genuine. Joe stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Sorry. I guess I'm... After we do this dining thing, I'm going to take another short nap." "A three-minute nap this time?" Veronica asked. "Or maybe you'll splurge, and sleep for five whole minutes... ?" Joe smiled, and she gave him an answering smile. Their gazes met and held. And held and held and held. With another woman, Joe would have closed the gap between them. With another woman, Joe would have taken two short steps and brought them face to face. He would have brushed those stray flame-colored curls from the side of her beautiful face, then lifted her chin and lowered his mouth to meet hers. He had tasted her lips before. He knew how amazing kissing Veronica could be. But she wasn't another woman. She was Veronica St. John. And she'd already made it clear that sex wasn't on their agenda. Hell, if a kiss was a mistake, then making love would be an error of unbelievable magnitude. And the truth was, Joe didn't want to face that kind of rejection. So Joe didn't move. He just gazed at her. "Well," she said, slightly breathlessly, "perhaps we should get to work." But she didn't cross toward the dining table, she just gazed up at him, as if she, too, were caught in some kind of force field and unable to move. Veronica was beautiful. And rich. And smart. But more than just book smart. She was people smart, too. Joe had seen her manipulate a tableful of high-ranking officials. She couldn't have done that on an Ivy League diploma alone. He didn't know the first thing about her, Joe realized. He didn't know where she came from, or how she'd gotten here, to Washington, D.C. He didn't know how she'd come to work for the crown prince of Ustanzia. He didn't know why she'd remained, even after the assassination attempt, when most civilians would have headed for the hills and safety. "What's your angle?" Joe asked. Veronica blinked. "Excuse me?" He reworded the question. "Why are you here? I mean, I'm here to help catch Diosdado, but what are you getting out of this?" She looked out the window at the afternoon view of the capital city. When she glanced back at Joe, her smile was rueful. "Beats me," she said. "I'm not getting paid nearly half enough, although it could be argued that working for royalty is a solid career boost. Of course, it all depends on whether we can successfully pass you off as Prince Tedric." She sank down onto the couch and looked up at him, elbow on her knee, chin in her hand. "We have less than six hours before the committee makes a decision." She shook her head and laughed humorlessly. "Instead of becoming more like Tedric, you seem more different from him than when we started. I look at you, Joe, and you don't even look like the prince anymore." Joe smiled as he sat next to her on the couch. "Lucky for us, most people won't look beneath the surface. They'll expect to see Ted, so... they'll see Ted." "I need this thing to work," Veronica said, smoothing her skirt over her knees. "If this doesn't work..." "Why?" Joe asked. "Mortgage payment coming due on the castle?" Veronica turned and looked at him. "Very funny." "Sorry." "You don't really want to hear this." Joe was watching her, studying her face. His dark eyes were fathomless, and as mysterious as the deepest ocean. "Yes, I do."

"Tedric's sister has been my best friend since boarding school," Veronica said. "Even though Tedric is unconcerned with Ustanzia's financial state, Wila has been working hard to make her country more solvent. It matters to her—so it matters to me." She smiled. "When oil was discovered, Wila actually did cartwheels right across the Capital lawn. I thought poor Jules was going to have a heart attack. But then she found out how much it would cost to drill. She's counting on getting U.S. aid." Jules. Be a dear, Jules, and ring the office. Veronica had murmured those words in her sleep, and since then, Joe had been wondering, not without a sliver of jealousy, exactly who this Jules was. "Who's Jules?" Joe asked. "Jules," Veronica repeated. "My brother. He conveniently married my best friend. It's quite cozy, really, and very sweet. They're expecting a baby any moment." Her brother. Jules was her brother. Why did that make Joe feel so damned good? He and Veronica were going to be friends, nothing more, so why should he care whether Jules was her brother or her lover or her pet monkey? But he did care, damn it. Joe leaned forward. "So that's why Wila didn't come on this tour instead of Brain-dead Ted? Because she's pregnant?" Veronica tried not to smile, but failed. "Don't call Prince Tedric that," she said. He smiled at her, struck by the way her eyes were the exact shade of blue as her dress. "You know, you look pretty in blue." Her smile vanished and she stood. "We should really get started," she said, crossing to the dining table. "The food's getting cold." Joe didn't move. "So where did you and Jules grow up? London?" Veronica turned to look back at him. "No," she replied. "At first we traveled with our parents, and when we were old enough, we went away to school. The closest thing we had to a permanent home was Huntsgate Manor, where our Great-Aunt Rosamond lived." "Huntsgate Manor," Joe mused. "It sounds like something out of a fairy tale." Veronica's eyes grew dreamy and out of focus as she gazed out the window. "It was so wonderful. This big, old, moldy, ancient house with gardens and grounds that went on forever and ever and ever." She looked up at Joe with a spark of humor in her eyes. "Not really," she added. "I think the property is only about four or five acres, but when we were little, it seemed to go to the edge of the world and back." Night and day, Joe thought. Their two upbringings were as different as night and day. He wondered what she would do, how she would react if she knew about the rock he'd crawled out from under. Veronica laughed, embarrassed. "I don't know why I just told you all that," she said. "It's hardly interesting." But it was interesting. It was fascinating. As fascinating as those gigantic houses he'd gone into with his mother, the houses that she'd cleaned when he was a kid. Veronica's words were another porthole to that same world of "Look but don't touch." It was fascinating. And depressing as hell. Veronica had been raised like a little princess. No doubt she'd only be content to spend her life "happily ever after," with a prince. And he sure as hell didn't fit that bill. Except, what was he doing, thinking about things like happily ever after? "How about you, Joe?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Where did you grow up?" "Near New York City. We really should get to work," he said, half hoping she'd let the subject of his childhood drop— and half hoping that she wouldn't. She wouldn't. "New York City," she said. "I've never lived there, I've only visited. I remember the first time I was there as a child. It all seemed to be lights and music and Broadway plays and marvelous food and.. .people, people everywhere." "I didn't see any plays on Broadway," Joe said dryly. "Although when I was ten, I snuck out of the house at night and hung around the theater district, trying to spot celebrities. I'd get their autograph and then sell it, make a quick buck." "Your parents probably loved that," Veronica said. "A ten-year-old, all alone in New York City... ?" "My mother was usually too drunk to notice I was gone," Joe said. "And even if she had, she wouldn't have given a damn." Veronica looked away from him, down at the floor. "Oh," she said. "Yeah," Joe said. "Oh." She fiddled with her hair for a moment, and then she surprised him. She looked up and directly into his eyes and smiled—a smile not without sorrow for the boy he'd once been. "I guess that's where you learned to be so self-reliant. And self-confident."

"Self-reliant, maybe. But I grew up with everyone always telling me I wasn't good enough," Joe said. "No, that's not true. Not everyone. Not Frank O'Riley." He shook his head and laughed. "He was this mean old guy who lived in this grungy basement apartment in one of the tenements over by the river. He had a wooden leg and a glass eye and his arms were covered with tattoos and all the kids were scared sh-— scared to death of him. Except me, because I was the toughest, coolest kid in the neighborhood—at least among the under-twelve set. "O'Riley had this garden—really just a patch of land. It couldn't have been more than twelve by four feet. He always had something growing— flowers, vegetables—it was always something. So I went in there, over his rusty fence, just to prove I wasn't scared of the old man. "I'd been planning to trample his flowers, but once I got into the garden, I couldn't do it," Joe said. "They were just too damn pretty. All those colors. Shades I'd never even imagined. Instead, I sat down and just looked at them. "Old Frank came out and told me he'd loaded his gun and was ready to shoot me in my sorry butt, but since I was obviously another nature lover, he'd brought me a glass of lemonade instead." Why was he telling her this? Blue was the only person he'd ever mentioned Frank O'Riley to, and never in such detail. Joe's friendship with Old Man O'Riley was the single good memory he carried from his childhood. Chief Frank O'Riley, U.S.N., retired, and his barely habitable basement apartment had been Joe's refuge, his escape when life at home became unbearable. And suddenly he knew why he was telling Veronica about Frank, his one childhood friend, his single positive role model. He wanted this woman to know where he came from, who he really was. And he wanted to see her reaction; see whether she would recognize the importance old Frank had played in his life, or whether she would shrug it off, uncaring, uninterested. *'Frank was a sailor," Joe told Veronica. "Tough as nails, and with one hell of a foul mouth. He could swear like no one I've ever known. He fought in the Pacific in World War Two, as a frogman, one of the early members of the UDTs, the underwater demolition teams that later became the SEALs. He was rough and crude, but he never turned me away from his door. I helped him pull weeds in his garden in return for the stories he told." Veronica was listening intently, so he went on. "When everyone else I knew told me I was going to end up in jail or worse, Frank O'Riley told me I was destined to become a Navy SEAL— because both they and I were the best of the best." "He was right," Veronica murmured. "He must be very, very proud of you." "He's dead," Joe said. He watched her eyes fill with compassion, and the noose around his chest grew tighter. He was in big trouble here. "He died when I was fifteen." "Oh, no," she whispered. "Frank had one hell of a powerful spirit," Joe continued, resisting the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her because his friend had died more than fifteen years ago. "Wherever I went and whatever I did for the three years after he died, he was there, whispering into my ear, keeping me in line, reminding me about those Navy SEALs that he'd admired so much. On the day I turned eighteen, I walked into that navy recruitment office and I could almost feel his sigh of relief." He smiled at her and Veronica smiled back, gazing into his eyes. Again, time seemed to stand totally still. Again, it was the perfect opportunity to kiss her, and again, Joe didn't allow himself to move. "I'm glad you've forgiven me, Joe," she said quietly. "Hey, what happened to 'Your Highness'?" Joe asked, trying desperately to return to a more lighthearted, teasing tone. She was getting serious on him. Serious meant being honest, and in all honesty, Joe did not want to be friends with this woman. He wanted to be lovers. He was dying to be her lover. He wanted to touch her in ways she'd never been touched before. He wanted to hear her cry out his name and — Veronica looked surprised. "I've forgotten to call you that, haven't I?" "You've been calling me Joe lately," he said. "Which is fine—-I like it better. I was just curious." "You're nothing like the real prince," she said honestly. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult." She smiled. "Believe me, it's a compliment." "Yeah, that's what I thought" Joe said. "But I wasn't sure exactly where you stood." "Prince Tedric... isn't very nice," Veronica said diplomatically. "He's a coward and a flaming idiot," Joe stated flatly. "I guess you don't like him very much, either." "Understatement of the year, Ronnie. If I end up taking a bullet for him, I'm gonna be really upset." He smiled grimly. "That is, if you can be upset and

dead at the same time." Veronica stared at Joe. If he ended up taking a bullet... For the first time, the reality of what Joe was doing hit her squarely in the stomach. He was risking his life to catch a terrorist. While Tedric spent the next few weeks in the comfort of a safe house, Joe would be out in public. Joe would be the target of the terrorists' guns. What if something went wrong? What if the terrorists succeeded, and killed Joe? After all, they'd already managed to kill hundreds and hundreds of people. Joe suddenly looked so tired. Were his thoughts following the same path? Was he afraid he'd be killed, too? But then he glanced up at Veronica and tried to smile. "Mind if we skip lunch?" he asked. "Or just postpone it for a half hour?" Veronica nodded. "We can postpone it," she said. Joe stood, heading toward the bedroom. "Great, I've gotta crash. I'll see you in about thirty minutes, okay?" "Do you want me to wake you?" she asked. Joe shook his head, no. "Thanks, but..." Oh, baby, he could just imagine her coming into his dark- ened bedroom to wake him up. He could just imagine coming out of a deep REM sleep to see that face, those eyes looking down at him. He could imagine reaching for her, pulling her down on top of him, covering her mouth with his "No, thanks," he said again, reaching up with one hand to loosen the tight muscles in his neck and shoulders. "I'll set the alarm." Veronica watched as he closed the bedroom door behind him. They were running out of time. Despite his reassurances, Veronica didn't believe that Joe could pull it off. But those weren't the only doubts she was having. Posing as Prince Tedric could very easily get Joe killed. Were they doing the right thing? Was catching these terrorists worth risking a man's life? Was it fair to ask Joe to take those risks when Tedric so very clearly wouldn't? But out of all those doubts, Veronica knew one thing for certain. She did not want Lieutenant Joe Catalanotto to die.

Chapter 10 Veronica was ready nearly thirty minutes before the meeting was set to start. She checked herself in the mirror for the seven thousandth time. Her jacket and skirt were a dark olive green. Her silk blouse was the same color, but a subtle shade lighter. The color was a perfect contrast for her flaming-red hair, but the suit was boxy and the jacket cut to hide her curves. Joe would call it a Margaret Thatcher suit. And he was right. It made her look no-nonsense and reliable, dependable and businesslike. So, all right, it wasn't the height of fashion. But she was sending out a clear message to the world. Veronica St. John could get the job done. Except, in a few minutes, Veronica was going to have to walk out the hotel-room door and head down the corridor to the private conference room attached to Senator McKinley's suite. She was going to go into the meeting and sit down at the table without the slightest clue whether or not she had actually gotten this particular job done. She honestly didn't know whether or not she'd been able to pull off the task of turning Joe Catalanotto into a dead ringer for Prince Tedric. Dead ringer. What a horrible expression. And if the security team of FInCOM agents didn't protect Joe, that's exactly what he'd be. Dead. Joe, with his dancing eyes and wide, infectious smile... All it would take was one bullet and he would be a thing of the past, a memory. Veronica turned from the mirror and began to pace. She'd worked with Joe all afternoon, going over and over rules and protocols and Ustanzian history. She had shown him the strange way Prince Tedric held a spoon and the odd habit the prince had of leaving behind at least one bite of every food on his plate when eating. She had tried to show Joe again how to walk, how to stand, how to hold his head at a royal angle. Just when she thought that maybe, just maybe he might be getting it, he'd slouch or shrug or lean against the wall. Or make a joke and flash her one of those five-thousand-watt smiles that were so different from any facial expression Prince Tedric had ever worn. "Don't worry, Ronnie. This is not a problem," he'd said in his atrocious New Jersey accent. "I'll get it. When the time comes, I'll do it right." But Veronica wasn't sure what she should be worrying about. Was she worried Joe wouldn't be able to pass for Prince Tedric, or was she worried that he would? If Joe looked and acted like the prince, then he'd be at risk. And damn it, why should Joe have to risk his life? Why not let the prince risk his own life? After all, Prince Tedric was the one the terrorists wanted to kill. Veronica had actually brought up her concerns to Joe before they'd parted to get ready for this meeting. He'd laughed when she'd said she thought it might be for the best if he couldn't pass for Tedric—it was too dangerous. "I've been in dangerous situations before," Joe had told her. "And this one doesn't even come close." He'd told her about the plans and preparations he was arranging with both Kevin Laughton's FInCOM agents and the SEALs from his Alpha Squad. He'd told her he'd wear a bulletproof vest at all times. He'd told her that wherever he went, there would be shielded areas where he could easily drop to cover. He'd reminded her that this operation had minuscule risks compared to most other ops he'd been on. All Veronica knew was, the better she came to know Joe, the more she worried about his safety. Frankly, this situation scared her to death. And if this wasn't dangerous, she didn't want to know what dangerous meant. But danger was part of Joe's life. Danger was what he did best. No wonder he wasn't married. What kind of woman would put up with a husband who risked his life as a matter of course? Not Veronica, that was for sure. Although it wasn't as if Joe Catalanotto had dropped to his knees and begged her to marry him, was it? And he wasn't likely to, either. Despite the incredible kiss they'd shared, a man like Joe, a man used to living on the edge, wasn't very likely to be interested in anything long-term or permanent. Permanent probably wasn't even in his vocabulary. Veronica shook her head, amazed at the course her thoughts had taken. Permanent wasn't in her vocabulary, either. At least not right now. And certainly not when attached to the words relationship and Joe Catalanotto. At least fifty percent of the time, the man infuriated her. Of course, the rest of the time he made her laugh, or he touched her with his gentle sweetness, or he burned her with that look in his eyes that promised a sexual experience the likes of which she'd never known before. Either Veronica was fighting with Joe, or fighting the urge to throw herself into his arms. There'd been one or two.. .or three or so times—certainly no more than six or eight, at any rate—this afternoon, when Veronica had found herself smiling foolishly into Joe's deep brown eyes, marveling at the length of his eyelashes, and finding her gaze drawn to his straight, white teeth and his rather elegantly shaped lips. In all honesty, once or twice, Veronica had actually thought about kissing Joe again. Well, maybe more than once or twice. So, all right, she admitted to herself. He was rather unbearably handsome. And funny. Yes, he was undeniably funny. He always knew exactly what to say to make her damn near choke with laughter on her tea. He was blunt and to the point. Often tactless at times—most of the time. But he was

always honest. It was refreshing. And despite his rough language and unrefined speech, Joe was clearly intelligent. He hadn't had the best of educations, that much was true, but he seemed well-read and certainly able to think on his own, which was more than Veronica could say for Prince Tedric. So, okay. Maybe now that she and Joe had had a chance to really talk, maybe now he didn't infuriate her fifty percent of the time. Maybe he only infuriated her, say, twenty percent of the time. But spending twenty percent of her time angry or annoyed or worrying about him was still too much— even for the kind of casual, sexual relationship Joe wanted. Obviously, Veronica had to continue to keep her distance. Squaring her shoulders, she resolved to do precisely that. She'd stay far, far away from Joe Catalanotto. No more kisses. No more lingering looks. No more long talks about her personal life. From now on, her relationship with Joe would be strictly business. Still a few minutes early, Veronica took her purse and briefcase and locked her hotel room door behind her. Down at the end of the corridor, she could see FInCOM agents standing outside the royal suite where Joe was getting dressed. More agents were farther down the hall, outside the conference room. The conference-room door was ajar, so Veronica went in. This was it. Tonight they would decide whether or not they could successfully pass a Navy SEAL off on the American public as Prince Tedric of Ustanzia. If the answer was yes, Veronica's friend Wila would be one step closer to getting her American funding, and Joe would be one step closer to catching Diosdado, the terrorist. She sat down at the empty oval conference table and crossed her legs. If the answer was no, Joe would return to wherever it was Navy SEALs went between missions, and Veronica would sleep easier at night, knowing that assassins weren't trying to end his life. Except, if Joe wasn't on this mission, he'd probably be on some other, what he considered truly dangerous mission. So really, whatever happened, Veronica was going to end up worrying, wasn't she? Veronica frowned. She was certainly expending a bit of energy thinking about a man she had decided most definitely to stay away from. Besides, after this meeting, she probably wasn't ever going to see Joe Catalanotto again. And the pang of remorse she felt was surely only because she'd failed at her assignment. It wouldn't be long before Veronica had trouble remembering Joe's name. And he certainly wouldn't give her a second thought. Senator McKinley came into the room, followed by his aides and the Ustanzian ambassador and his aides. Both men nodded a greeting, but Veronica's attention was pulled away by a young woman taking orders for coffee or tea. "Earl Grey," Veronica murmured, smiling her thanks. When she looked up, Kevin Laughton and some of his FInCOM security team had come into the room, along with Admiral Forrest. The older man caught Veronica's eye and winked a hello. He came around the oval table and pulled out the seat next to hers. "Where's Joe?" he asked. Veronica shook her head, glancing around the room again. Even in a crowd like this, Joe would have stood out. He was bigger than most men, taller and broader. Unless he was crawling across the rug on his hands and knees, he hadn't yet arrived. "Still getting changed, I guess," she said to Mac Forrest. "How's the transformation going?" Forrest asked. "You got him eating lady fingers with his pinky sticking out yet?" Veronica snorted and gave him a disbelieving look. "It's going that well, huh? Hmm." The admiral didn't seem disappointed. In fact, he gave her a downright cheerful smile. "He'll get it. Did he tell you, he's a pretty darn good mimic? He's got a real ear for language, Joe Cat does." An ear for language? With his thick accent? Oh, come on.... Veronica didn't want to offend the admiral by rolling her eyes— at least not outwardly. "Joe's a good man," Forrest told her. "A little too intense sometimes, but that's what makes him a good commander. You win his loyalty, and he'll be loyal to the end. He demands loyalty in return—and gets it. His men would follow him to hell and back." He chuckled. "And they have, on more than one occasion." Veronica turned toward him. "Joe doesn't think this operation is dangerous," she said. "If that's true, what exactly is dangerous?" "To a SEAL?" Forrest mused. "Let's see.... Breaking into a hostile high-security military installation to track down a pilfered nuclear warhead might be considered dangerous." "Might be?"

"Depends on the location of the military installation, and how well-trained that hostile military organization actually is," he said. "Another dangerous op might be to make a HAHO jump from a plane—" "A what?" "HAHO," Forrest repeated. "A high-altitude high-opening parachute jump. It's when you get the green light to jump from the plane at about thirty thousand feet—way up high where the bad guys can't hear the sound of your airplane approaching. You yank the cord, the chute opens and you and your squad parasail silently to the landing zone. And maybe, when you get there, you rescue fifteen hostages—all children—from a bunch of tangos who wouldn't bat an eye over spilling the blood of innocent kids. And maybe before you can pull the kids out of there, the op goes from covert to full firefight. So you rock and roll with your HK, knowing that your body is the only thing shielding a nine-year-old from the enemy's bullets." Veronica frowned. "Would you mind repeating that last bit in English? Before you can pull the kids out of there.. .what?" Forrest grinned, a twinkle in his blue eyes. "The terrorists become aware of your presence and open fire. You've got an instant battlefield—a full firefight. You return fire with your HK—your submachine gun—scared to death because there's a tiny little girl standing directly behind you." Veronica nodded. "I thought that was what you said." She studied Admiral Forrest's weathered face. "Are these actual operations you're describing or merely hypothetical scenarios?" "That's classified information," the old man said. "Of course, you're a smart girl. You can probably figure out they wouldn't be classified if they were hypothetical, right?" Veronica was silent, digesting all he had said. "Heads up, missy,” Forrest whispered. "Looks like this meeting's about to start." "Let's get this show on the road," Senator McKinley said, his voice cutting above the other conversations from his seat at the head of the table. "Where the hell is Catalanotto?" McKinley was looking directly at Veronica, as were most of the other people at the table. They honestly expected her to provide them with an answer. "He said he'd be here," she said calmly. "He'll be here." She glanced at her watch. "He's only a few minutes late." Just then, West, one of the FInCOM agents, stepped through the door. "Crown Prince Tedric of Ustanzia," he announced. Aha. That was why Joe was late. He was coming to this meeting dressed in the prince's clothes. The tailor had dropped off several large garment bags late this afternoon. No doubt Joe had wanted to wear one of the resplendent suits to make him look more like Tedric. Any minute now he'd saunter into the room, wearing a garish sequined jacket and a sheepish grin. But West stepped back and a figure appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in gleaming white pants and a short white jacket that clung to his broad shoulders and ended at his waist. There were no sequins in sight, but plenty of medals covered his chest, along with a row of golden buttons decorated with the royal Ustanzian shield. The shield also glittered from the be-jeweled ring he wore on his right hand. His gleaming black hair was combed directly back from his face. It was Joe. It had to be Joe, didn't it? Veronica searched his eyes, looking for the now quite-familiar differences between Joe's and Prince Tedric's faces. But with his shoulders back, his head held at that haughty angle, and no sign of a smile curving his lips, Veronica wasn't sure exactly who was standing in the doorway. And then he spoke. "I greet you with the timeless honor and tradition of the Ustanzian flag," he said in the prince's unmistakable faintly British, faintly French accent, "which is woven, as well, into my heart."

Chapter 11 Nobody moved. Everyone stared at Prince Tedric. It was Prince Tedric, not Joe. That voice, that accent... Except, what was the real prince doing here, away from the safety of his secure room on the other side of town? It didn't make sense. And his shoulders seemed so broad. As Veronica watched, the prince took several steps into the room with his peculiar, stiff royal gait. He walked like he had a fireplace poker in his pants, as Joe had so inelegantly described. Veronica fought the urge to giggle. This had to be the prince, indeed. About half-a-dozen dark-suited FInCOM agents followed him inside, and one of them closed the door tightly behind them. One royal eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch at the people still sitting at the conference table, and the Ustanzian ambassador scrambled to his feet. "Your Highness!" he said. "I didn't realize you'd be at- tending…" McKinley stood, too. The rest of the table followed suit. Still, as Veronica rose to her feet, she stared. This man wasn't Joe. Or was it? Tedric had never seemed so tall, so imposing. But this couldn't be Joe. That voice had been Tedric's. And that walk. And that haughty look. The prince's gaze swept around the table. His eyes passed over Veronica without the slightest hint of familiarity, without the tiniest bit of recognition or warmth. He looked through her, not at her. No, it wasn't Joe. Joe would have winked or smiled. And yet... He held out a hand decorated with a huge gold and jeweled ring for the Ustanzian ambassador to bow over. Senator McKinley cleared his throat. "Your Majesty," he said. "It was dangerous for you to come here. I should have been informed." He glanced at his chief aide and hissed, "Why wasn't I informed?" The prince affixed the senator with a very displeased stare. "I am not used to asking permission to leave my room," he said. He was the prince. Veronica tried to tell herself that she was now convinced of that fact, yet doubt lingered. "But, Your Majesty," Kevin Laughton chimed in. "It's just not safe." He looked over at the FInCOM agents who had arrived with the prince. "I must be told of any movement." He looked more closely at the men and a funny look crossed his face. Veronica tried to follow his gaze, to see what he saw, but he quickly looked back at the prince, his face once again expressionless. "If there was something you needed," Henri Freder, the Ustanzian ambassador, interjected, "ail you had to do was ask, Your Majesty. We will provide you with all your requests, I can assure you." "Sit, please, sit. Sit, sit," the prince said impatiently. Everyone sat. Except the prince. He stood pointedly next to Senator McKinley's seat at the head of the table. Rather belatedly, McKinley realized his mistake. He hastily stood and offered the prince his chair, moving around to one of the empty seats on the side of the oval table. On the other side of the room, one of the FInCOM agents coughed. When Veronica glanced at him, he gave her a quick wink. It was Cowboy-—one of the SEALs from Joe's Alpha Squad. At least, she thought it was. She did a double take, but when she looked again, he was gone. She turned and stared at the man who was settling himself in the now vacant chair at the head of the table. 'Til need something to write on and a pen," he announced to no one in particular. "And a glass of water." Had she imagined Cowboy standing there? Was this really Joe, or was it Prince Tedric? Veronica honestly did not know. Around her, all of the aides and assistants were scrambling. One of them provided the prince with a smooth white pad of paper, another with a plastic ballpoint pen that the prince simply looked at in disdain. Yes, he had to be the real prince. No one could possibly imitate that disgusted look, could they? Another assistant produced a gold-plated fountain pen, which the prince took with a nod, and yet another presented him with a tall, icefilled glass of water. "Thank you," he said, and Veronica sat up. Thank you? Those words weren't in Tedric's vocabulary. At least, Veronica had never heard him say them before. Senator McKinley was giving the prince a detailed report on all that had been done over the past several days, and on the changes to the scheduled tour. Veronica stared down the table at the man now sitting at its head. Prince Tedric never said thank-you. This man was Joe. It had to be Joe. But... he didn't look or act or sound anything like the Joe she was starting to know so well. The prince took a sip of his water, removed the cap from his pen. This would prove it. Joe was left-handed; the prince only used his right.

The prince took the pen in his right hand and jotted a quick note on his pad of paper. Oh, my God, it wasn't Joe. It was the prince. Unless... As the senator continued to talk, the prince tore the piece of paper from the pad and folded it neatly in half. He glanced over his shoulder and one of the aides was instantly behind him. He handed the aide the piece of paper and whispered a few words into the young man's ear before turning back to Senator McKinley. Veronica watched as the aide came around the table, di- rectly toward her. The young man handed her the folded piece of paper. "From Prince Tedric," the aide whispered almost soundlessly in her ear. She glanced down the table toward the prince, but he wasn't paying her the slightest attention. He was absently twisting his ring as he listened to McKinley. Why would Prince Tedric write her a note? Hardly daring to breathe, she unfolded the paper. "Hey, Ronnie,” she read, printed in big, childish block letters. "How'm I doing? Love, Prinice Joe." Veronica laughed. Aloud. McKinley stopped talking mid-sentence. The entire table turned and looked at her. Including Joe, who gave her a withering look, identical to those she'd received from Prince Tedric in the past. "It's Joe," she said. Nobody understood. They all just stared at her as if she'd gone mad—except Kevin Laughton, who was nodding, a small smile on his face, and Admiral Forrest, who was rocking back in his seat and chuckling. Veronica gestured down toward the head of the table, toward Joe. "This is not Prince Tedric," she explained. "It's Lieutenant Catalanotto. Gentlemen, he's fooled us all." Everyone started talking all at once. The prince's haughty expression turned into a slow, friendly smile as he gazed down the table at Veronica. His cold eyes turned warm. Oh, yes, this was definitely Joe. "You're amazing," she mouthed to him. She knew he wouldn't be able to hear her over the din, but she had no doubt he could read her lips. She wouldn't be surprised to find there was nothing Joe Catalanotto couldn't do, and do well. He shrugged. "I'm a SEAL," he mouthed back, as if that explained everything. "I knew it was the lieutenant," Veronica heard Kevin Laughton say. "But only because I knew three of the men who came in with him weren't on my staff." "I knew it was him, too," Senator McKinley's loud voice boomed. "I was waiting to see when y'all would catch on." Still, Veronica gazed into Joe's dark eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?" she silently asked. "I did," he answered. And he was right. He had told her. "Don't worry, I'll get it," he'd said. "I'm a pretty good mimic." Pretty good? Veronica laughed. He was amazing. Joe smiled back at her as everyone around them continued to talk at once. But they might have been alone in this room, for all the attention she paid anyone else. That was admiration he could see in Veronica's blue eyes. Admiration and respect. She wasn't trying to hide it. She was sending him a message with her eyes as clear as the one she'd sent with her lips. Joe could also see traces of the attraction she was never really able to conceal. It was always back there, lurking, waiting patiently for the moment when her defenses were down, waiting for her to temporarily forget that he wasn't a regular of the country-club set. And, God, he was waiting, too. Except she wasn't going to forget. It was only at times like this, when they were safely across the room from each other, that Veronica gazed into his eyes. It was only when she was safely out of reach that she let him drown in the swirling ocean-blueness of her eyes. It didn't take much to imagine what being Veronica St. John's lover would be like, to see her with her red curls tumbled down her back, dressed only in the skimpiest of satin and lace, desire turning her sea-colored eyes to blue flames. As Joe gazed into her eyes, he felt himself going under for the third and final time.

He wanted her so desperately, he was nearly dizzy with desire. Somehow, some way, he was going to change her mind, break through that flimsy wall she'd thrown up between them. Admiral Forrest raised his voice to be heard over the noise. "I think this meeting can be adjourned," he said. "We can announce to the press that Prince Tedric's tour will resume as of oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Are we in agreement?" Veronica reluctantly pulled her eyes away from the molten lava of Joe's gaze. Her heart was pounding. Good Lord, the way that man looked at her! If they had been alone, he would have kissed her again. Or if he hadn't, maybe she would have kissed him! Lord save her from herself. She shuffled the papers in front of her, attempting to regain her equilibrium as the room slowly cleared. Senator McKinley shook her hand briefly, commending her on a job well-done before he rushed off to another appointment. Veronica could feel Joe's eyes still on her as he stood and talked to Admiral Forrest. The FlnCOM men tried to escort them out of the room, but Joe hung back, clearly waiting for her. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her briefcase and went to join them. Joe was looking down at the ring on his hand. "Did you know this ring is worth more than a new car?" he mused. "And did you know old Ted has about twenty of 'em?" Mac Forrest grinned at Veronica, slapping Joe on the back one more time as they walked down the hotel corridor. "You couldn't tell it was Joe, could you?" Forrest asked her. Veronica glanced up at Joe. She wasn't prepared for the jolt of warmth and energy that surrounded her as she met his dark eyes. He was smiling at her, and she found herself smiling foolishly back, until she realized the Admiral had asked her a question. She tore her eyes away. "No, sir, I couldn't," she answered hoping that she didn't sound as breathless as she felt. "Except..." "What?" Joe asked. She looked up at him, bracing herself before meeting his hypnotizing eyes again. "You said 'Thank you,'" she replied. "Tedric wouldn't dream of thanking a servant." "Well, maybe ol’ Ted's been reading up on the American version of Miss Manners," Joe said. "Because for the next five weeks, he's going to be saying 'thank you' to all the lowly servants. And maybe even 'please,' every now and then." "That's fine with me. I think everyone should say thank-you. I think it's rude not to," Veronica said. "The equipment you ordered is coming in late tonight," Admiral Forrest said to Joe. "It'll be ready for tomorrow." "We leave the hotel at oh-eight-hundred?" Joe asked. Veronica dug into her briefcase and checked the schedule. "That's right," she said. "There're a number of public appearances—just visual things— a chance for the news reporters to get footage of you climbing in and out of limousines and waving. Tomorrow night there's an optional embassy function, if you feel up to it. There will be people there who know Tedric quite well, though. You'll have to be ready to recognize them." "Can you recognize them?" Joe asked. "Well, yes," Veronica said. "Of course. But—" “Then I'm ready," he said with a grin. "We've ordered a surveillance van," Admiral Forrest said to her. "You'll have the seat of honor at the main mike. Joe will wear an earphone and a microphone so the communication can go both ways. He'll hear you and you'll hear him. And we'll have miniature video cameras set up, so you'll be able to see both Joe and from Joe's point of view." They stopped outside the royal suite, waiting while West went inside to make a quick security sweep. "All clear," he said, coming back out. The entire group moved into the room. Admiral Forrest clasped Joe's hand again. "Good job, son." He nodded at Veronica. "You, too, missy." He glanced at his watch. "I've got to make some status reports." As Mac turned to leave, he shook his finger at Joe. "No more unauthorized field trips down the outside of the building," he admonished. "No more games." He turned to the other SEALs, Blue, Cowboy and Harvard, who were standing by the door with the FInCOM agents. "You're on the same side as security now," he said to them. "You make sure Lieutenant Catalanotto stays secure. Have I made myself clear?" "I gave them liberty tonight, Admiral," Joe interjected. "I figured—" "You figured wrong," Forrest said. "As of thirty minutes ago, this operation has started." Cowboy clearly wasn't happy about that.

The admiral opened the door to the hallway. "As a matter of fact, I need to see this security team in the corridor, pronto." "But, sir—" Cowboy started. "That was an order, Ensign," Forrest barked. Still, the three SEALs didn't move until Joe gave them an almost-imperceptible nod. The door closed behind them and the room was suddenly silent. "What was that about?" Veronica asked Joe, suddenly aware of how close they were standing, of how delicious he smelled, of how he managed to make even that ridiculous white jacket look good. He gave her one of his familiar sheepish smiles as he sat on the arm of the sofa. "I think Mac's realized that Diosdado could get lucky and take me out," he said. "He doesn't want to lose the commanding officer of the Alpha Squad." "He doesn't want to lose a friend," Veronica corrected him. "He's not going to," Joe said. "I have no intention of dying." It was a fact. His quiet statement combined with the certainty in his eyes and on his face convinced Veronica that it was, indeed, a fact. He looked hard and invincible, and quite possibly immortal. But he wasn't immortal. He was human. He was flesh and blood, and starting tomorrow morning, he was going to be a target. When he stepped out the hotel door dressed as Prince Tedric, there could be an assassin's gun trained on him. By tomorrow at this time, Joe could very well have been shot. He could be seriously injured. Or worse. He could be dead. Permanently dead. Joe might be able to disregard the danger, but Veronica couldn't. He was going to be out in public with a security team that wasn't up to par. Sure, the odds were better now that the three SEALs from the Alpha Squad had joined FInCOM's team, but there were no guarantees. Veronica was going to be safely tucked away in some surveillance vehicle where, if the terrorists did get through the security force, she'd have a front-row seat to watch Joe die. He was sitting there watching her, and she was struck by his casual bravery, his unassuming heroism. He was doing this for Admiral Forrest, for the admiral's dead son, and for all of the other US. sailors who'd been killed at Diosdado's hands. And for all the people, sailors and civilians, who would be hurt or killed by the terrorists if they were not stopped here and now. Yes, there was a chance that he might die. But in Joe's eyes, it was obviously a risk worth taking if it meant they'd catch these killers. But what a tremendous risk, an incredible sacri-fice. He'd be risking his life, his precious, irreplaceable life. It was the most he could possibly give. And to Joe, it was also the least he could do. "Has anyone bothered to thank you for what you're doing?" Veronica asked, her throat feeling unnaturally tight as she gazed into Joe's eyes. He shrugged, a loose casual move, echoed in his easygoing smile. "If it all works out, I'll probably get the Ustanzian Medal of Honor." He glanced down at the rows of Prince Tedric's medals on his chest and made a face. "Considering Ted's got four, I'm not sure I want one," he added. "Even if I can talk Jem out of giving me one, there'll be some kind of ceremony, and I'll have to smile for the cameras and shake Ted's sweaty hand." "And if it doesn't work out... ?" Her voice trembled. He shrugged and his smile became a grin. "Then I won't have to shake Ted's hand, right?" "Joe." He stood up. "Ronnie," he said, mimicking her intensity. "Lighten up, all right?" But she couldn't. How could she lighten up when tomorrow he might very well be dead? Veronica glanced around the room, aware once again that they were alone. They were alone, and she might never have another chance to hold him in her arms. Despite her resolve to stay away from Joe, Veronica stepped toward him, closing the gap between them, slipping her arms around his waist and holding him tightly, resting her head against his shoulder. He was shocked. She'd seen the surprise in his eyes. She still felt it in the stiffness and tension in his entire body. Never in a million years had he expected her to put her arms around him. As she started to pull back, she lifted her head and she could see a vulnerability deep in his eyes, a flash of almost childlike wonder. But it was gone so quickly, she was left wondering if she hadn't imagined it. He almost didn't react. Almost didn't. But before she pulled away, he encircled her with his arms, holding her gently but quite firmly in place. He sighed very softly as he allowed his body to relax against hers. Joe couldn't make himself release her. Veronica was in his arms, and he was damned if he was going to let her go. She fit next to him so perfectly, they might have been made for each other. She was soft in all the right places, and firm in all the others. Holding her like this was heaven. Veronica stared up at him, her ocean blue eyes wide.

There were few things he wanted right this moment as much as he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to plunder her soft, sweet mouth with his tongue. To kiss her deeply, savagely, until she clung to him, dizzy from desire. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her into the bedroom, where he'd undress her with his teeth and kiss every inch of her smooth, supple body before driving himself into her sweet, welcoming warmth. He felt nearly delirious just thinking about it—the sheer bliss. And it would start with one small kiss... He slowly lowered his head to kiss her. Veronica gazed up into his eyes, transfixed, lips slightly parted. He was a fraction of a second from paradise, and... she turned her head. Joe's mouth landed on her cheek as she quickly pulled free of his arms. Frustration made every muscle in his body tighten. Damn it. What had just happened here? Hell, she'd made the first move. She was the one who'd put her arms around him. And then... "Veronica," he said, reaching for her. But she stepped away from him, out of reach, as the door opened and the FInCOM agents and SEALs came back inside. "I gotta run, Cat," Admiral Forrest called out, waving briefly through the open door. "We'll talk tomorrow. Be good." "Well," Veronica said, her voice intentionally light as she collected her briefcase. "I'll see you in the morning, Lieutenant." That was it? She was going to not kiss him and then just walk away? She wouldn't meet his eyes as she made a beeline for the door, and short of running after her and tackling her, there was little that Joe could do to stop her. "Thanks again," Veronica added, and she was out the door. "Walk her to her room," Joe ordered West, suddenly afraid for her, walking alone in the hotel corridor, even the short distance to her own room. The man nodded and followed Veronica, closing the door behind him. "Thanks again?" Cowboy echoed her departing words. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at Joe. "Something happen in here we should know about?" Joe shot him one long look. "Stop," he said. Cowboy started to say something else, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Thanks again. Veronica's words echoed in Joe's head. Thanks again. She had been thanking him. Of course. When she had put her arms around him, she wasn't giving in to the attraction that simmered between them. No way. She was thanking him. She was being the generous aristocrat thanking the lowly servant. Damn, he was such a fool. Joe had to sit down. "Everything all right, Cat?" Blue asked softly in his gentle Southern accent. Joe stood again and headed for the bedroom. "Fine," he answered shortly, keeping his head turned away so his friend wouldn't see the hurt he knew was showing in his eyes.

Chapter 12 When the embassy party started at nine—twenty-one-hundred hours according to Joe—Veronica was feeling an old pro at handling the equipment in the surveillance van. She wore a lightweight wireless headset with an attached microphone positioned directly under her lips. Joe could hear every word she spoke through a miniature receiver hidden in his right ear. And Veronica could hear him quite clearly, too. His wireless mike was disguised as a pin he wore in the lapel of his jacket. She could see Joe, too, on a TV screen built into the side panel of the van. Another screen showed a different angle-Joe's point of view. Both views were courtesy of miniaturized video cameras discreetly held by several FInCOM agents. So far, Veronica hadn't had much use for the TV screen that showed the world from Joe's eyes. It would come in handy tonight, though. The three SEALs from Alpha Squad were also wearing microphones and earphones patched into the same frequency that Veronica and Joe were using. It was easy to tell Blue's, Cowboy’s, and Harvards' voices apart, and or course, she would recognize Joe's voice anywhere. More often than not, the SEALs used some kind of abbreviated lingo, using phrases like "LZ" and "recon" and "sneak and peek.” They talked about the "T’s or "tangos," which Veronica knew to mean terrorists. But for every word she recognized, they used four others whose meanings were mysterious. It was like listening to another language. Throughout the day, Veronica had reminded Joe when to how and when to wave, when to ignore the news cameras, and when to look directly into their lenses and smile. She'd warned him when his smile became a bit too broad—too Joe-like—and he'd adjusted instantly in order to seem more like the real prince. The high-tech equipment made the process infinitely easier than any other job she'd ever done. What she was never going to get used to, however, was the slightly sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched Joe on the video cameras and wondered when the assassins were going to strike. "Okay," came the word from Kevin Laughton, who was also in the surveillance van. "The limo is approaching the embassy." "Got it," West said over the van's speakers. "I see them coming up the drive." FInCOM was using a different frequency for their radio communication. Joe's earphone had been modified to maintain a direct link with them, too. If someone—SEAL or Fink—so much as breathed a warning, he wanted to hear it. "Check, check," Veronica heard Joe say into his mike. "Am I on?" "We're reading you," Laughton said. "Do you copy?" "Gotcha," Joe said. "Ronnie, you with me?" "I'm here," Veronica said, purposely keeping her voice low and calm. Her heart was beating a mile a minute at the thought of Joe walking into the Ustanzian Embassy and actually relying on her for the information he needed to pull off his masquerade as Prince Tedric. And if she was on edge, he must be incredibly nervous. He not only had to think about successfully portraying Tedric, but he also had to worry about not getting killed. "Cameras are on," a FInCOM agent's voice reported. "Surveillance van, do you have picture?" "Roger that, FInCOM," Veronica said, and Joe laughed, just as she'd known he would. "What, are you getting into this?" he asked her. "Absolutely," she said smoothly. "I don't know the last time I've so looked forward to an embassy party. I get to sit out here in comfort instead of tippy-toeing around all those dignitaries and celebrities, eating overcooked hors d'oeuvres and smiling until my face hurts." Joe leaned across the limousine, closer to the camera. "Overcooked hors d'oeuvres?" he said, making a face. "That's what I have to look forward to here?" "Ready to open the limo doors," West's voice announced. "Everyone in position?" "Joe, be careful," Veronica murmured quickly. He touched his ear briefly, giving her the signal that he heard her. She saw something flicker in his eyes before he looked away from the video camera. What was he thinking? Was he thinking of last night, of the way he'd almost kissed her? He would have kissed her again, and she probably would have kissed him, too, if she hadn't heard the hotel-room door start to open. Probably? Definitely—despite her better judgment. She should be grateful they had been interrupted when they were. She knew she was grateful that she'd heard the sound of the doorknob turning. How awful would it have been to have three FInCOM agents, three SEALs and one navy admiral open the door to find her locked in Joe's embrace. Joe had been oddly distant this morning—no doubt a direct result of her rapid flight from his hotel room last night. Veronica felt guilty about running

away. But if she'd stayed, and if he'd pursued her, she would have ended up in his arms again. And, quite probably, she would have ended up in his bed. She had thought maybe a little time and a little distance would take the edge off the attraction she felt for this man. But when she had walked out of her room this morning, Joe had been dressed in one of Tedric's least flashy dark suits and was already waiting with the FInCOM agents in the corridor. She'd looked at him, their eyes had met, and that attraction had sparked again. No, time and distance had done nothing. She'd wanted to kiss Joe as much this morning as she had wanted to kiss him last night. Maybe even more so. The security team had led him down the hallway to the elevators and she'd followed a step or two behind. Once downstairs, they'd gone immediately to work. Admiral Forrest had explained the array of equipment in the van, and Joe had stared unsmiling into the cameras as the screens and relays were checked and double-checked. She'd talked to him over her headset, and although his replies had started out terse and to the point, over the course of the long day, he'd warmed up to his usual self, with his usual sardonic humor. "Doors are opening," West announced now, and the pictures on the TV screens jumped as the agents holding the cameras scrambled out of the limo. The paparazzi's flashbulbs went off crazily as Joe stepped out of the long white car, and Veronica held her breath. If someone was going to shoot him, it would happen now, as he was walking from the car to the embassy. Inside the building, security was very tight. He would still be in some danger, but not half as much as out here in the open. The FInCOM agents surrounded him and hustled him inside, one of them roughly pushing Joe's head down, out of target range. "Well, that was fun," Veronica heard Joe say as the embassy doors closed behind them. "Warn me next time you decide to put me in a half nelson, would you, guys?" "We're inside," West's voice said. On Veronica's video screen, the Ustanzian ambassador approached Joe, followed by an entourage of guests and celebrities. Joe instantly snapped into character, shoulders back, expression haughty. "Henri Freder, Ustanzian ambassador to the United States," Veronica told Joe. "He knows who you are. He was at the meeting last night, and he's available to help you." "Your Highness." Freder gave Joe a sweeping bow. "It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to the Ustanzian Embassy." Joe nodded in return, just a very slight inclination of his head. Veronica smiled. Joe had Tedric's royal attitude down cold. "The man to Freder's left is Marshall Owen," Veronica said to Joe, calling up additional background on Owen on the computer. "Owen's a businessman from.. .Atlanta, Georgia, who owns quite a bit of real estate in Europe, Ustanzia included. He's a friend of your father's. You've only met him three or four times—once in Paris. You played racketball. You won, but he probably threw the game. Shake his hand and address him as 'Mr. Owen'—Daddy owes him quite a bit of money." On-screen, Joe shook Marshall Owen's hand. "Mr. Owen," he said in Tedric's unmistakable accent. "A pleasure to see you again, sir. Will you be in town long? Perhaps you can come to the hotel for a visit? There are racketball courts next to the weight room, I believe." "Excellent," Veronica murmured. With this equipment and Joe's ability to mimic, it was going to be—what was that expression of Joe's?—a piece of cake. Joe sat on the couch in the royal suite, drinking beer from the bottle and trying to depressurize. There was a soft knock on the hotel-room door, and West moved to answer it, opening it only slightly. The FInCOM agent opened it wider and Veronica slipped inside. She smiled when she saw Joe. "You were great today." He felt his face relaxing as he smiled back at her. "You weren't so shabby yourself." He started to stand, but she waved him back into his seat. "Want a beer? Or something to eat? We could order up...?" Jesus, Mary and Joseph, could he sound any more eager for her company? She shook her head, still smiling at him. "No, thank you," she said. "I really just wanted to stop in and tell you what a good job you did." Joe had tried to keep his distance all day long. He'd tried to act cool and disinterested. Tried. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, after last night, after he realized Veronica had only put her arms around him as a gesture of thanks, he should have had no problem staying away from her. He should have known better. Even after she'd apologized for her angry outburst, for calling him stupid and ignorant, he should have known that just because she'd apologized for saying those things, it didn't mean that she didn't think they were true. Veronica had told him that she wanted to be friends—yeah, probably the way she would befriend a stray dog.

But all day long, he'd found himself playing to the hidden video cameras, knowing she was watching him, enjoying the sound of her voice speaking so intimately into his ear. It didn't matter that they were dozens, sometimes even hundreds of yards apart. Veronica was his main link to the surveillance van. Hers was the voice Joe heard most often over his miniaturized earphone. He had to depend on her and trust her implicitly when she gave him information and instructions. Whether she knew it or not, their relationship had become an intimate one. And Joe suspected that she knew it. He was staring at her again, he realized. Her eyes were so blue and wide as she gazed back at him. He looked away first. Who was he kidding? What was he trying to do? Weren't two rejections enough? What did he want, three for three? "It's getting late," he said gruffly, wanting her either in his arms or gone. "Well," she said, clearly flustered. "I'm sorry. I'm..." She shook her head and fished for a moment in her briefcase. "Here is tomorrow's schedule," she added, handing him a sheet of paper. "Good night, then." She moved gracefully toward the door. "Saint Mary's," Joe said aloud, his eyes catching the name halfway down the schedule. Veronica stopped and turned back toward him. "Yes, that's right," she said. "I meant to ask you to wear something... special." "What? My giant chicken suit?" She laughed. "Not exactly what I had in mind." “Then maybe you should be more specific." "Bluejacket, red sash, black pants," Veronica instructed. "I think of it as Tedric's Prince Charming outfit. Didn't you get fitted for something like that?" "I did and I'll wear it tomorrow." Joe bowed. "Your wish is my command."

Chapter 13 Veronica rode to Saint Mary's in the limousine with Joe. He was wearing the Prince Charming-like suit she'd asked him to wear, and he looked almost ridiculously handsome. "This is going to be a difficult one," she said, doing some last-minute work on her laptop computer. " Are you kidding?" Joe said. "No media, no fanfare—how hard could it be?" "I'm going in with you this time," Veronica said, as if she hadn't heard him. "Oh, no, you're not," he countered. "I don't want you within ten feet of me." She looked up from her computer screen. "There's no danger," she said. "Saint Mary's wasn't on the schedule we released to the press." "There's always danger," Joe insisted. "There's always a possibility that we're being followed." Veronica looked out the near window. Three other limos, plus the surveillance van, were trailing behind them. "Goodness gracious," she said in mock surprise. "You're right! We're being followed by three very suspicious-looking limousines and…" "Knock off the comedy routine, St. John," Joe muttered. "You're not going in there, and that's final." "You don't want me to get hurt." Veronica closed her computer and slid it back into its carrying case. "That's so sweet." "That's me," Joe said. "Prince Sweetie-Pie." "But I need to go in." "Ronnie-" "Saint Mary's is a hospice, Joe," Veronica said quietly. "For children with cancer." Joe was silent. "There's a little girl named Cindy Kaye who is staying at Saint Mary's," she continued, her voice low and even. "She wrote a letter to Tedric, asking him to stop and visit her during his tour of the United States. She'd like to meet a real prince before—well—before she dies." She cleared her throat. "Cindy has an inoperable brain tumor. She's been writing to Tedric for months—not that he bothers to read the letters. But I've read them. Every single one. She's incredibly bright and charming. And she's going to die in a matter of weeks." Joe made a low, pain-filled sound. He rubbed his forehead with one hand, shielding his eyes from her view. "I spoke to her mother on the phone this morning," Veronica said. "Apparently Cindy's taken a turn for the worse. She's been practicing her curtsy for months, but as of last night, she's..." She cleared her throat again. "The tumor's affecting more and more of her motor functions, and she's now unable to get out of bed." Joe swore, long and loud, as the limo pulled up outside the hospice. It was a clean, white building, with lots of windows, and beautiful flowers growing in the neatly tended gardens outside. There was a statue of the Madonna, also gleaming white, in among the flowers. It was lovely to look at, so peaceful and serene. But inside... Inside were children, all dying of cancer. "What am I supposed to say to a kid who's dying?" Joe asked, his voice hoarse. "I don't know," Veronica admitted. "I'll come with you-" "No way." Joe shook his head. "Joe-" "I said, no. I'm not risking your life, goddammit!" Veronica put her hand on his arm and waited until he looked up at her. "Some things are worth the risk." Cindy Kaye was tiny, so skinny and frail. She looked more like a malnourished six-year-old than the ten-year-old Veronica knew her to be. Her long brown hair was clean and she wore a pink ribbon in it. She was lying on top of her bedspread, wearing a frilly pink dress with lots of flounces and lace. Her legs, covered in white tights, looked like two slender sticks. She wore white ballet slippers on her narrow feet. The little girl's brown eyes filled with tears, tears that spilled down her cheeks, as Joe came into the room and gave her his most royal of bows. "Milady," he said in Tedric's unmistakable accent. He approached Cindy and the vast array of tubes and IVs and medical equipment that surrounded her without the slightest hesitation. He sat on the edge of Cindy's bed and lifted her skeletal hand to his lips. "It is a great honor to meet you at last. Your letters have brought great joy and sunshine to my life."

"I wanted to curtsy for you," Cindy said. Her voice was trembling, her speech slurred. "When my sister, the Princess Wila, was twelve," Joe said, leaning forward as if he were sharing a secret with her, "she injured her back and neck in a skiing accident, and was confined to her bed, much the way you are now. Our great-aunt, the Duchess of Milan, taught her the proper social etiquette for such a situation. The duchess taught her the 'eyelid curtsy.'" Cindy waited silently for him to continue. "Close your eyes," Joe commanded the little girl, "count to three, then open them." Cindy did just that. "Excellent," Joe said. "You must have royal blood in your veins to be able to do the eyelid curtsy so elegantly your very first time." Cindy shook her head, the corners of her mouth finally curving upward. "No royal blood? I don't believe it," Joe said, smiling back at her. "Your dress is very beautiful, Cindy." "I picked it out just for you," she said. Joe had to lean close to understand. He looked up to meet the eyes of the woman seated beside the bed—Cindy's mother. She gave him such a sweet, sorrowful, thankful smile, he had to look away. Her daughter, her precious, beautiful daughter, was dying. Joe had always believed he was a strong man, but he wasn't sure he would have the strength to sit by the bedside of his own dying child, day after day, hiding all his frustration and helplessness and deep, burning anger, offering only comforting smiles and peaceful, quiet, reassuring love. He felt some of that frustration and rage form a tornado inside him, making his stomach churn. Somehow, he kept smiling. "I'm honored," he said to Cindy. "Do you speak Ustanzian?" Cindy asked. Joe shook his head. "In Ustanzia we speak French," he said. "Je parle un pen frangais," Cindy said, her words almost unrecognizable. Oh, God, thought Veronica. Now what? "Tres bien," Joe said smoothly. "Very good." Veronica relaxed. Joe knew a bit of French, too. Thank goodness. That might have been a real disaster. Imagine the child's disappointment to find that her prince was an impos-ter... "I would love to see your country," Cindy said, in her stilted schoolgirl French. Oh, dear. Veronica stood. "Cindy, I'm sure Prince Tedric would love for you to see his country, too, but he should really practice his English, now that he's visiting America." Joe looked up at her. "It's all right," he murmured, then turned back to Cindy. "I know a way you can see my country," Joe replied in perfect French. His accent was impeccable—he spoke like a native Parisian. "Close your eyes, and I will tell you all about my beautiful Ustanzia, and you will see it as if you are there." Veronica's mouth was hanging open. Joe spoke French? Joe spoke French? She pulled her mouth shut and listened in silence as he described Ustanzia's mountains and valleys and plains in almost poetic language—both in French and English, as he translated the too-difficult words for the little girl. "It sounds wonderful," Cindy said with a sigh. "It is," Joe replied. He smiled again. "Do you know some people in my country also speak Russian?" He then repeated his question in flawless Russian. Veronica had to sit down. Russian? What other languages did he speak? Or maybe she should wonder what languages didn't he speak... "Do you speak Russian?" Joe asked the little girl. She shook her head. "Say 'da,’” Joe said. "Da," she said. "That's Russian for 'yes,'" he told her, and smiled—a big, wide, warm Joe smile, not one of Tedric's pinched smiles. "Now you speak Russian." "Da," she said again, with a brilliant smile in return. A FInCOM agent appeared in the doorway. When Joe looked up, the man touched his watch.

"I have to go now," Joe said. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer." "That's okay," Cindy said, but once again her eyes filled with tears. Joe felt his heart clench. He'd been there, visiting Cindy, for only thirty minutes. When they'd set up the schedule for the tour, McKinley had wanted to allot only five minutes for Saint Mary's, but Veronica had been adamant that they take a full half hour. But now, even a half hour didn't seem long enough. "I'm so glad I got to meet you," Joe said, leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead as he stood. "Your Majesty...?" "Yes, milady?" "I heard on the news that there are lots of kids hungry in Ustanzia right now," Cindy said, laboring over the words. Joe nodded seriously. "Yes," he said. "That news report was right. My family is trying to fix that." "I don't like it when kids are hungry," she said. "I don't either," Joe said, his voice husky. The tornado inside him was growing again. How could this child think of others' troubles and pain, when her own pain was so great? "Why don't you share your food with them?" Cindy said. "It's not always that easy," Joe said. But she already knew that. Surely she, of all people, knew that. "It should be, "she said. He nodded. "You're right. It should be." She closed her eyes briefly—an eyelid curtsy. Joe bowed. What could he say now? Stay well? That would be little more than a cruel joke. I'll see you soon? An untruth. Both he and the child knew they would never meet again. His rage and frustration swelled up into his throat, making it difficult to speak. "Goodbye, Cindy," he managed to say, then moved toward the door. "I love you, Prince," Cindy said. Joe stopped, and turned back to her, fighting hard to smile. "Thank you," he said. "I'll treasure this day, Cindy—always—and carry you forever in my heart." The little girl smiled, made happy by such a small thing, such a small pleasure. Somehow Joe kept the smile on his face until he was outside the room. Somehow he managed to walk down the hall without putting his fist through a wall. Somehow he managed to keep walking—until the burning rage in his stomach and throat and behind his eyes grew too intense, and his feet wouldn't carry him another step forward. He turned toward the wall—the same wall he hadn't put his fist through—and leaned his arms against it, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, hoping, praying that the pain that was burning him would soon let up. But why should it? The pain Cindy was in wasn't going to let up. She was going to die, probably in a matter of days. The injustice of it all was like a knee to his groin. Bile filled his mouth and he wanted to shake his fist at the sky and curse the God Who could let this happen. "Joe." Ronnie was there, then. Leading him down the hall, she pulled him into the semiprivacy of a tiny chapel. Warm and soft, she put her arms around him and held him tightly. "Oh, God," he said, fighting the hot rush of tears to his eyes. "Oh, God!” "I know," she said. "I know. But you were so good. You made her smile. You made her happy." Joe pulled back to look at Veronica. Light filtered in through the stained-glass windows, glowing red and blue and gold on the tile floor. "I'm not even a real prince," he said harshly. "It was all just a lie.” Veronica shook her head. "Tedric would've disappointed her horribly," she said. "You've given her something good to dream about." Joe laughed, but it came out sounding more like a sob. He stared up at the crucifix on the wall behind the altar. "Yeah, but for how long?" "For as long as she needs good dreams," Veronica said quietly. Joe felt his eyes fill with tears again. He tried to blink them back, but one or two escaped, rolling down his face. He was crying. God, he hadn't cried

since he was fifteen years old. Embarrassed, he wiped at his face with the back of one hand. "This is why you insisted that Saint Mary's stay on the schedule," he said gruffly. "You're really the one responsible for making that little girl happy." "I think it was teamwork," Veronica said, smiling at him through her own tears. He'd never seen her look more beautiful. Nearly everything she'd done up to this point, he realized, she'd done for the sake of one little dying girl. Sure, she wanted to help catch the terrorists. And she wanted to help her friend, the princess of Us-tanzia. But what really had driven her to make sure Joe could pass as Prince Tedric, was the little sick kid back in that bed. He knew that as sure as he knew his heart was beating. The noose around Joe's chest drew so tight, for one heart-stopping moment he was sure he'd never be able to breathe again. But then something snapped—not the noose, but something in his head—and a little voice said, "You're in love with this woman, you flaming idiot," and he knew it was true. She was wonderful. And he was crazy in love with her. Her smile faded and there was only warmth in her eyes, warmth and that ever-present flame of desire. She moved back into his arms, and lifted her mouth to his and... God, he was kissing her. He was actually kissing her. He took her lips hungrily, pulling her lithe body closer to him. He wanted to inhale her, devour her, become one with her. He kissed her again and again, his tongue sweeping fiercely past any pretense of civility, as he savagely claimed her mouth. He could feel her arms around his neck, feel her pressing herself even tighter against him as she kissed him with equal abandon. It was so right. It was so utterly, perfectly right. This woman, his arms around her, their two hearts beating—pounding—in unison. Two souls intertwined. Two minds so different, yet alike. Joe knew with sudden frightening clarity what he'd been fighting and denying to himself for days now. He wanted. Ronnie St. John. Permanently. As in "till death do us part." He wanted to make love to her, to possess her, to own her heart as completely as she owned his. He wanted to see her eyes widen in pleasure, hear her cry his name as he filled her, totally, absolutely, in a perfect act of total and binding love. For the first time in his life, Joe understood the concept of happily ever after. It was a promise he'd never allowed himself before, an impossible rank he'd never thought to achieve. But it was right there, staring him in the face whenever Veronica walked into the room. It was in the way she stood, the way she tilted her head very slightly as she listened to him talk, the way she tried so ineffectually to tuck her wild curls back up into her bun, the way her blue eyes danced as she laughed. And it was in the way she was kissing him, as if she, too, wanted to wrap her gorgeous mile-long legs around his waist and feel him inside her forever and ever and ever and ever. But then, as suddenly as the kiss had started, it stopped. Veronica pulled away, as if she suddenly realized that they were standing in the middle of the hospice chapel, surrounded by stained glass and soothing dark wood and candles, with a FInCOM agent watching them from the doorway, A nun knelt quietly before the altar. They'd been standing there, kissing, in front of a nun, for crying out loud Veronica's cheeks flushed pink as Joe looked into her eyes, trying to see what she was thinking. Was this just another "mistake"? Or was this simply a more emotional thank-you? Or was it more than that? Please, God, he wanted it to be more. He wanted it to mean she was feeling all of the things that he felt. But they weren't alone, and he couldn't ask. He couldn't even speak. All he could do was hope. She looked away from him, the expression in her eyes unreadable as she murmured an apology. An apology. Mistakes and accidents required apologies. Joe's heart sank as the FInCOM agents quickly led them both back to the waiting limos. And when Kevin Laughton hustled Veronica into a different limousine and she didn't even glance in Joe's direction before getting inside, his heart shattered. He had his answer. That kiss had been another mistake. Joe was quiet on the charter flight to Boston. Even his friends from the Alpha Squad knew enough to stay away from him. Veronica slipped into the seat next to his, and he glanced up, his eyes wary.

"Are you ail right?" she asked quietly. He smiled tightly. "Why wouldn't I be all right?" Veronica wasn't sure how to answer that question. Because you just spent time with a dying child. Because you talked to her and you didn't try to pretend that she had a future, that she wasn't dying. Because it hurts like hell to know that there's nothing you or anyone else can do for that little girl, except make her smile a few more times And because you kissed me as if your world were crumbling beneath your very feet, and when I pulled away, you looked at me as if I were ripping the heart from your chest Joe shook his head. "You know, that's the problem when big, mean guys like me show we actually have a soul," he complained. "Everyone gets all worried, like, he lost it once, now he's gonna burst into tears every time someone says 'Boo,' Well, forget about it. I'm fine." Veronica nodded, not daring to comment, certainly not daring to mention the kiss. Not yet. They sat for a moment in silence, and then she turned back to look at him. "I had no.idea you spoke French," she said, tackling a much safer subject, hoping he'd be the one to bring up the topic of the kiss they'd shared. "And Russian?" Joe shrugged. "I'm a language specialist," he said, shortly. "It's no big deal." "How many languages do you speak?" "Eight," he said. "Eight," Veronica repeated. The way he said it, it was nothing. She spoke English and French and a very small bit of Spanish, and that hadn't been nothing. In fact, it had been a great deal of work. "Someone in the team has to be able to communicate with the locals," he said, as if that explained everything. His SEAL Team needed him to speak eight different languages, so he'd learned eight different languages. "What else do you specialize in?" she asked. Joe shrugged. "The usual SEAL tricks." "Balancing beach balls on your nose and barking like a dog?" He finally smiled. "Not quite," he said. "I assume some kind of swimming is involved," Veronica said. "Or else you wouldn't be called SEALs." "Yeah, swimming," he said. "And scuba diving. Skydiving. Parasailing." He started ticking the list off on his fingers. "Explosives, underwater and on land. Weapons and other high-tech war toys. Martial arts and some less conventional hand-to-hand techniques. Computers. Locks. Alarm systems. And so on." "Admiral Forrest said you were a sharpshooter," Veronica said. "An expert marksman." "Everyone in SEAL Team Ten is," he replied, shrugging it off. "Besides languages, what else do you specialize in?" Veronica asked. He gazed at her for several long seconds. "I know a little more than the other guys when it comes to the high-tech war toys," he finally said. "I'm also a classified expert in jungle, desert and arctic survival. You know about the languages and my... ability to mimic. Comes in handy at times. I can fly any type of aircraft, from a chopper to a Stealth." He smiled, but it lacked the wattage of his usual grins. "Hell, I could probably handle the space shuttle if I had to. And I'm an expert mechanic. I could fix it if it breaks. There's some other stuff that you don't want to know, and some that I can't tell you." Veronica nodded slowly. Admiral Forrest had told her much of this before, but she hadn't believed it. She probably still wouldn't believe it if she hadn't heard Joe speaking perfect French. He could do all those incredible things, superhuman things, and yet it was his humanity—his compassion and kindness for a dying child—that had moved her the most. Moved her profoundly. She looked down at her hands, folded nervously in her lap. "Joe, about this morning," she started to say. "It's okay, Ronnie. You can forget about it," he interrupted, knowing that she was talking about their kiss. His eyes were guarded as he glanced at her again. He looked away, out the window of the jet. "It was... something we both needed right then. But, it... didn't mean anything, and I know you're not going to let it happen again. No more mistakes, right? So we don't need to talk about it. In fact, I'd rather not talk about it." "But..." "Please," he said, turning to look at her again. It didn't mean anything. His words suddenly penetrated, and Veronica stared at him, her mouth slightly open. She closed her mouth, and looked back down at her hands. She sat there in silence, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to think, because she was afraid of what she'd feel. It didn't mean anything.

That kiss had been more than a kiss. It had been an exchange of emotions, a joining of souls. It had been filled with feelings she didn't want to feel, powerful feelings for a man who scared her more than she wanted to admit. A man who specialized in making war. A man who risked his life as a matter of course. A man she'd tried to keep her distance from. Tried and failed. She'd kissed him. In public. And he thought it didn't mean anything? The seat-belt light flashed on, and the pilot's voice came over the loudspeaker. "We're approaching Boston. Please return to your seats." Joe stared out the window as if he'd never seen Boston before, as if the aerial view was infinitely more interesting than anything he could see inside the jet. Veronica forced her voice to sound even and controlled. "We'll be arriving in Boston in a few minutes," she said. Joe lifted his head in acknowledgment, but still didn't look in her direction. "From the airport, it's only about a fifteen-minute drive downtown to the hotel where the charity luncheon is being held. Your speech will be on a TelePrompTer. It'll be brief and all you'll have to do is read it. "This evening, there's a private party on Beacon Hill," she said, wishing she felt as cool and detached as she sounded. Wishing she didn't feel like crying. It didn't mean anything. "The host and hostess are friends of Wila's. And mine. So I won't be in the surveillance van tonight." He turned and frowned at her, his dark eyes piercing. "What? Why not?" "Ambassador Freder will be in the van," Veronica said, purposely not meeting the intensity of Joe's gaze. "I'll be attending my friends' party. There'll be virtually no risk for you. Consider this another one of Tedric's obligations that couldn't begotten out of." She could feel him watching her, giving her a long, measuring look. "There's never no risk," he said. "I'd feel much better if you were in the van." "We won't stay long," she said, glancing up at him. "Just long enough to get shot, maybe, huh?" Joe said. He forced a smile. "Relax, Ronnie, I was kidding." "I don't think getting shot is ever funny," Veronica said tightly. "Sorry," he said. God, she was strung as tight as he was. Probably the tension from worrying about his reaction to this morning's kiss. No doubt the relief hadn't set in yet. Sitting next to her like this was torture. Joe jerked his thumb toward the window. "It's been a while since I've been in New England," he said. "Mind if I... ?" Veronica shook her head. "No, that's... Go right ahead and..." He'd already turned to look out the window. She'd been dismissed. Rather than stare at the back of Joe's head, agonizing over his impersonal words, Veronica ignored the seat-belt sign and stood, moving toward the front of the plane where there were several empty seats. It didn't mean anything. Maybe not to Joe, but that kiss had meant something to Veronica. It meant she'd been a real fool.

Chapter 14 Salustiano Vargas, the former right hand of the man known by most of the world only as Diosdado, stared at the telephone in his cheap motel room as it rang. It was hotter than hell in there and the air conditioner chugged away to no avail. He had told no one, no one, where he would be staying. Still, he knew damn well who was on the other end of the line. There was nowhere he could run where Diosdado couldn't find him. He picked it up after the seventeenth ring, unable to stand it* any longer. "Yes?" Diosdado said only one word. "When?" "Soon," Vargas replied, closing his eyes. "You have my word." "Good." The line was cut without a goodbye. Vargas sat in the heat for several moments, not moving. It truly was hotter than hell in this cheap room. When he stood, it took him only a few minutes to pack up his things. He carried hjs suitcase to his rented car and headed across town—toward a fancy, expensive resort. He couldn't afford to stay there, but he would put it on his credit card. He wanted luxury. He wanted clean sheets, a firm bed. He wanted room service and a view of a sparkling swimming pool with young girls lounging around it. He wanted the cool, sweet, fresh air of a fancy hotel room. He didn't want hell. He'd be there soon enough. As the applause died down, Joe smiled in the direction of the TV news cameras. "Good afternoon," he said. "It is an honor and a pleasure to be here today." Veronica couldn't concentrate on his words. All her attention was on Blue and Cowboy and Harvard's voices as they kept a constant lookout for danger. This was the perfect setting for an assassination attempt. There were TV cameras here from every network, including cable news, and the event was political—a hundred-dollars-a-plate fund-raiser for a well-known senator's reelection campaign. But if the terrorists were going to try to shoot the prince— Joe—they hadn't set up in any of the obvious vantage points. If they were here, they were in with the crowd, sitting in the rows of banquet tables. FInCOM agents were everywhere. Veronica could see them on her video screens, their eyes sweeping the crowd, watchful for any sign of danger or trouble. Please, Lord, protect Joe and keep him safe-There was a sudden commotion at one of the tables in the back, and Veronica's heart lodged in her throat. She could hear the SEALs shouting and see the FInCOM agents running, all converging on one table, and one man. "I have my rights!" the man was shouting as he was wrestled to the floor. "I've done nothing wrong! I'm a Vietnam veteran and I want to know—" Noise erupted as people tried to get away from the commotion, and the FInCOM agents tried to get the man out of the room. And Joe... Joe was still standing at the podium, watching. Why didn't he get down, out of Harm's way? "Joe," Veronica said into her microphone. "Take cover!" But he didn't move. "Joe!" she said again. "Damn it, get down!" He wasn't listening. He was watching as the man was dragged toward the door. "Wait," he said sharply, his commanding voice echoing over the PA system, cutting through hubbub, through the sound of eight hundred voices all talking at once. "I said, wait!" Blue froze. They all froze—the FInCOM agents and their prisoner, looking up toward Joe. A hush fell over the crowd. "Is he armed?" Joe asked, more quietly now. Blue shook his head. "No, sir." "I only wanted to ask a question, Your Highness," the man called out, his voice ringing clearly across the room. Veronica sat on the edge of her seat, watching. She could see the TV cameras catching every bit of the drama. "He only wanted to ask a question," Joe repeated mildly. He turned to Kevin Laughton, who now stood on the stage next to him. "Has it become illegal in this country to ask a question?"

"No, sir," Laughton said. "But-" Joe turned pointedly away from Laughton. "He would like to ask a question," he said to the watching crowd, "and I would like to hear his question, if the rest of you don't mind...?" Someone started to clap, and after a brief smattering of applause, Joe bowed his head to the man. "The question I wanted to ask you, Prince Tedric," the man said in his clear voice, "and the question I want to ask all of you," he added, addressing the entire crowd, "is how can you sit here in good conscience, spending so much money for one meal, when right next door a homeless shelter and soup kitchen for Vietnam veterans is about to be shut down from lack of funding?" It was so quiet in the room, a pin could have been heard falling on the floor. Joe didn't answer at first. He let the question sit, filling the air, surrounding all the luncheon guests. "What is your name?" Joe asked the man. "Tony Pope, sir," the man said. "Sergeant Tony Pope, U.S. Marines, retired." "You served in Vietnam, Sergeant?" Joe asked. Pope nodded. "Yes, sir." Joe looked at Blue and the FInCOM agents who were still holding Pope's arms. "I think you can release him," he said. "I think we've determined he's not out for blood." "Thank you, sir." Pope straightened his jacket and tie. He was a good-looking man, Veronica realized, with a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache. His suit was well-tailored, if rather worn and fraying in spots. He held himself proudly, standing tall, with his shoulders back and head high. "Do you run this homeless shelter, Sergeant Pope?" Joe asked. "Yes, sir," Pope replied. "The Boylston Street Shelter. For ten years, sir." His mouth tightened. "We've had some tough times, but never like this. The few grants we had left ran out, and it'll be six months before we stand a chance of getting any additional funding. And now the city says we need to make repairs to the facility by the end of the month—Friday—or our site's condemned. We barely have enough cash to feed our residents, let alone make the kind of repairs they're demanding. To be bluntly honest, sir, the Vietnam vets that live at Boylston Street Shelter are getting screwed —again." "How many men use your facility?" Joe asked quietly. "Daily we average around two hundred and fifty," the man replied. "These are men who have nowhere else to go—no food, no place but the street to sleep." Joe was silent. "Our yearly overhead cost is twenty thousand dollars," Tony Pope said. He looked around the room. "That's what two hundred of you are paying right now, for one single meal." "Is the Boylston Street Shelter serving lunch today?" Joe asked. "Today and every day," Pope said. "Until they nail our doors shut." "Do you mind if I come take a look?" Joe asked. If Pope was surprised, he hid it well.."I'd be honored." "No way," Veronica heard Kevin Laughton say vehemently. "Absolutely no way." "Joe, what are you doing?" she asked. "You can't leave the building, it's not safe." But Joe had already jumped down, off the stage, and was striding between the tables, toward Sgt. Tony Pope, U.S.M.C., retired. As Veronica watched, Pope led Joe—surrounded by FInCOM agents and his three SEALs—out of the room. The TV news cameras and reporters scrambled after them. The shelter was, quite literally, right next door to the hotel. Once inside, Pope gave Joe—and the camera crews—a tour of his modest facility, from the cafeteria to the kitchen. He pointed out the holes in the roof and the other parts of the building that needed repairs. He introduced Joe to many of the longtime residents and workers. Joe addressed them by rank, even the grungiest, rag-clad winos, and spoke to them all with the utmost respect and courtesy. And as Joe was leaving, he slipped the jeweled ring from his finger and handed it to Tony Pope. "Fix your roof," he said.

Tears sprang to the older man's eyes. "Your Majesty," he said. "You've already given us so much." He gestured to the TV cameras. "The publicity alone is priceless." "You need some quick cash, and I have one ring too many," Joe said. "The solution is so obvious. So simple." He smiled into the TV news cameras. "Just like my friend Cindy says." "Oh, Joe, that ring's not yours to give away," Veronica breathed, knowing that she would pay for the ring herself, if she had to. The final scene in the evening news report showed all of the men in the Boylston Street Shelter sharply saluting Prince Ted-ric as he left the building. "Sergeant Tony Pope asks that contributions be sent directly to the Boylston Street Shelter," the news anchor said, "at 994—" The phone rang, and Veronica pushed the Mute button as she answered it. "Did you see it?" It was Henri Freder, the Ustanzian ambassador. "Did you see the news? It's not just a local story, it's being run nationally, and by the cable network." "I saw it," Veronica said. "Gold," Freder said. "Pure, solid gold." "I know that ring was valuable, sir," Veronica started to say. "Not the ring," Freder enthused. "Prince Tedric's image! Absolutely golden! He is America's newest hero. Everyone loves him. We couldn't have done it better if we'd tried. I've got to go, my other phone is ringing-—" Veronica stared at the disconnected telephone and slowly hung up the receiver. Everyone loved Prince Tedric— who was really a sailor named Joe, and not a real prince at all. Or was he? He was more of a prince than Tedric had ever been. Now, because of Joe, everyone loved Prince Tedric. Except Veronica. She was falling in love with a prince named Joe. Veronica had two hours to rest before the party. She lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying not to let the words Joe had spoken on the plane echo in her mind. The kiss they'd shared. It didn't mean anything. She was in love with a man who had told her, on more than one occasion, that the best she could hope for with him was a casual sexual relationship. He'd told her that the kisses they'd shared meant nothing to him. He did desire her, though. Veronica knew that from looking into his eyes. She knew it, too, from the way he'd kissed her in the chapel at Saint Mary's. If they'd been alone, it wouldn't have taken much for that one, single kiss to escalate into lovemaking. But he didn't love her. So now what? Was she going to just sit around loving Joe from a distance until the terrorists were caught, until he went back to SEAL Team Ten's temporary base in California? Or was she going to do something foolish, like make love to the man, stupidly hoping that the physical act would magically make him fall in love with her, too? It would never happen. He would have all he'd ever wanted from her— sex. And she would have a broken heart. A single tear slid down the side of her face and lodged rather uncomfortably in her ear. Perfect. She was now one-hundred-percent pitiable and pathetic. The telephone rang, and Veronica rolled over and looked at it. She contemplated letting the front desk take a message, but after three rings, she finally picked it up. She wasn't going to get any sleep anyway. "Veronica St. John," she said on a sigh. "Hey." It was Joe. Veronica sat up, hastily wiping the moisture from her face, as if he would somehow be able to tell she'd been crying. She hadn't expected the caller to be Joe. Not in a million years. Not after their dreadful conversation on the plane. "Are you awake?" he asked.

"I am now," she said. "Oh, damn," he said, concern tingeing his voice. "Did I really wake you?" "No, no," she said. "I was just... No." "Well, I won't take too much of your time," Joe said. His husky voice sounded slightly stiff and unnatural. "I just wanted to tell you that if you get any flak about me giving away that ring of Tedric's—" "It's all right," Veronica interrupted. "The ambassador called and—" "I just wanted to let you know that I'll pay for it," Joe said. "I don't know what I was thinking—giving away something that didn't belong to me. But—" "It's all taken care of," Veronica said. "It is?" "Your popularity rating is apparently through the roof," she told him. "I think the Ustanzian ambassador is considering having you knighted or perhaps made into a saint." Joe laughed. "I can see it now. Joe, the patron saint of celebrity impersonators." "Don't you mean, the patron saint of dying children and struggling causes?" Veronica said softly. "You know, Joe, you never fail to surprise me." "That makes two of us," he muttered. "What?" "Nothing. I should go—" "You really are softhearted, aren't you?" Veronica asked. "Honey, I'm not soft anywhere." She could almost see him bristle. "I didn't mean that as an insult," she said. "Look, I just have a problem with the way this country treats war veterans, all right?" he said. "I'm tired of seeing good men, soldiers and sailors who risked their lives fighting for this country, being forced to live in the lousy gutter." Veronica pushed her hair from her face, suddenly understanding. This was personal. This had something to do with that old sailor Joe had known when he was a child. What was his name...? "Frank O'Riley," she said, hardly realizing she'd spoken aloud. Joe was silent for several long seconds. "Yeah," he finally said. "Old Man O'Riley went on a binge and lost his job. Got himself evicted. It damn near killed him to think of losing his garden, and he sobered up, but it was too late. No one helped him. He was a war hero, and he was out on the street in the goddammed middle of the goddammed winter." "And because of that, he died," Veronica guessed correctly. "He caught pneumonia." Joe's voice was curiously flat, and she knew by his lack of inflection and emotion that Frank O'Riley's death still hurt him deeply. "I'm sorry," Veronica murmured. Joe was quiet again for a moment. Then he sighed. "What I don't get, is how the hell our armed forces can send our guys to fight a war without really preparing them. And if we are going to send out these... kids, then we shouldn't be so damned surprised when they come home and fall apart. And then—and this is real genius—we try to sweep the pieces under the rug so no one will see. Nice move, huh?" "Those are pretty tough words for someone who specializes in making war," Veronica said. "I'm not suggesting we demilitarize," Joe said. "I think that would be a mistake. No, I just think the government should take responsibility for the veterans." "But if there were no wars, there'd be no veterans. If we spent money on diplomatic relations rather than guns and—" "Right," Joe said. "But there are enough bad guys in the world that wouldn't hesitate to step forward and kick some butt if our country couldn't defend itself. I mean, sure we could hand out flowers and love beads, but we'd get back a round of machine-gun fire in our gut. There are some mean bastards out there, Ronnie, and they don't want to play nice. We need to be as tough and as mean as they are." "And that's where you come in," Veronica said. "Mr. Tough and Mean. Ready to fight whatever war pops up." "I'm a fighter," Joe stated quietly. "I've been prepared for war my entire life." He laughed softly, his voice suddenly so intimate and low in her ear. "It's the other surprises in life that knock me over." "You are so utterly un-knock-overable." Veronica wished the same were true of herself.

"You're wrong," Joe countered. "The past few days, I can barely remember what solid ground feels like." Veronica was quiet. She could hear Joe breathing on the other end of the phone line, three doors down the hotel corridor. "Cindy?" she asked softly. He didn't say a word. "I'm sorry," she added. "I should have prepared you more for—" "Not Cindy," he said. "I mean, going to see her was tough, but... I was talking about you." Veronica felt all the air leave her lungs. "Me?" She couldn't speak in more than a whisper. "God, would you look at the time? I gotta go." "Joe, what—" "No, Ronnie, I don't know why I said that. I'm just asking for trouble and—" He broke off, swearing softly. "But-" "Do yourself a favor tonight, babe," Joe said brusquely. "Stay the hell away from me, okay?" The phone line was disconnected with a click. Veronica sat on the bed for a long time, holding the receiver against her chest. Was it possible...? Could it be...? Did Joe think she was the one who didn't want any kind of relationship? What was it that he'd said on the plane... ? About the kiss they'd shared—It didn't mean anything, and I know you 're not going to let it happen again. You're not going to let it happen again. Not we. You. Meaning Veronica. Meaning...what? That she was the one who was preventing their relationship from growing? The telephone began to emit a series of piercing tones, and Veronica quickly dropped the receiver into the cradle. If Joe really thought she didn't want a relationship with him, then she was going to have to set him straight. Veronica stood and crossed to the closet, her nap forgotten. She looked quickly through her clothes, glancing only briefly at the rather staid dress she'd intended to wear to the party tonight. That dress wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all—

Chapter 15 Joe stood in the marble-tiled front hallway of Armand and Talandra Perrault's enormous Beacon Hill town house, chatting easily in French with the couple who were the host and hostess of tonight's party. Armand Perrault was a charming and gracious silver-haired Frenchman who'd retired a millionaire from his import-export business. His wife, Talandra, was a tall, beautiful young black woman with a rich, infectious laugh. Talandra had known Veronica from college. Apparently they'd been roommates and good friends. They'd even gone on vacations together—that was how Talandra had met Wila Cortere, Joe's supposed sister. God, at times like this, Joe felt like such a liar. "Where is Veronique, Your Highness?" Talandra asked him. He fought the temptation to shrug. "She wasn't ready to leave the hotel when I was," he said instead in Tedric's royal accent. "I'm sure she'll be here soon." Ambassador Freder was in the surveillance van, sitting in Veronica's seat, ready to provide names and facts and any other information Joe might need. Damn, how he wished it was Veronica whispering in his ear. Even though this party was not public and therefore technically a low risk, Joe was on edge. He liked knowing that Veronica was safely tucked away in the van, out of danger. Tonight, he was going to spend all of his time wondering where she was, and praying that she was safe. Damn, he hated not knowing where she was. Where was that other limousine? "May I get you another glass of champagne?" Talandra asked. Joe shook his head. "No, thank you." He could feel Talandra's dark brown eyes studying him. "You're not as Wila and Veronique described you," she said. "No?" Joe's gaze strayed back to the front door as several FInCOM agents pulled it open. Please, God, let it be her... The woman who came in the door was a redhead, but there was no way on God's earth it could be Veronica, wearing a dress that exposed so much skin and— Hot damn! It was her. It was Veronica. Over his earphone, Joe could hear Cowboy. "Whoo-ee, boss, babe alert at eleven o'clock!" Sweet God! Veronica looked... out of this world. The dress she was wearing was black and long, made of a soft silky fabric that clung to her every curve. Two triangles of black barely covered her breasts, and were held up by two thin strips of fabric that crossed her shoulders and met between her shoulder blades, at the cutaway back of the dress. There was a slit up the side of the skirt, all the way up to the top of her thigh, that revealed flashes of her incredible legs. Her shoes were black, with high, narrow heels that were a polar opposite to the clunky-heeled pumps she normally wore. She was wearing her hair up, piled almost haphazardly on top of her head, with stray curls exploding around her face. "Tell me, Your Majesty, does Veronique know how you feel?" Talandra whispered into his ear. Startled, he glanced at her. "Excuse me?" She just smiled knowingly and crossed the room toward Veronica. "Yeah, Your Majesty," Harvard said over Joe's earphone as Joe watched Veronica greet her old friend with a warm hug and kiss. "You might want to keep that royal tongue inside your royal mouth, do you copy that?" Joe couldn't see Cowboy or Harvard, but he knew that wherever they were, they could see him. But what exactly did they see? And what had Talandra seen in his face that made her make that very personal comment? Was he that transparent? Or was this just the way being in love was? Was it impossible to hide? And if so, could Veronica see it just as easily? If so, he was in big trouble here. Veronica turned her head, about to glance in his direction, and he abruptly turned away. He'd have to stay far, far away from her. He'd already revealed way too much this afternoon, when he'd talked to her on the phone. And damn it, he was trying hard not to be in love with her. How tough could it be? After all, he'd spent nearly his entire life not in love with Veronica. It shouldn't be too difficult to get back to that state.

What was love, anyway, but a mutated form of lust? And he'd easily walked away from women he'd lusted after before. Why, then, did his legs feel as if they were caught in molasses when he tried to walk away from Veronica? Because love wasn't lust, and love wasn't something a man could turn off and on like a faucet. And he was crazy in love with this woman, no matter that he tried to convince himself otherwise. And God, if she found out, her gentle pity would kill him. "Hell, boss," Cowboy said. "She's heading straight toward you, and you're running a way?" "You've got it backward, Cat," Harvard chimed in. "A woman like that walks in your direction, you stand very, very still." Blue's south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-Line accent made his voice sound gentle over Joe's earphone, but his words were anything but. "You boys gonna enjoy explaining to Admiral Forrest how you got Joe Cat killed while you were watchin' women instead of watchin' forT's?" Cowboy and Harvard were noticeably silent as Joe moved around the corner into an enormous room with a hardwood floor. It was the ballroom—not that he'd ever been in a ballroom in a private house before. But it was pretty damn unmistakable. A jazz trio was playing in one corner, the furniture was placed around the edges of the room and people were out in the middle of the floor, dancing. This had to be the ballroom. It sure as hell wasn't the bathroom or the kitchen. Joe headed for a small bar set up in the far corner, across from the band. The bartender greeted him with a bow. "Your Highness," the young man said. "What can I get for you?" Whiskey, straight up. "Better make it a ginger ale," Joe said instead. "Easy on the ice." "I'll have the same," said a familiar voice behind him. It was Veronica. Joe didn't want to turn around. Looking at her from a distance had been hard enough. Up close, that dress just might have the power to do him in. He closed his eyes briefly, imagining himself falling to his knees in front of her, begging her to... what? To marry him? Yeah, right. Dream on, Catalanotto. He forced a smile and made himself turn. "Ms. St. John," he said, greeting her formally. She smiled up at him. Light gleamed off her reddish gold hair, and her eyes seemed to sparkle and dance. She was unbelievably beautiful. Joe couldn't imagine that at one time he'd thought her less than gorgeous. She lifted her hand, and he took it automatically, bringing it halfway to his lips before he realized what he was doing. God Almighty, all those hands he'd pretended to kiss over the past few days... But this time, he wasn't going to have to pretend. He brought Veronica's hand to his mouth and brushed his lips lightly across her delicate knuckles. He heard her soft intake of breath, and when he glanced up, he could see that her smile had faded. Her blue eyes were enormous, but she didn't pull her hand away. Joe stood there, like an idiot, staring into eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. Her gaze flickered down to his lips and then farther, to the pin he wore in his lapel—the pin that concealed the microphone that would broadcast everything they said to the surveillance truck, the FInCOM agents and the SEALs. Joe heard only silence over his earphone, and he knew they were all listening. All of them. Listening intently. "How are you, Your Majesty?" Veronica asked, her voice cool and controlled. Joe found his own voice. "I'm well, thanks," he said. Damn, he sounded hoarse, and not an awful lot like Prince Tedric. He cleared his throat, then moistened his dry lips, and realized that Veronica's eyes followed the movement of his tongue. God, was it possible that she wanted to kiss him... ? Her eyes met his, and something flamed—-something hot, something molten, something that seared him to his very soul, something that made his already dry mouth turn into something resembling the floor of Death Valley. Veronica gently disengaged her hand from his and reached to take one of the glasses of ginger ale from the bar. "Have you met my friend Talandra?" she asked him. "Yeah," Joe said, catching himself and correcting himself by saying, "Yes. Yes, I have." He concentrated on doing the Ustanzian accent. But as he watched, she took a delicate sip of her soda and all he could think about were her lips. And the soft curves of her creamy skin, and of her breasts, exposed by the fabulous design of that dress. "She seems... nice." Their eyes met, and again, he was hit by a wave of heat so powerful it nearly knocked him over. Veronica nodded politely. "Yes, she is." What kind of game was this? She turned to watch the dancers, and her arm brushed against his. She smiled an apology and moved slightly away. But when it happened again,

Joe knew damn well it was no accident. At least he hoped it was no accident. His pulse began to race with the implications. "I love to dance," she said, glancing at him. Oh yeah, he knew that. He'd seen her dance. It hadn't been like this—all stiff and polite and formal. When she'd danced, she'd moved with a sensuality and abandon that would've shocked the hell out of half of the people in this room. Veronica tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and Joe's heart began to pound. She was coming on to him. Not in any way that the video cameras and microphones could pick up, but she was coming on to him. It all made sense. The dress, the shoes, the fire she was letting him see in her eyes... He couldn't figure out why the sudden change of heart. Joe opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. What could he ask her? What could he say? Certainly nothing that he wanted broadcast over the entire security network. Instead, he put his hand over hers, covering her cool fingers with his. He gently stroked her smooth skin with his thumb. Veronica turned to look up at him, and Joe could see her desire in her eyes. No doubt about it—she was letting him see it. She wanted him, and she wanted him to know it. She smiled then—a beautiful, tremulous smile that brought his heart up into his throat. He wanted to kiss her so badly, he had to clench his teeth to keep from leaning toward her and caressing her lips with his own. "Your Majesty," she said very softly, as if she couldn't find the air to do more than whisper, "may I have this dance?" He could have her in his arms, right here, right now. Damn, wouldn't that be heaven? But then, from across the room, came an earsplitting crash. Joe reacted, pulling Veronica into his arms and shielding her with his body. What the hell was he thinking? What was he doing, standing here next to her like this, as if he weren't the target of assassins? She was close enough so that bullets meant for him could end her life in the beat of a heart. "It's all right, Cat." He heard Blue's voice over his earphone. "It's cool. Someone dropped a glass. We do not have a situation. Repeat, there is no situation." Joe pulled Veronica in even closer for a second, closing his eyes and pressing her tightly against him before he released her. Adrenaline was flooding his system and his entire body seemed to vibrate. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he'd never been so scared.... Veronica touched his arm. "I guess we're all on edge," she said with a small smile. "Are you all right?" Joe looked wound tighter than a drum. There was a wild-ness in his eyes she'd never seen before and his hand actually trembled as he pushed his hair back, off his face. "No," he said curtly, not bothering to disguise his voice with Tedric's odd accent. "No, I'm not all right. Ronnie, I need you to stay the hell away from me." Veronica felt her smile fade. "I thought we were going to., .dance." Joe let out a short burst of exasperated air. "No way," he said. "Absolutely not. No dancing." She looked down at the floor. "I see." As Joe watched, Veronica turned and started to walk away, unable to disguise the flash of hurt in her eyes. My God. She thought he was rejecting her. He tried to catch her arm, to stop her, but she was moving faster now. "No, you don't see," he called after her in a low voice. But she didn't stop walking. Joe started to follow. Damn! Short of breaking into a sprint, there was no way he could catch her. And although shouting "Yo, Ronnie!" was something Joe Catalanotto might not have hesitated to do even at a posh society party, Prince Tedric was not prone to raising his voice in public. When Joe rounded the corner into the front hall, Veronica was nowhere in sight. Damn! Double damn! How could he follow her if he didn't know where she went? He headed toward the living room and the spacious kitchen beyond, hearing the unmistakable sound of Talandra's laughter from that direction. But Talandra stood near a large stone fireplace, sipping champagne and talking with a group of elegantly dressed women—none of whom were Veronica. "Oh, here's the prince now," Talandra said, smiling at Joe.

There was nothing he could do but go and greet the group of ladies as Talandra made introductions. "Code Red," came Cowboy's voice, loud and clear over Joe's earphone. "We have an open window on the third floor! Repeat, open window, third floor. Possible break-in. Joe, get the hell out of here. Double time! This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill!" Everything switched into slow motion. "Are you kidding?" Joe said into his microphone, pushing the door to the living room open an inch. "And leave all the fun to you guys?" Joe could see about ten FInCOM agents heading toward him. He swore under his breath and stepped back as they came through the door. They surrounded him instantly. West and Freeman were on either side of him, shielding him with their own bodies as they moved him toward the back door. There was a car idling outside the kitchen, waiting for exactly this type of emergency. The car door was thrown open, and West climbed into the back seat first, pulling Joe behind him. Freeman followed, and before the door was even closed, the driver took off, peeling out down the narrow alleyway and onto the dark city streets. West and Freeman were breathing hard as they both hol-stered their weapons. They watched without much surprise as Joe rested his own gun on his lap. "You're not supposed to be carrying," West commented. "Kevin Laughton would throw a hissy fit if he knew," Freeman said. "'Course, he doesn't have to know." "Imagine Kevin's shock," Joe said, "if he knew that I've got another gun in my boot and a knife hidden in my belt." "And probably another weapon hidden somewhere else that you're not telling us about," West said blandly. "Probably," Joe agreed. The car was moving faster now, catching green lights at all of the intersections as it headed downtown. Joe took out his earphone—they were out of range. He leaned forward and asked the driver, "Any word on the radio? What's happening back there? Any action?" He hated running away from his squad like this. The driver shook his head. "The word is it's mostly all clear," he said. "It's an alleged false alarm. One of the party guests claims she opened the window in the third-floor bathroom because she was feeling faint." Joe sat back in his seat. False alarm. He took a deep breath, trying to clear the nervous energy from his system. His guys were safe. Ronnie was safe. He was safe. He bolstered his gun and looked from Freeman to West. "You know, I had no idea you guys were willing to lay it on the line for me." West looked out one window, Freeman looked out the other. "Just doing our job, sir," West said, sounding bored. Joe knew better. It was odd, sitting here between two relative strangers—strangers who would have died for him today if they'd had to. It was odd, knowing that they cared. With a sudden flash, Joe remembered a pair of crystal blue eyes looking at him with enough heat to ignite a rocket engine. West and Freeman weren't the only ones who cared. Veronica St. John cared, too.

Chapter 16 Veronica stood at the window, looking out over downtown Boston. With all the city lights reflected in the Charles River, it was lovely. She could see the Esplanade and the Hatch Shell, where the Boston Pops played free concerts in the summer. She could see Back Bay and the Boston Common. And somewhere, down there, hidden by the trees of the common was Beacon Hill, where Talandra lived, and where there was a party going on right this very moment—without her. She took another sip of her rum and cola, feeling the sweet warmth of the rum spreading through her. Well, she'd certainly made a fool of herself tonight. Again. Veronica could see her wavery reflection in the window. She looked like someone else in this dress. Someone seductive and sexy. Someone who could snap her fingers and have dozens of men come running. Someone who wouldn't give a damn if some sailor didn't want her near him. She laughed aloud at her foolishness, but her laughter sounded harsh in the empty hotel suite. She'd gone to this party with every intention of seducing Joe Catalanotto. She'd planned it so perfectly. She'd wear this incredible dress. He would be stunned. They'd dance. She'd dance really close. He would be even more stunned. He would follow her back to the hotel. She'd ask him into her room under the pretense of briefing him for tomorrow. But he'd know better. He'd ask the FInCOM agents to wait outside, and once the hotel-room door closed, he would pull her into his arms and... It was perfect—except that she'd forgotten one small detail. Her plan would work only if Joe wanted her, too. She had thought she'd seen desire in his eyes when he looked at her tonight, but obviously, she'd been mistaken. Veronica took another sip of her drink and turned from the window, unable to bear the silence another minute. There was a radio attached to the television, and she turned it on. It was set to a soft-rock station—not her favorite kind of music, but she didn't care. Just as long as there was something to fill the deadly silence. She knew she ought to change out of her dress. It was only helping to remind her what a total imbecile she'd been. She looked at herself again in the mirror that hung on the hotel-room wall. The dress was practically indecent. The silky fabric clung to her breasts, broadcasting the fact that she was wearing no bra, and the cut of the dress showed off all kinds of cleavage and skin and curves. Good grief, she might as well have gone topless. Whatever had possessed her to buy this dress, anyway? It was like wearing a nightgown in public. Veronica stared at herself in the mirror. She knew why she had bought the dress. It was to be an unspoken message to Joe. Here I am. I'm all yours. Come and sweep me off my feet. To which he'd responded quite clearly. Stay the hell away from me. She sighed, fighting the tears ready to spring into her eyes. She should change into something more sensible—her flannel nightie, perhaps— instead of standing here, feeling sorry for herself. She wasn't here, in Boston, to be either sexy or romantic. She was here to do her job. She wasn't looking for sex or romance or even friendship, with Joe Catalanotto. She was simply looking to get a job done well. Period, the end. "You are such a bloody liar," Veronica said aloud to her reflection, her voice thick with disgust. "You're not talking to me, 1 hope." Veronica spun around, nearly spilling her rum and cola down the front of her dress. Joe. He was standing no more than three feet away from her, leaning against the wall next to the mirror. He stepped forward and took the drink from her hand. Veronica's heart was pounding. "What are you doing here?" she gasped. "How did you get in?" There was no balcony this time. And she was positive that the room's single door had been securely locked. But of course, he had told her he was an expert at picking locks. Joe just smiled. He was still wearing his party clothes. He wore a navy blue military-style jacket that buttoned up both sides of his chest and ended at his trim waist. His pants were made of a khaki-colored fabric that looked soft to the touch. They fit him like a second skin, clinging to his muscular thighs and perfect derriere. They were tucked into a pair of shiny black, knee-high boots. He wore a red sash around his waist, and the splash of color completed the princely picture. He looked devastatingiy, heart-breakingly handsome. Veronica's stomach flip-flopped. Lord, the way he was smiling at her... But whatever he was doing here, it wasn't personal, she told herself. Joe had made it clear at the party that he wanted her to stay away from him. As she watched, he set her drink down on the end table next to the sofa and crossed to the windows. He pulled the curtains shut. "I've been wearing my bull's-eye long enough for one day," he said. Veronica glanced at her watch. It was only nine-thirty. "The Perraults' party was supposed to last until midnight or one o'clock," she said, unable to

keep her surprise from sounding in her voice. "You were supposed to stay until at least eleven." Joe shrugged. "We had a little incident." Veronica took an involuntary step forward, fear propelling her toward him. An incident? "Are you all right?" "It was a false alarm," he said with another of his easy smiles. He was standing in front of her, relaxed and smiling, absolutely at ease—or so he wanted her to believe. But she knew better. Beneath his feigned calm, he was tense and tight and ready to burst at the seams. He was upset—or he'd been upset. "Tell me what happened," she said quietly. He shook his head, no. "I came to get my dance." She didn't understand. His words didn't seem to make sense. "Your.. .what?" She looked around the room. This was the first time he'd been in her room at the Boston hotel—how could he have left something behind? "You asked me to dance," Joe said. All at once, Veronica understood. He'd come here, to her room, to dance with her. She felt her face flush with embarrassment. "You don't have to do this," she said tightly. "I suppose I got a little silly, and—" "When I told you to stay away from me—" "It's okay that you didn't want—" "I didn't want to dance with you, because you're not wearing a bulletproof vest under that dress," Joe said. Veronica glanced down at her barely covered chest and felt her blush grow even stronger. "Well," she said, trying to sound brisk and businesslike. "Obviously not." Joe laughed, and she looked up, startled, into the warmth of his eyes. "God, Ron," he said, holding her gaze. "I didn't even get a chance to tell you how... perfect you look tonight." The warmth turned to pure fire. "You're gorgeous” he whispered, moving closer to her, one step at a time. Veronica closed her eyes. She didn't have the strength to back away. "Don't, Joe," she said quietly. "You think I didn't want to dance with you at that party?" Joe asked. He didn't give her a chance to answer. He touched her, gently cupping her shoulders, and her eyes opened. He slid his hands down to her elbows in the sweetest of caresses. "Lady, tonight I would have sold my soul for one kiss, let alone a chance to hold you in my arms." Gently, he pulled her even closer, clasping her hand in a dance hold. "Like this." Slowly, he began to dance with her, moving in time to the soft ballad playing over the radio. Veronica was trapped. She was caught both by his powerful arms and by the heat in his eyes. Her heart was pounding. She'd wanted him to touch her, to hold her, to dance with her, but not this way. Not because he pitied her... "But I would've sold my soul. Not yours." Joe's voice was a husky whisper in her ear as he pulled her even closer. "Never yours, baby. I wasn't about to risk your life for a dance." Veronica felt her pounding heart miss a beat. What was he saying? She pulled back to look into his eyes, searching for answers. "You were in danger just standing next to me," Joe explained. "I should've told you to get lost the minute you walked into that room." Was he saying that he hadn't wanted to dance with her because he feared for her safety? Dear Lord, if so, then she'd misunderstood his sharp words of warning for a brush-off, for a rejection. When in reality... "I don't know what I was thinking," Joe said, then shook his head. In reality, maybe he'd wanted her as badly as she'd wanted him. Veronica felt a burst of hope and happiness so intense, she almost laughed out loud. "Hell, I wasn't thinking," Joe added. "I was... I don't know what I was." "Stunned?" Veronica supplied. She could smile again, and she smiled almost shyly up at him. Joe's slow smile turned into a grin. "Yeah. You bet. 'Stunned' about says it all. When you walked into the party, I was totally blown away. And I was thinking with a part of my anatomy that has nothing to do with my brain." Veronica had to laugh at that. "Oh, really?" "Yeah," Joe said. His smile grew softer, his eyes gentler. "My heart."

And then he kissed her. She saw it coming. She saw him lean toward her, felt him lift her chin to meet his mouth. She knew he was going to kiss her. She expected it—-she wanted it. But still, the softness of his lips took her by surprise, and the sweetness of his mouth on hers took her breath away. It was dizzying. The earth seemed to lose all its gravity as he pulled her even closer to him, as he slowly, sensuously, Ian guidly explored her lips with his, as she opened her mouth to him, deepening the kiss. And still they danced, the thin wool covering his thighs brushing the silk of her dress. The softness of her stomach pressed intimately against the hardness of his unmistakable desire. Her breasts were tight against his powerful chest. It was heaven. Giving in to her passion, giving up trying to fight it was such an enormous relief. Maybe this was a mistake, but Veronica wasn't going to think about it anymore. At least not right now, not tonight. She was simply going to kiss Joe Catalanotto, and dance with him, and savor every last moment. Every delicious, wonderful, magnificent second. "Yo, Ronnie?" Joe whispered, breaking the kiss. "Yo, Joe?" she said, still breathless. He laughed. And kissed her again. This time it was hotter, harder, stronger. It was still as sweet, but it was laced with a volcanic heat. Veronica knew without a doubt that tonight she was in for the time of her life. Joe pulled back, breathing hard. "Whoa," he said, freeing one hand to push his hair back, out of his face. He closed his eyes briefly, took in a deep breath then forced it quickly out. "Ronnie, if you want me to leave, I should go now, because if-" "I don't want you to leave." He looked into her eyes. Really looked. As if he were searching for the answers to the mysteries of the universe. Veronica could see his sharp intelligence, his raw, almost brutal strength, and his gentle tenderness all mixed together in his beautiful deep brown eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice a ragged whisper. Veronica smiled. And kissed him. Lord knew, she'd found the answers to all of her questions in his eyes. "Unh," he said, as she swept her tongue fiercely into his mouth. And then his hands were in her hair, on her throat, on her breasts. He was touching her everywhere, as if he wanted to feel all of her at once and didn't know where to start. But then his hands slid down her back to her derriere, pressing her hips tightly against him, holding her in place as he slanted his head and kissed her even harder. She opened her legs, taking advantage of the slit up the side of her dress, and she rubbed the inside of her thigh against his. His hand caught her leg, and he pressed her still closer to him. Joe's mouth slid down to her neck as his hand cupped her breast. The roughness of his callused fingers rasped against the silk as he stroked the hard bud of her nipple. "Oh, man," Joe breathed between kisses, as he slipped his hand under the fabric of her top, and touched her, really touched her, with nothing between his fingers and her flesh. “For how many days have I been dying to touch you like this?" Veronica's fingers fumbled with the buttons of his jacket. "Probably the same number of days I've been dying for you to touch me like that." He lifted his head, looking into her eyes. "Really?" His gaze was so intense, so serious. "Maybe it was love at first sight, huh?" Veronica felt her own smile fade as her pulse kicked into overtime. "Love?" she whispered, hardly daring to hope that this incredible man could possibly love her, too. Joe looked away, down at his hand still cupping her breast. "Love.. .lust... Whatever." He shrugged and kissed her again. Veronica tried to hide her disappointment. Whatever. Well, all right. "Whatever" was better than not being desired. "Whatever" was what she'd been expecting—what he'd told her to expect from him right from the start. But she didn't want to think about that now. She didn't want to think about anything but the way he was making her feel as he kissed and caressed her. Joe pulled back then, and looked into her eyes. Slowly he slid the dress's narrow strap off her right shoulder. As it fell away, the silk covering her breast fell away, too. And still he gazed into her eyes. Veronica felt the coolness of the air as it touched her skin. And then she felt Joe, as he lightly ran one finger across the tip of her breast. She felt her body tighten, felt her nipples grow more taut, even more fully aroused.

He held her gaze longer than she would have believed possible before his eyes dropped down to caress the bareness of her breast. "God," he breathed, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. "You're so beautiful." They were frozen in place as if time had somehow stopped. But time hadn't stopped. Her heart was still beating, and with every beat, every surge of blood through her veins, Veronica wanted him even more. But still he didn't touch her; at least, no more than another of those light-as-a-feather brushes with one finger. And she wanted him to touch her. She wanted him, so very badly, to touch her. "If you don't touch me, I'm going to scream," she said from between clenched teeth. Joe's smile turned hot. "Is that a threat or a promise?" he asked. "Both," she said, lost in the heat of his eyes. She was begging now. "Touch me." "Where?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "How?" "My breast, your mouth," she said. "Now. Please." He didn't hesitate. He brought his mouth to her breast and swept his tongue across her sensitive nipple. Veronica cried out, and he drew her into his mouth, pulling hard. She reached for him, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. The buttons on his shirt were so tiny, so difficult to unfasten. But she wanted his shirt off. She wanted to run her hands against all those incredible muscles in his chest and shoulders and arms. She wanted to feel the satiny smoothness of his skin beneath her fingers. She could hear her voice moaning her pleasure as Joe suckled and kissed her again and again. But then he lifted his head and, stopping only to kiss her deeply on the mouth, he gazed into her eyes again. "What else do you want?" he demanded. "Tell me what you want." "I want this bloody shirt off you," she said, still worrying the buttons. He reached up with both hands and pulled. Buttons flew everywhere, but the shirt was open. He yanked it off his arms. Veronica touched his smooth, tanned muscles with the palms of her hands, closing her eyes at the sensation, running her fingers through the curly dark hair on his chest. Oh, yes. He was so beautiful, so solid. "Tell me what you want," Joe said again. "Come on, Ronnie, tell me where you want me to touch you." She opened her eyes. "I want you to touch every single inch of me with every single inch of you. I want you and me on that bed in the other room. I want to feel you between my legs, Joe-" Joe picked her up. He simply swept her effortlessly into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. Veronica had her hands on the button of his pants before he yanked back the bedcover and laid her on the clean white sheets. As she unfastened his sash, he found the zipper in the back of her dress. As he peeled her dress down toward her hips, she unzipped his pants and pushed them over his incredible rear end. Her dress landed with a hiss of silk on the carpet and Joe pulled back, nearly burning her with his eyes as he took her in, lying propped up on her elbows on the bed, wearing only her black lace panties and a pair of thigh-high stockings. Lord, when he looked at her like that, with that fire in his eyes, she felt like the sexiest woman in the world. She sat up, taking the last of the pins from her hair. Slowly, he pushed off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers, still watching her. Veronica was watching him, too. She rolled first one and then the other stocking from her legs as she let herself look at Joe. He was wearing only a pair of white briefs. She'd seen him in running shorts before, shorts that were nearly as brief, that exposed almost as much of his magnificent body. But this time she really let herself look. His shoulders were broad and solid as rock. His arms were powerful and so very big. She couldn't have even begun to span his biceps with both of her hands, although she wanted rather desperately to try. His chest was wide and covered with thick dark hair. His muscles were clearly defined, and they rippled sensually when he so much as breathed. His stomach was a washboard of ridges and valleys, his hips narrow, his legs as strong as steel. Yes, when she'd seen him run, although she'd tried not to look, she'd managed to memorize his body in amazing, pre cise detail, down to the scars on his shoulder and left leg, and the anchor tattoo on his arm. But tonight there were some differences. She let her eyes linger on the enormous bulge straining the front of his briefs.

Veronica looked up to find Joe watching her, a small smile playing across his lips. “Part of me wants to stand here and just look at you all night," he said. She glanced down at his arousal, then smiled into his eyes. "Another part of you won't be very happy if you do that." "Damn straight," he said with a laugh. "Do I really have to beg you to come over here?" Veronica asked. "No." And then he was next to her on the bed and she was in his arms, and Lord, he was kissing her, touching her, running his hands across her body, filling her mouth with his tongue, tangling her legs with his. It was ecstasy. Veronica had never felt anything remotely like it before. It was the sweetest, purest, most powerful passion she had ever known. This was love, she thought. This incredible whirlwind of emotions and heightened sensations was love. It carried her higher, to an intellectual and emotional plane she'd never before imagined, and at the same time, it stripped her bare of every ounce of civility she had, leaving her ruled by ferocious passion, enslaved by the burning needs of her body. She touched him, reaching down between their bodies to press the palm of her hand against his hardness, and when he cried out, she heard herself answer—the primitive call and response between a savage animal and his equally savage mate. His hands were everywhere and his mouth was everywhere else. His fingers dipped down inside the lace of her panties, and he moaned as he felt her wet heat. "Yes," Veronica said. It was the only word she seemed able to form with her lips. "Yes." She tugged at his briefs, pulling him free from their confines, moaning her pleasure at the sensation of him in her hands. He was silky smooth and so hard, and oh... He sat up, pulling away from her to slide her panties down and off. She sat up, too, following him, kneeling next to him on the bed, reaching for him, unwilling to let him go. Joe groaned. "Ronnie, baby, I got to get a condom on." He turned to reach for his pants, now crumpled on the floor, but Veronica was faster. She opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out a small foil package—one of the condoms she'd bought just hours ago when she'd bought the dress. She'd put them in the drawer in hopes of using them precisely this way with precisely this man. "Whoa," Joe said as she pressed it into his hand. He was surprised that she was prepared. "I guess it's stupid not to be ready for anything these days, huh?" He was just holding the little package, looking at her. Good Lord, did he actually think she kept these things on hand all the time? Was he imagining a steady stream of male visitors to her room? Veronica took it from him and tore it open. "I bought it for you. For you and me," she said, somehow finding her voice in her need to explain. "I was hoping we'd make love tonight." She saw the understanding in his eyes. She'd bought it because she'd wanted to make love—to him. Veronica touched him, covering him with her fingers, gazing from that most intimate part of him, to the small ring of latex in her hand. "I'm not sure exactly how this is supposed to work," she said. "It doesn't really look as if it's going to fit, does it?" She gazed into the heat of his eyes as he took the condom from her. "It'll fit," he said. "Are you sure?" she asked, her smile turning devilish. "Maybe I should have bought the extra-large Navy SEAL size." Joe laughed as he quickly and rather expertly sheathed himself. "Flattery will get you everything." Veronica encircled his neck with her arms, brushing the hard tips of her breasts against his solid chest and her soft stomach against his arousal. "I don't want everything," she breathed into his ear. "I think I already told you precisely what I want." He kissed her—a long, sweet, slow, deep kiss that made her bones melt and her muscles feel like jelly. Still kissing her, he pulled her onto his lap, so that she was straddling his thighs. Then, taking her hips in his hands, he slowly, so slowly, lifted her up, above him. Veronica pulled back from Joe's kiss, her eyes open. He began to lower her down, on top of him, and as the very tip of him parted her most intimately, he opened his own eyes, meeting her gaze. Slowly, impossibly slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, he lowered her onto him, staring all the while into her eyes. The muscles in his powerful arms were taut, but the sweat on his upper lip wasn't from physical exertion. He lifted her slowly back up, off him, and then brought her down again, so that he was barely inside her, setting a deliberate and leisurely teasing rhythm.

Veronica moaned. She wanted more. She wanted all of him. She tried to shift her weight, to bring herself down more fully on top of him, but his strong arms held her firmly in place. Her moan changed to a cry of pleasure as his mouth latched on to her breast, but still he didn't release her hips. "Please," she cried, the words ripped from her throat. "Joe, please! I want morel" He covered her mouth with his, kissing her fiercely as he arched his body up and pushed her hips down and filled her completely, absolutely, incredibly. The sound she heard herself make was almost inhuman as he plunged into her, filling her again and again and again. The rhythm was frantic, feverish, and Veronica threw back her head, delirious from the sweet sensations exploding inside her as she found her release. Arrows of pleasure shot through her— straight to her heart. Joe's fingers stabbed through her hair as he called out her name and she clung to his neck and shoulders. She rode his explosive release, letting his passion carry her higher, even higher, loving the way he held her as if he were never going to let her go. And then it was over. Joe sank back on the bed, pulling her down along with him. Veronica could feel his heart beating, hear him breathing, feel his arms still tightly around her. She waited, hoping he would be the first to speak. But he didn't speak. The silence stretched on and on and on, and through it, Veronica died a thousand times. He was regretting their lovemaking. He was trying to figure out a way to get out of her room with the least amount of embarrassment. He was worrying about the rest of the tour, wondering if she was going to chase after him like a lovesick fool and... He sighed. And stretched. And nuzzled the side of her face. Veronica turned toward him and he met her lips in a slow, lingering kiss. "When can we do this again?" he asked, his voice husky in the quiet. He brushed her hair back so he could see her face. His eyes were half-closed, but she could see traces of the ever-present flame still burning. He didn't regret what they'd just done. How could he, if he already wanted to know when they'd make love again? She smiled, suddenly feeling ridiculously, foolishly happy. His answering smile was sleepy, and very, very content. "You gonna answer my question?" he asked. His eyes opened slightly wider for a second. "Or is that smile my answer?" Veronica slowly trailed her fingers down his arm, watching as they followed the contours of his muscles. "Are you in any hurry to leave?" she asked. His arms tightened around her. "Nope." "Good." "Yeah." Veronica glanced up at him and saw he was watching her. He smiled again, laughing softly as she met his eyes. "What?" she asked. "You really want to know?" She nodded, making a face at him. "Of course. You look at me and laugh. I should say I'd want to know what you were thinking." "Well, I was thinking, who would've guessed that proper Ms. Veronica St. John is a real screamer in bed." Veronica laughed, feeling her cheeks heat. "But I'm not," she protested. "I mean, I don't... I mean, I never have before— Made all that... noise, I mean." "I loved it," Joe said. "And I love it even more, knowing that I'm the only one who makes you do it." His words were teasing, but his eyes were serious. "It's an incredible turn-on, baby." His voice got lower, softer, more intense. "You're an incredible turn-on." "You're embarrassing me," she admitted, pressing her warm cheeks against his shoulder. "Perfect," he replied, with his wonderful, husky laugh. "I also love it when you blush." Veronica closed her eyes. He loved what she did, he loved when she blushed. What she would have given to hear him say that he loved her. "You know what would absolutely kill me?" Joe asked, his voice still low and very, very sexy. Oh, dear Lord, she could feel him growing inside her. She felt her body respond, felt her pulse start to quicken "If you danced for me," Joe said, answering his own question. Veronica closed her eyes, imagining the nuclear heat that would be generated in the room if she danced for Joe—and only for Joe. She could imagine discarding various articles of clothing until she moved in time to music clad only in the tini- est black panties and the fire from his eyes Veronica blushed again. Could she really dance for him that way? Without laughing or feeling foolish?

Joe hugged her tighter. "No pressure," he said quietly. "I only want you to dance for me if you want to. It's just a fantasy, that's all. I thought I'd share it with you. No big deal. Two out of three's not bad." Veronica lifted her head. "Two out of three... ?" "Fantasies that have come true," Joe said. He smiled. "The first one was making love to you. The second one was making love to you twice in the same night." "But..." Joe kissed her sweetly. Then he made his second fantasy come true.

Chapter 17 Chicago, Dallas and Houston were a blur. During the day and sometimes in the evening, Veronica sat in the surveillance van, feeding information to Joe via his earphone, praying that the man she loved wasn't about to be killed in front of her very eyes. Joe would look into the hidden, miniaturized video cameras and smile—a sweet, hot, secret smile meant only for her. At night, Joe came to her room. How he got out from under the watchful eyes of the FInCOM agents, Veronica never knew. How he got into her room was also a mystery. She never heard him. She would just look up, and he'd be there, smiling at her, heat in his eyes. In Dallas, he came carrying barbecued chicken, corn on the cob, and a six-pack of beer. He was wearing jeans and T-shirt and an old baseball cap backward on his head. He wouldn't tell her where he got the food and beer, but she had the feeling he'd climbed down the outside of the building to the street below and walked a few blocks over to a restaurant. They had a picnic on her living-room floor, and made love before they'd finished eating, right there on the rug in front of the sofa. He always stayed until dawn, holding her close. They sometimes talked all night, sometimes slept, always woke up to make love again. But as the sun began to rise, he would vanish. Then in Albuquerque, there was another "incident," as Joe called them. Veronica sat in the van, her heart in her throat after one of the FInCOM agents thought he saw a man with a concealed weapon in the crowd outside the TV station where "Tedric" had been interviewed. The SEALs and the FInCOM agents had leapt into action, ready to protect Joe. They'd hustled him into the limousine and to safety, but Veronica was shaken. She sat in her hotel room, fighting tears, praying Joe would arrive soon, praying his quicksilver smile would make her forget about the danger he was in, day in and day out, as he stood in for the real prince. But she had to remember that he was no stranger to dangerous situations. His entire life was filled with danger and risk. Even if he survived these particular assassins, it would only be a matter of time before he'd be facing some new danger, some other perhaps-even-more-deadly risk. How could she let herself love a man who could die—violently—at any given moment? "Yo, Ronnie." Veronica turned around. Joe. There he was, still dressed in his shiny white jacket and dark blue pants, his hair slicked back from his face. He looked tired, but he smiled at her, and she burst into tears. He came across the room so quickly, she didn't see him move. Pulling her into his arms, he held her tightly. "Hey," he said. "Hey." Embarrassed, she tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her go "I'm sorry," she said. "Joe, I'm sorry. I just..." Joe lifted her chin and kissed her gently on the mouth. "I'm all right," he told her, knowing, the way he always did, exactly what she was thinking. "I'm fine. Everything's okay." "For right now," she said, looking up into the mysterious midnight depths of his eyes, wiping the tears from her face with the heel of her hand. "Yeah," he said, catching a tear that hung on her eyelashes with one finger. "For right now." "And tomorrow?" she asked. "What about tomorrow?" She knew she shouldn't say the words, but they were right on the tip of her tongue and she couldn't hold them back. He gently ran his hand through her hair again and again as he gazed down into her eyes. "You really that worried about me?" he asked, as if he couldn't quite believe her concern. "I was scared today," Veronica admitted. She felt her eyes well with tears again and she tried to blink them back. "Don't be scared," Joe told her. "Blue and the other guys aren't going to let anything happen to me." Nice words and a nice thought, but Blue and Cowboy and Harvard weren't superhuman. They were human, and there was no guarantee one of them wouldn't make a very human mistake. Tomorrow at this time, Joe could very well be dead. Tomorrow, or next week or next year... Reaching up, Veronica pulled his head down and kissed him. She kissed him hard, almost savagely, and he responded instantly, pulling her against his body, lowering his hands to press her hips closer to him.

She found the buckle of his belt and started to unfasten it, and he lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom. Veronica pulled him tightly to her and closed her eyes, trying to shut out her fears. With the touch of his hands, with his mouth and his body against hers, tomorrow didn't exist. There was only here and only now. Only ecstasy. But when morning dawned, and Joe crept out of bed trying not to wake her, Veronica still hadn't slept. She watched him dress, then closed her eyes as he kissed her gently on the lips. And then he was gone. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that he could be gone forever. Phoenix, Arizona. The April sunshine was blazing hot, reflecting off the streets, heating the air and making it difficult to breathe. Inside the protection of the limousine parked on the street in front of the brand-new Arizona Theatre and Center for the Arts building, Joe was cool and comfortable. But he was glad for the sunglasses he wore. Even with them on, even with the tinted glass of the limo, Joe squinted in the brightness as he sat up to get a better look at the morning's location. A broad set of shallow steps led to a central courtyard. It was flat and wide and surrounded by a series of marble benches placed strategically in the shade of flowering trees. The lobby of the theater was directly behind the courtyard, and the Center for the Arts offices surrounded it on the other two sides. There was a stage in the courtyard, set up in the shade of the theater. That was where Joe—as Tedric—would go for the theater's dedication ceremony. People were already milling around, trying to stay cool in the shade, fanning themselves with copies of the arts center's events schedule. Joe could hear Veronica over his earphone as she sat in the surveillance van. "Please test your microphones, Alpha Squad," she said. Blue, Cowboy and Harvard all checked in. "Lieutenant Catalanotto?" she said, her voice brisk and businesslike. "Yo, Ronnie, and how are you this fine morning?" Joe said, even though he'd spent the night with her, even though he'd left her room mere hours earlier and knew exactly how well she was. "A simple check would be sufficient," she murmured. "Cameras?" Joe grinned into the miniaturized video camera that the FInCOM agent sitting across from him was carrying. God forbid someone should find out about the incredible steamy nights they spent together—the high-class media consultant and the sailor from a lousy part of New Jersey. Veronica always played it so cool in public, often addressing him as "Lieutenant Catalanotto," or "Your Majesty." Actually, they'd never talked about whether or not she wanted their relationship to go public. Joe had just assumed she didn't, and had taken precautions to protect her. Of course, Blue and Cowboy and Harvard knew where Joe went every night. They had to know. Without their help, it would have been too damned hard to get out from under the FInCOM agents' eyes. But aside from the ribbing he endured when the four SEALs were alone, Joe knew his three friends would never tell a soul. They were SEALs. They knew how to keep a secret. And as far as Joe was concerned, Veronica St. John was the best-kept secret he'd ever known. She'd been upset last night. That incident in Albuquerque had really shaken her up. She'd actually cried because she'd been so afraid for him. For him. And the way she'd made love to him.. .as if the world were coming to an end. Oh, man. That had been powerful. Joe had thought at first that maybe, just maybe, the impossible had happened and Veronica had fallen in love with him. Why else would she have been so upset? But even though he'd tried to bring up the subject of her concerns for his safety later in the night, she hadn't wanted to talk. All she'd wanted was for him to hold her. And then make love to her again. Joe smiled at the irony. He falls in love for the first time in his life, and for the first time in his life, he's the one who wants to talk. Yeah, it was true. He had been in bed with a gorgeous, incredibly sexy woman, and what he wanted desperately was to talk after they made love. But all she wanted was more high-energy sex. Of course, Joe reminded himself, he sure had suffered, making Veronica happy last night. Oh, yeah. Life should always be so tough. Joe closed his eyes briefly, remembering the smoothness of her skin, the softness of her breasts, the sweetness of surrounding himself in her heat, the hot pleasure in her beautiful, bluer-than-the-ocean eyes, the curve of her lips as she smiled up at him, the sound of her ragged cry as he took her

with him, over the edge... Joe opened his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it quickly out. Oh, yeah. He was going out in public in about thirty seconds. Somehow he seriously doubted that old Ted would appreciate Joe pretending to be the prince with a raging and quite obvious royal hard-on for all the world to see. And he had a job to do, to boot. It was time to go. Joe climbed from the limo and felt the sudden rush of heat. It was like opening an oven door. Welcome to Phoenix, Arizona. As the FlnCOM agents hustled him across the courtyard, Joe tried to bring himself back to the business at hand. Daydreaming about his lover was good and fine and— Lover. Veronica St. John was his lover. For the past four amazing days and incredible nights, Veronica St. John had been his lover. The word conjured up her mysterious smile, the devilish light in her eyes that promised pleasures the likes of which he'd never known before, the softness of her sighs, the feel of her fingers in his hair, their legs intertwined, bodies slippery with soap as they kissed in the hotel's oversize bathtub But... Did she think of him as her lover? Did she ever even consider the word love when she thought about him? God, what he would give to hear her say that she loved him. Damn, he was distracted today. He forced himself to look again at the buildings. Pay attention, he ordered himself. Hell of a lot of good it'll do you to realize you're in love with this woman and then get yourself killed. Joe looked around him. The roofs of the office buildings were lower than the theater roof. They were the perfect height and distance from the stage —perfect, that is, for a sniper to shoot from. Of course, the office windows—if they could be opened—wouldn't be a bad choice for a shooter, either. Joe snapped instantly alert, instantly on the job. Damn, the Arizona Theatre and Center for the Arts dedication ceremony was the ideal setup for an assassination attempt. The crowd. The TV news cameras. The three buildings, forming a square U, with the courtyard between them. The glare from the sun. The heat making everyone tired and lazy. "This is it," Joe murmured. "You bet, Cat," Blue's voice came over his earphone. "If I were a tango, I'd pick this one." "What?" Veronica asked from her seat in the surveillance truck. "What was that you said?" The FInCOM agents were hurrying Joe to the relative safety of the theater lobby. Once inside, he couldn't answer Veronica, because the governor of Arizona was shaking his hand. "It's a real honor, Your Majesty," the governor said with his trademark big, wide, white-toothed smile. "I can't tell you how much it means to the people of Arizona to have you here, at the dedication of this very important theater and arts center." "Dear Lord," Joe heard Veronica say over his earphone. Then there was silence. When she spoke again, her voice was deceptively calm. Joe knew damn well that her calm was only an act. "Joe, you think that the terrorists are going to be here, don't you? Today. Right now." Joe couldn't answer. Ronnie had to know that he couldn't answer. She could see him on her video screen. He was standing in a crowd of government officials. She could hear the governor still talking. Joe smiled at something the lieutenant governor said, but his mind was focused on the voices of his men from the Alpha Squad—and the woman— his lover—sitting inside the surveillance van. "Damn it, Joe," Veronica said, her voice breaking and her calm cracked. "Shake your head. Yes or no. Is there going to be an assassination attempt here this afternoon?" Inside the surveillance van, Veronica held her breath, her eyes riveted to the video monitor in front of her. Joe looked directly into the camera, his dark eyes intense—and filled with excitement. He nodded once. Yes. Dear God. Veronica took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. As she watched, the governor of Arizona said something, and the entire group of men and women surrounding Joe laughed—Joe included. Dear God. She'd actually seen excitement in Joe's eyes. He was excited because something was finally going to happen. He was ready. And willing. Willing to risk his life... Her mouth felt dry. She tried to moisten her lips with her tongue, but it didn't help. Dear God, don't let him die. "Joe," she said, but then couldn't speak.

He touched his ear, the sign that he had heard her. She could hear Blue's unmistakable accent, and the voices of Cowboy and Harvard as the three men tried to outguess the assassin. Cowboy was on the roof of the theater with high-powered binoculars and a long-range, high-powered rifle of his own. He did a visual sweep of the two lower roofs, reporting in continuously. No one was up there. No one was still up there. "Windows in the offices don't open," Kevin Laughton said, from his seat next to Veronica. "Repeat, windows do not open." "I'm watching 'em anyway," Cowboy said. "You're wasting time," Laughton said. "And manpower. We could use you down in the crowd." "The hell I'm wasting time," Cowboy muttered. "And if you think this shooter's going to be standing in the crowd, you're dumber than the average Fink." On-screen, Joe was still talking to the governor and his aides. "The theater and these arts buildings are very beautiful," he said. "All these windows —it's quite impressive, really. Do they open?" "The windows?" the governor asked. "Oh, no. No, these buildings are all climate controlled, of course." "Ah," Joe said in Tedric's funny accent. "So if someone inside absolutely needed some fresh air, they'd have to have a glass cutter, yes?" The governor looked slightly taken aback, but then he laughed. "Well, yes," he said. "I suppose so." "Roger that, Mr. Cat," Cowboy said. "My thoughts exactly. Court-martial me if you have to, FInCOM, but I'm watching those windows." "Okay," Veronica heard Blue say. "They're coming out to the stage. Let's be ready. You, too, Cat." "Shall we go to the stage?" the governor asked Joe. Joe nodded. "I'm ready," he said with a smile. He was so calm. He was walking out there to be a target, and he was smiling. Veronica could barely breathe. Two of the FInCOM agents opened the doors that led to the courtyard. Outside, a band began to play. "Joe," Veronica said again. Dear Lord, if she didn't tell him now, she might never get another chance He touched his ear again. He heard her. "Joe, I have to tell you... I love you." Joe stepped outside into the sunshine, and the heat and brightness exploded around him. But it wasn't all from the sun. In fact, most of it was coming from inside him, from the center of his chest, from his very heart. She loved him. Ronnie loved him. He laughed. Ronnie loved him. And she'd just announced it to everyone who was working on this operation. "Hell, Ronnie, don't go telling him that now," Blue's scolding voice sounded over Joe's earphone. "Cat's gotta concentrate. Come on, Joe, keep your eyes open." "I'm sorry," Veronica said. She sounded so small, so lost. Joe touched his ear, trying to tell her that he'd heard her, wishing there was a way he could say he loved her, too. He touched his chest, his heart, with one hand, hoping that she'd see and understand his silent message. And then he climbed the stairs to the stage. "Come on, Cat," Blue's voice said. "Stop grinning like a damn fool and get to work." Work. His training clicked in, and Joe was instantly focused. Damn, with this warm sensation in his heart, he was better than focused. Veronica loved him, and he was damn near superhuman. He checked the stage to make sure the cover zones were where FInCOM had said they would be. The podium was reinforced, and it would act as a shield— provided, of course, that the shooter didn't have armor-piercing bullets. Down behind the back of the stage was also shielded. There was a flimsy metal railing to keep people from falling off the platform, but that could be jumped over easily. The stage was only about eight feet from the ground. Joe scanned the crowd. About six hundred people. Five different TV cameras, some of them rolling live for the twelve o'clock news. He knew with an uncanny certainty that the assassin wouldn't fire until he stepped up to the podium.

"Roof is still clear," Cowboy announced. "No movement at the windows. Shoot, FInCOM, maybe you better keep watching that crowd. I got nothing yet." Joe sat in a folding chair as the governor approached the podium. "We're going to make this dedication ceremony as quick as possible," the governor said, "so we can get inside that air-conditioned lobby and have some lemonade." The crowd applauded. Veronica's heart was in her throat. Joe was sitting there, just sitting there, as if there weren't any threat to his life. "Without further ado," the governor continued, "I'd like to introduce our special guest, Crown Prince Tedric of Ustan-zia." The sound of the crowd's applause masked the continuous comments of the SEALs and the FInCOM agents. On Veronica's video screen, Joe stood, raising both hands to quiet the crowd. "Thank you," he said into the microphone. "Thank you very much. It's an honor to be here today." "I still got zip on either roof," Cowboy said. "No movement near the windows, either. I'm starting to think these tangos don't know a good setup when they see—" A shot rang out. One of the big glass windows in the front of the theater shattered into a million pieces. The crowd screamed and scattered. "Joe!" Veronica gripped the table in front of her, leaning closer to the screen, praying harder than she'd ever prayed in her life. He was gone, she couldn't see him. Had he ducked behind the podium, or fallen, struck by the bullet? On her headphones, she could hear all three SEALs reporting in, all talking at once. The roofs were still clear, no shooter visible at the windows. Beside her, Kevin Laughton had rocketed out of his seat. "What do you mean, you don't know where that came from?" he was shouting over the chaos. "A shot was fired—it had to come from somewhere!" "Do we need an ambulance?" another voice asked. "Repeat, is medical assistance needed?" Another shot, another broken window. "God damn," Laughton said. "Where the hell is he shooting from?" Joe heard the second shot, felt the impact of the bullet as it hit the stage, and knew. The assassin was behind him. Inside the theater. And with all of the shielding facing out, away from the theater, Joe was a damn sitting duck. It was amazing he was still alive. That second shot should have killed him. It should have, but it hadn't. The son of a bitch had missed. Joe dove off the stage headfirst, gun drawn, shouting instructions to his men and to the FInCOM agents who were surrounding him. Cowboy was on the roof of the theater, for God's sake. They could cut the shooter off, nail the bastard. Inside the surveillance van, the video monitors went blank. Power was gone. Lord, what was happening out there? Veronica had heard Joe's voice. He was alive, thank God. He hadn't been killed. Yet. The gunman was inside the theater. Upper balcony, above the lobby, came the reports. The back door was surrounded, they had the assassin cornered. Veronica stood, pushing past Kevin Laughton and opening the door of the van. She could see the theater, see the two shattered windows. She could see the FInCOM agents crouched near the front of the theater. She could see three figures, scaling the outside of the theater, climbing up to the roof. God in heaven, it was Joe and two of his SEALs. Veronica lowered her mouthpiece into place. She hadn't wanted to speak before this, afraid she'd only add to the confusion, but this... "Joe, what are you doing?" she said into the microphone. "You're the target! You're supposed to get to safety!" "We need radio silence," Blue's voice commanded. "Right now. Except for reports of tango's location." "Joe!" Veronica cried. One of the FInCOM agents leaned out the van door. "I can't cut this line," he said to Veronica, "so unless you're quiet, I’m going to have to take your headset."

Veronica shut her mouth, watching as a tiny figure—Cowboy—helped Joe and the rest of his team up onto the theater roof. Up on the roof, Joe looked around. There was one door, leading to stairs that would take them down. You all right? Cowboy hand-signaled to Joe. Fine, he signaled back. The gunman surely had a radio, and was probably monitoring their spoken conversation. From this point on, the SEALs would communicate only with hand signals and sign language. No use tipping the gunman off by letting him know they were coming. Harvard had an extra HK submachine gun, and he handed it to Joe with a tight smile. Another shot rang out. "Agent down," came West's voice over Joe's earphone. "Oh, man, we need a medic!" "T's location stable," said another voice. "Holding steady in the lobby balcony." "Get that injured man out of the line of fire," Laughton commanded. "He's dead," West reported, his normally dispassionate voice shaken. "Freeman's dead. The bastard plugged him through the eye. The sonuvabitch—-" Let's go, Joe signaled to his men. I'm on point. Blue gestured to himself. He wanted to lead the way instead. But Joe shook his head. Soundlessly he opened the door and started down the stairs. Another shot. More chaos. Another agent was hit with unerring accuracy. "Stay down," Laughton ordered his men. "This guy's a sharpshooter and he's here for the long haul. Let's get our own shooters in position." Silently, with deadly stealth, fingers on the triggers of their submachine guns, the SEALs moved down the stairs. Veronica paced. She hadn't heard Joe's voice in many long minutes. She could no longer see any movement on the roof. "One of the cameras is back on," someone said from inside the surveillance van, and she went back in to see. Sure enough, the video camera that had been dropped and left on the stage had come back to life. It now showed a sideways and somewhat foggy picture of the theater lobby. Behind the reflections in the remaining glass windows, Veronica could see the shadowy shape of the assassin on the upper balcony. It was quiet. No one was moving. No one was talking. Then... "FInCOM shooters, hold your fire." It was Joe's voice, loud and clear, over the radio. Veronica felt herself sway, and she groped for her seat. Joe and his SEALs were somewhere near the gunman—in range of the FInCOM agent's guns. Please, God, keep him safe, she prayed. A door burst open. She heard it more than she saw it on the shadowy video screen. The gunman turned, firing a machine gun rather than his rifle. But there was no one there. Another door opened, on the other side of the balcony, but the gunman had already moved. Using some sort of rope, he swung himself over the edge and down to the first floor. Veronica saw Joe before the gunman did. He was standing in the lobby, gun aimed at the man scurrying down the rope. She knew it was Joe from his gleaming white jacket. The three other SEALs were dressed in dull brown. "Hold it right there, pal," she heard Joe say over her headphones. "We can end this game one of two ways. We can either take you out of here in a body bag, or you can drop your weapons right now and we'll all live to see tomorrow." The gunman was frozen, unmoving, halfway down the rope as he stared at Joe. Then he moved. But he didn't drop his gun, he brought it up, fast, aimed directly toward Joe's head. The sound of gunfire over the radio was deafening.

The gunman jumped to the ground—or did he fall? Who had been hit? And where was Joe... ? "Joe!" Veronica couldn't keep silent another second as she leaned closer to the blurry screen. "Do you need medical assistance?" a voice asked over the headphones. "Alpha Squad, check in," Blue's voice ordered. "McCoy." "Becker." "Jones." "Catalanotto," Joe's familiar, husky voice said. "We're all clear. No need of a medic, FInCOM." Veronica closed her eyes and rested her head on her arms on the tabletop. "This stupid sonuvabitch just made himself a martyr for the cause," Joe's voice said into her ear. Joe was alive. It was all over, and Joe was alive. This time.

Chapter 18 It was after nine o'clock in the evening—twenty-one hundred hours—before Veronica's phone rang. She'd been busy all afternoon and evening with meetings and debriefings. She'd worked with Ambassador Freder and Senator McKinley, scheduling the remainder of Prince Tedric's tour. A report had come in from FInCOM that made them all breathe easier. The assassin had been ID'd as Salustiano Vargas—Diosdado's former right-hand man. Former. Apparently the two terrorists had parted ways, and Vargas was no longer connected with the Cloud of Death. He had been acting on his own. Why? No one seemed to know. At least not yet. At any rate, Vargas was dead. He'd be giving them no answers. But now that the assassin was no longer a threat, the ambassador and senator wanted to get the tour back on track. Tedric was flying in from the District of Columbia. He would meet them all in Seattle in the morning, where they would board a cruise ship to Alaska. They would finish the tour with a flourish. Security would return to near normal. Two or three Fin COM agents would remain, but everyone else, including the SEALs— including Joe—would go home. At dinnertime, Veronica had searched for Joe, but was told he was in high-level security debriefings. She returned to her room to pack, but couldn't stop thinking. What if he didn't get finished before morning? Sometimes those meetings went on ail night. What if she didn't see him before she had to leave...? But then, at nine o'clock, the phone rang. Veronica closed her eyes, then picked it up. "Hello?" "Yo, Ronnie." "Joe." Where are you? When will you be here? She clamped her mouth tightly shut over those words. She didn't own him. She may have given her feelings away this morning when she'd told him—and the entire world—that she loved him, but she could stake no claim on his time or his life. "Have you had dinner yet?" he asked. "No, I was..." Waiting for you. "I wasn't hungry." "Think you'll be hungry in about twenty minutes?" he asked. "Hungry for what?" She tried to make her voice sound light, teasing, but her heart felt heavy. No matter how she approached this relationship, the conclusion she kept coming to was that it wasn't going to work out. Tomorrow they were both heading in different directions, and that would be it. All that was left was tonight. She'd been so worried earlier that she wasn't going to get to spend this final night with Joe. But now she couldn't help but think that it might be easier to simply say goodbye over the phone. "Ow," he said, laughter in his voice. "You kill me, lady. But I meant are you hungry for food. Like, you and me—the real me, no disguises—going out somewhere for dinner." He paused. "In public. Like to a restaurant." He paused again, then laughed. "God, am I smooth, or what? I'm trying to ask you out to dinner, Ron. What do ya say?" He didn't give her time to answer. "I'm still downtown," he continued, "but I can catch a cab and make it up to the hotel in about fifteen or twenty minutes. Wear that black dress, okay? We'll go up to Camelback Mountain. Mac says there's a great restaurant at the resort there. There's a band and dancing, and a terrific view of the city." "But-" "Oh, yes. There's a cab pulling up, right outside. Gotta run, babe. Get dressed—I'll be right there." "But I don't want to go out. It's our last night—maybe forever—and I want to spend it alone with you," Veronica said to the dead phone line. She slowly hung up the phone. She had one more night with Joe. One more night to last the rest of her life. One more night to burn her imprint permanently into his memory. Hmm. Veronica picked up the phone and dialed room service. Joe wanted dinner and dancing and a view of the city? The view from this room wasn't too shabby. And the four-star restaurant in this hotel delivered food to the rooms. As for dancing... Holding the telephone in one hand, Veronica crossed to the stereo that was attached to the entertainment center. Yes, there was a tape deck. She smiled. For the first time, Joe actually knocked on her door rather than picking the lock and letting himself in. With the long skirt of her black silk dress shushing about her legs, Veronica crossed to the hotel-room door and flung it open and herself into his arms. "Lord, I've waited all day to do this," she said. "You scared me to death this morning." Having his arms around her felt so good. And when his lips met hers, she felt herself start to melt and she wrapped her own arms more tightly around his neck. Her fingers laced through his hair and—

Veronica pulled back. His long hair was gone. Joe had cut his hair. Short. Really short. She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since she'd opened her hotel-suite door. He was wearing a naval dress uniform. It was dark blue with rows and rows and rows of medals and ribbons on his left breast. He wore a white hat on his head, and he took it off, holding it almost awkwardly in his hands. His dark eyes were slightly sheepish as he watched her take in his haircut. His hair had been buzz cut around his ears and at the back. The top and front were slightly longer—just long enough so that a lock of dark hair fell forward over his forehead. He smiled ruefully. "The barber went a little overboard," he said. "I don't usually wear it quite this short and..." He closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Damn, you hate it." Veronica touched his arm, shaking her own head. "No," she said. "No, I don't hate it..." But she didn't like it, either. Not that he looked bad. In fact, he didn't. If anything, his short cut made his lean face more handsome than ever. But it also made him look harder, tougher, unforgiving—dangerous on an entirely new level. He looked like exactly what he was—a highly trained, highly competent special-forces officer. She couldn't help but be reminded that he was a man who risked his life as a matter of course. And that was what Veronica didn't like. "It suits you," she told him. He searched her eyes, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him. "Good." "You look... wonderful," Veronica said honestly. "So do you." His eyes flared with that familiar heat as he ran them down and then back up her body. "This is the way I thought you were going to look—before we met," she said. A brief shadow flickered across his face. "Yeah, well, I guess I oughta tell you, I can count on my fingers and toes the times I've worn this dress uniform. What you saw when we met is closer to the truth. I usually wear fatigues or jeans. And if I've been working with engines, they're usually covered with grease or dirt." Why was he telling her this? It seemed almost like a warning. He seemed so serious, Veronica felt compelled to make things lighter. “Are you saying this because you want me to do your laundry?" she teased. Joe gave her one of his quicksilver grins. Yes, seeing him smile that way, his teeth so very white against his lean, tanned face, Veronica could say that this new haircut definitely suited him. "You want to do my laundry?" he countered. The casual question suddenly seemed to carry more meaning, as Joe watched her intently. His dark eyes were sharp, almost piercing as he waited for an answer. Veronica laughed, trying to hide her sudden nervousness. Why were they talking about laundry? "I don't do my own laundry," she said with a shrug. "When do I have time?" She stepped back, opening the door wider to let him in. "We're standing in the hall," she added. "Won't you come in?" Joe hesitated. "Maybe we should just go…" She smiled. "Think if you come inside we'll never leave?" He touched the side of her face. "I don't just think it, baby, I know it." She kissed the palm of his hand. "Would that be so terrible?" she whispered, gazing up into the midnight depths of his eyes. "No." He stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him. Veronica was nervous. Joe could see that she was nervous as she moved out of his grasp and into the room and— The table was set and covered with a very grand-looking room-service dinner. And the rest of the room... Veronica had pushed all the furniture out of the center of the living room. She'd done that before. Back in D.C. Back when he'd climbed up to the balcony and gone in her sliding-glass door and... Joe looked up to find her watching him. She moistened her lips nervously and smiled. "Dinner and dancing," she explained. "I made room, so that we could dance." "We?" Veronica blushed, but she held his gaze. "So I can dance for you," she correctly herself softly. "Although, at some point you will dance with me, too. But maybe we should have dinner first." The fragrant smell of gourmet food filled the air. Joe knew that he hadn't eaten since lunchtime. He also knew that dinner was the very last thing he wanted right now. Veronica was going to dance for him. She was going to dance the way he'd seen her dance when he'd climbed up to her room. Only this time, she would know right from the start that he was watching. "Maybe we should have dinner later," he said huskily. As he watched, she crossed to the window and closed the curtains. God, his heart was pounding as if he'd just run a three-minute mile. He could feel his blood surging hotly through his veins with each pulsing beat. She was really going to do this. She knew he wanted her to—he'd asked her to

dance for him. But he'd never thought she'd actually do it. He thought he'd asked for too much. Veronica smiled at him as she crossed back to the dinner table and took a bottle of beer from a small bottle cooler. She opened it, poured it into a glass and carried it to him. "Thanks," Joe said as she handed him both the glass and the bottle. "Why don't you sit down?" Veronica murmured, and with a whisper of silk, she moved back to the other side of the room. Sit down. Yeah, right. Sit down. As Joe lowered himself into a chair, Veronica crossed to the stereo and slipped a tape into the deck. Joe knew what her dancing meant to her. She'd told him that it was private and intensely personal. It was a way to let off steam, to unwind, to really relax. And she was going to share it with him now. She was going to let her personal, private pleasure become his pleasure. The fire that was shooting through his veins reached his heart and exploded. Veronica St. John had told him she loved him today. And tonight, by sharing herself with him this way, she was showing him just how much. The music started—softly, slowly—and Ronnie stood in the middle of the room, head back, eyes closed, arms at her sides. God, she was beautiful. And she was his. All his. Forever, if he had anything to say about it. And he did. He had a lot to say about it. Hell, he could write a book on the subject. The music changed with a sudden burst of volume, and Veronica brought her hands up sharply, into the air. And then she began to move. She was graceful, fluid, and her dress seemed an extension of her body, moving with her. Her eyes were still closed, but then she opened them and looked directly at Joe. She blushed, and his heart burned even hotter. She was such a contradiction. The slightest thing could make her blush—until passion overcame her. And when that happened, she was amazingly uninhibited. Joe had never had a lover like Veronica St. John. One moment she was seemingly prim and proper and the next she was wild, giving him pleasure in ways he'd only dreamed of, and telling him—quite specifically, in no uncertain terms—exactly what he could and should do to please her. As Joe watched, Veronica closed her eyes again, and again the music changed, the rhythm getting stronger, faster, more insistent. Her dancing, too, became less careful, less contained. Her movements were freer, broader, more powerful. More passionate. She reached up with both hands and with one swift motion, removed the pins that were holding her hair. It tumbled down around her shoulders, an avalanche of red gold curls. Joe's mouth was dry, and he took a sip of the beer she'd given him. Veronica kicked off her high heels, and, as Joe watched, she became the music. She moved to the funky, bluesy instrumental piece, visually capturing every nuance, every musical phrase with her body. Her body. They hadn't been lovers for long, but Joe already knew every inch of Veronica's beautiful body intimately. But seeing her body in motion this way was an entirely new experience. Her dress barely restrained her breasts and they moved with and against the forces of gravity. The black silk slid across her abdomen and thighs, allowing glimpses of the firm muscles and flesh underneath when occasionally it clung for a second or two. Veronica made a twisting, writhing motion that was pure sex, pure abandon. The long skirt of her dress was no longer moving with her— it was getting in her way. This time when she opened her eyes and looked at Joe, she didn't blush. She smiled—a sweet, hot, sexy smile—and reached behind her for the zipper of her dress. In less than a heartbeat, the dress pooled around her feet, and she was naked—save for a pair of black silk panties. She kicked the dress aside, still dancing, still moving and spinning. A thong. She was wearing thong panties, black silk against her skin so creamy and white. And still she danced. For him. I've died, Joe thought, and gone to heaven. She moved closer to him, smiling at the look he knew damn well was on his face. He was hypnotized. Stupefied. Totally overcome. And extremely aroused. Still moving, she held out her hands to him. "Dance with me." It was not an invitation he needed to hear twice. He set his beer on the nearest end table and rose to his feet. And then, God, she was in his arms,

moving with him and against him to that bluesy melody. Her skin was so smooth, so silky beneath his hands. He touched her everywhere. Her softly rounded bottom, her full breasts, her flat stomach, her long, willowy arms. He was still in his uniform and she was nearly naked, and he had never, never been so turned on in his entire life. They were dancing so close, their legs were intertwined. He could feel the heat between her legs against his thigh. She could surely feel his arousal—she pressed against him, her slow, sexy movement driving him crazy, and the sight of her, nearly naked in his arms, making him throb with need. "Ronnie..." Somehow she knew that he'd had nearly all he could take. She lifted her mouth to his and kissed him. Joe heard himself groan. He couldn't get enough of her. He felt her fingers unbuckling his belt and swiftly unfastening his pants. And then he was in her hands. It was good, but it wasn't good enough. "Ronnie, I need-" "I know." She covered him with a condom she'd procured from God-knew-where, and slipped out of her panties as she kissed him again. "Lift me up," Veronica murmured. "Yes," he breathed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist as he ensheathed himself in her wonderful, smooth heat. "Oh, baby..." She moved on top of him, against him, with him. She was in his arms, in his heart, in his very soul. This passionate, fiery woman, who could be blazing hot one moment and gently sweet the next, this woman with the sharp sense of humor and quiet touch that hid a will of steel—a will that was ruled by the kindest heart he'd ever known—this was the one woman he'd been waiting for all his life. All the love he'd made, all the women he'd known before, had meant nothing to him. No one had moved him. No one had even come close to holding him. He'd always been able to close the door and walk away from a woman without looking back. But there was no way he'd ever be able to walk away from Veronica. Not without leaving his heart behind—ripped from his chest. He clung to her, holding her as tightly as she held him, plunging himself deeply into her again and again. He loved her. He wanted to tell her, but the words—those three simple little words—didn't come easily. The truth was, saying them scared him to death. Now, wasn't that funny? He was a SEAL. He'd faced platoons of enemy soldiers, he'd looked death in the teeth without batting an eye more times than he could count, yet the thought of uttering one very simple sentence made him sweat. Ronnie's fingers were in his hair. Her mouth was covering his face and lips with kisses. "Joe," she breathed, "Joe. I want more—" He moved, backing her up against the wall to anchor her in place, and she tipped back her head. "Yes..." Her release was incredible. She cried out as he drove himself into her, giving her all she'd asked for. Her arms tightened around his neck, her fingers clutched him. "I love you," Veronica cried. "Oh, Joe, I love you!" Her words pushed him over the edge. She loved him. She really did. He exploded in a blinding white burst of pleasure so exquisite, so pure that the world seem to disintegrate around him. Baby, I love you, too.

Chapter 19 Joe slowly became aware of his surroundings. Ronnie's head was resting on his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. His own forehead leaned against the wall. And his knees were damned shaky. He could feel Veronica's heart beating, hear her soft sigh. He didn't want to move. He'd never made love quite like this in his life, and he didn't want it to end. Of course, it had ended, but as long as they stayed right here, in this same position, these remarkable feelings could linger on. It was, needless to say, incredibly exhilarating. His future looked so different, so much brighter, with Ronnie in the picture. For the first time in his life, Joe found himself actually considering the possibility of having children. Not for a good long time, of course. He wanted Ronnie all to himself for years and years and years. But down the road, making a baby, creating a new life would be exciting in a way he'd never imagined before. Fifty percent him and fifty percent her, with two hundred percent of their love... The jeweler's box he carried in his pocket dug into his ribs and Joe had to laugh. He hadn't even asked Ronnie to marry him yet, and here he was, practically naming their kids. "You didn't have to say that, you know," she whispered. She lifted her head and lowered herself to the floor. The spell was broken. Or was it? Joe still felt an incredible warmth in his chest. He used to think it felt like a noose, he realized, but now it was a good feeling, a warmth surrounding his heart, giving him an amazing sense of peace and belonging. "Didn't have to say what?" he asked. Veronica moved away from him slightly, giving him room to adjust his clothes. She was still naked, but she seemed unaware of that as she gazed at him, concern darkening her blue eyes. "You didn't have to say that you love me, too," she said. Joe froze, hands stilled on the buckle of his belt. Had he actually spoken those words out loud? "I'd rather that you be honest with me," she continued. "Don't say things you don't mean. Please?" Veronica turned away, unable to continue looking into Joe's eyes, unable to keep up the brave front. But, bloody hell, here she'd just spoken of being honest "The truth is, Joe," she said, her voice shaking slightly, "I'm going to miss you terribly when you're gone, and—" Joe drew her into his arms, moving with her so they sat on the sofa, Veronica on his lap. "Who says I'm going anywhere?" he asked softly, smoothing her hair back from her face and kissing her gently on the lips. Veronica felt her eyes fill with tears. Damn! She blinked them back. "Tomorrow I'm flying to Seattle and you're—" He interrupted her with another gentle kiss. "And who says when I said...what I said, that I wasn't being honest?" He ran his free hand down the curve of her hip and back up again, then cupped her breast. It was impossible not to touch her. "You love me." Her disbelief was evident in her voice. "Is that really so hard to believe?" Veronica touched the side of his face. "You're so sweet," she said. At the mock flare of indignation in his eyes, she added quickly, "I know you don't think so, but you are. You're incredibly kind, Joe. And I know you have...feelings for me, but you don't have to pretend that they're more than—" She stared down in silence at the small black velvet box Joe pulled from his pocket and held out to her. "What's this?" "Open it," he said. His face looked so serious, so hard. His eyes were so intense. "I'm afraid to." Joe smiled, and it softened his face. "It's not a grenade," he said. "Just open it, Ron, will ya?" Slowly, she took it from him. It was small and square and black and furry. It looked an awful lot like a jeweler's box. What was he giving her? She couldn't even begin to imagine the possibilities. Her heart was pounding, she realized. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Then, gazing into Joe's beautiful eyes, looking for some sort of clue as to what was inside, she opened the box. She glanced down and her heart stopped. It was a ring. It was an enormous, beautiful, glittering diamond ring. "Marry me," Joe said huskily. "Dear Lord!" Veronica breathed. As she stared up into his eyes, her expression of shock made Joe smile. "I guess you weren't expecting this, huh?"

She shook her head. "Neither was I," he told her honestly. "But that ring's not pretend, Ronnie. And neither is what I feel. I...you know...love you—" God, he'd said it and he wasn't struck by lightning. "And I want to make this thing we have permanent. You follow?" She was silent. Her eyes were as large as dinner plates as she gazed at him. She was still naked, and he couldn't have kept from touching her, from stroking her soft skin, if his life depended on it. She was lovely, and he was already uncomfortably aroused again. God, he'd just had the best sex of his life, and already he wanted her again. He couldn't get enough of her. He never would. But why wouldn't she answer? Why wouldn't she tell him that she wanted to marry him, too? "Say something, baby." Joe tried to disguise his insecurity, but knew that he'd failed miserably. It showed in his eyes, in his voice. "The suspense is killing me. Tell me what you think. Good idea? Bad idea? Have I gone crazy, here?" Veronica was dumbfounded. Joe Catalanotto—Lt. Joe Catalanotto of the U.S. Navy SEALs—wanted to marry her. He'd meant it when he'd said that he loved her. He loved her. He loved her, and dear Lord, she should be ecstatic. She should be hearing wedding bells and picturing herself in a gorgeous white wedding dress, walking down the aisle of a church to meet this man at the altar. The one man that she truly loved. But she couldn't picture herself at a wedding. She could only see herself at a funeral. Joe's funeral. "When..." she started, then cleared her throat. She shivered slightly, suddenly aware of the chill of the air-conditioning against her bare skin. Joe ran his hand up and down her arm, trying to warm her. "When are you planning to retire?" He stared at her blankly. "What?" "From the SEALs," she explained. "When are you going to retire from active duty?" Veronica could see that he didn't get how this pertained to his wedding proposal, but he shrugged and answered her anyway. "Not for a long time," he said. "I don't know. Not for another fifteen years. Twenty if I can manage it." Her heart sank. Fifteen or twenty years. Two decades of watching the man she loved leave on countless high-risk missions. Two decades of not knowing whether or not he would return. Two decades of sheer hell. If he lived that long... "I'm career navy, Ronnie," Joe said quietly. "I know I'm no prince, but I am an officer and—" "You are a prince." Veronica kissed him swiftly on the lips. "I've never met anyone even half as princely as you are." He was embarrassed. So of course, he tried to turn it into a joke. "Well, damn," he said. "All the naked women tell me that whenever I get them on my lap." Veronica had to smile. "I am naked," she said. "Aren't I?" "I noticed," he said, lightly touching her breast. "Do you want me to put on some clothes?" "I was thinking more along the lines that I should get rid of mine," Joe murmured, bringing his lips to where his hand had just been. But he only kissed her gently before lifting his head again. "Try it on." The ring. He meant the ring. She knew she shouldn't. She had no idea what her answer was going to be. She was so utterly, totally torn. Still, Veronica took the ring from the box and slipped it onto her left hand. It was a little bit too large. "Say the word, and we can get it sized," Joe said. "Or, if you want, you can pick out something different." Veronica looked at the ring's simple, elegant setting through a haze of tears. "This is so beautiful," she said. "I wouldn't want anything else." "When I saw it," Joe said quietly, "I knew it belonged to you." He lifted her chin up toward him. "Hey. Hey, are you crying?" Veronica nodded her head, yes, and he drew her even closer to him. He pulled her mouth to his and kissed her sweetly. She wanted so very much to tell him, "Yes, I'll marry you." But she wanted to go to bed every night with him beside her. And she wanted to wake up every morning knowing that he was going to be there again the next night. She didn't want a Navy SEAL, she wanted a regular, normal man. But maybe if she asked, he'd leave the SEALs. Lord knows, he could do damn near anything, get any kind of job he wanted. He was an expert in so many different fields. He could work as a translator. Or he could work as a mechanic, she didn't care. Let him get covered with engine grease every day. She'd learn to do the bloody laundry if that's what it took. She just wanted to know that he would be safe. And alive. But Veronica knew she couldn't ask him to leave the SEALs. And even if she did ask him, she knew that he wouldn't quit. Not for her. Not for anything. She'd seen him at work. He loved the risk, lived for the danger.

"Please, Joe," she whispered. "Make love to me again." He stood, holding her in his arms, and carried her into the bedroom. Veronica wanted desperately to marry Joe. But Joe was already married—to the Navy SEALs. As Veronica slept, curled up next to him in the bed, Joe stared at the ceiling. She hadn't said yes. He'd asked her to marry him, and she'd asked him a bunch of questions in return, but she hadn't said yes. She hadn't said no, either. But she'd taken off the ring and put it back in the box. She gave him some excuse about how she was afraid it was going to fall off. She was afraid she was going to lose it. But if Ronnie had given him any kind of ring that meant that she wanted him forever, that she loved him "till death do us part," Joe would damn sure be wearing it, regardless of the size. It was entirely possible that he was heading full steam ahead into an emotional train wreck. It was entirely possible that although Veronica had said that she loved him, she didn't love him enough to want "forever." Hell, it was entirely possible that although she had said she loved him, she didn't love him at all. But no. He had to believe that she loved him. He'd seen it in her eyes, felt it in her touch. She did love him. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was, how much? Across the room, from the chair where he'd thrown his clothes, his pocket pager shrilled. Joe extracted himself from the bed, trying not to wake Veronica, but as he moved swiftly across the room, she stirred and sat up. "What was that?” she asked. "My pager," he said. "I'm sorry. I've got to make a phone call." Veronica leaned forward and snapped on the light, squinting at him in the sudden brightness. As she watched, he sat back down on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his short hair before he picked up the telephone. He quickly dialed—a number he had memorized. "Yeah," he said into the phone. "Catalanotto." There was a pause. "I'm still in Phoenix." Another pause. "Yeah. Yeah, I understand." He glanced back at Veronica, his face serious. "Give me three minutes, and I’ll call right back." Another pause. He smiled. "Right. Thanks." He dropped the receiver into the cradle and faced Veronica. "I can get a week's leave, if I want it," he said bluntly. "But I need to know right now if I should take it. And I don't want to take it if you can't spend the time with me. Do you know what I'm saying?" Veronica glanced at the clock. "You get called at four-thirty in the morning about whether or not you want leave?” she asked in dismay. Joe shook his head. "No," he replied. "I get called and ordered to report to the base at Little Creek. There's some kind of emergency. They're calling in all of SEAL Team Ten, including the Alpha Squad." Veronica felt faint. "What kind of emergency?" "I don't know," he said. "But even if I did know, I couldn't say." "If we were married, could you tell me?" Joe smiled ruefully. "No, baby. Not even then." "So you just pack up and leave," Veronica said tightly, "and maybe you'll come back?" He reached for her. "I'll always come back. You gotta believe that." She sat up, moving out of reach, keeping her back to him so that he couldn't see the look on her face. This was her worst nightmare, coming true. This was what she didn't want to spend the next twenty years doing. This fear, this emptiness was exactly what she didn't want to spend the next two decades feeling. "I either have to officially take leave, or go check in with the rest of the team. What do you think?" he asked again. "Can you get time off, too?" Veronica shook her head. "No." Funny, her voice sounded so cool and in control. "No, I'm sorry, but I have to be on the cruise ship with Prince Tedric, starting tomorrow." She could feel his eyes on the back of her head. She sensed his hesitation before he turned back to the telephone. He picked it up and dialed. "Yeah, it's Joe Cat again. I'm in."

Veronica closed her eyes. He was in. But in for what? Something that was going to get him killed? She couldn't stand it. Not knowing where he was going, what he'd be doing, was awful. She wanted to scream — "Right," he said into the phone. "I'll be ready." He hung up the phone, and she felt the mattress shift as he stood. "I have to take a quick shower," he said. "There's a car coming in ten minutes." Veronica spun around to face him. "Ten minutes!" "That's how it works, Ronnie. I get a call, I have to leave. Right away. Sometimes we get preparation time, but usually not. Let me take a shower— we can talk while I'm getting dressed." Veronica felt numb. This wasn't her worst nightmare. This fear she felt deep in her stomach was beyond anything she'd ever imagined. She wanted to tell him, beg him to take the leave. She would quit her job if she had to. She would do anything, anything to keep him from going on that unnamed, unidentified, probably deadly emergency mission. And then what? she wondered as she heard the sound of the shower. She stood and slipped into her robe, suddenly feeling terribly chilled. She would lose her job, her reputation, her pride, for one measly week of Joe's company. But after that week of leave was up, he would be gone. He'd go where duty called, when duty called, no matter the danger or risk. Sooner or later it would happen. Sooner or later—and probably sooner—he was going to kiss her goodbye, leaving her with her heart in her throat. He would leave her alone, watching the clock, waiting, praying for him to return. Alive. And he wouldn't come back. Veronica couldn't stand it. She wouldn't be able to stand it. The water shut off, and several moments later Joe came out of the bathroom, toweling himself dry. She watched silently as he slipped on his briefs and then his pants. "So," he said, rubbing his hair with the towel one last time, glancing over at her. "Tell me when you'll be done with the Ustanzian tour. I'll try to arrange leave." "It won't be for another two or three weeks," Veronica said. "After the cruise, we'll be heading back to D.C., and then to Ustanzia from there. By then, Wila will have had the baby, and—" She broke off, turning away from him. Why were they having this seemingly normal-sounding conversation, when every cell in her body was screaming for her to hold him—hold him and never let go? But she couldn't hold him. A car was coming in five minutes to take him away, maybe forever. "Okay," Joe was saying. She could hear him slipping his arms into his jacket and buttoning it closed. "What do you say I meet you in Ustanzia? Just let me know the exact dates and-" Veronica shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea." "Okay," he said again, very quietly. "What is a good idea, Ronnie? You tell me." He wasn't moving now. Veronica knew even without looking that he was standing there, his lean face unsmiling, his dark eyes intense as he watched her, waiting for her to move, to speak, to do something, anything. "I don't have any good ideas." "You don't want to marry me." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Veronica didn't move, didn't say anything. What could she possibly say? Joe laughed—a brief burst of air that had nothing to do with humor. "Hell, from the way it sounds, you don't even want to see me again." She turned toward him, but she wasn't prepared for the chill that was in his eyes. "Boy, did I have you pegged wrong," he said. "You don't understand," Veronica tried to explain. "I can't live the way you want me to live. I can't take it, Joe." He turned away, and she moved forward, stopping him with a hand on his arm. "We come from such different worlds," she said. His world was filled with danger and violence and the ever-present risk of death. Why couldn't he see the differences between them? "I can't just... pretend to fit into your world, because I know I won't. And I know you won't fit into mine. You can't change any more than / can, and—" Joe pulled away. His head was spinning. Different worlds. Different classes was more like it. God, he should have known better. What was he thinking? How could he have thought a woman like Veronica St. John—a wealthy, high-class, gentri-fied lady—would want more from him than a short, steamy affair? He'd been right—she'd been slumming. That was all this was to her.

She had been slumming. She had been checking out how the lower class lived. She had been having sex with a blue-collar man. Officer or not, that was what Joe was, what he would always be. That was where he came from. Veronica was getting her hands dirty, and Joe, he'd gone and fallen in love. God, he was a royal idiot, a horse's ass. He took the ring box from where it still sat on the bedside table and dropped it into his pocket. Damned if he was going to let her walk away with a ring that had put a serious dent into his life savings. "Try to understand," Veronica said, her eyes swimming with tears. She stood in front of the door, blocking his exit. "I love you, but... I can't marry you." And all at once Joe did understand. She may have been slumming—at first. But she'd fallen in love with him, too. Still, that love wasn't enough to overcome the differences between their two "worlds" as she called it. He should walk away. He knew he should walk away. But instead he touched her face and brushed his thumb across her beautiful lips. And then he did something he'd never done before. He begged. "Please, Ronnie," Joe said softly. "This thing between us.. .it's pretty powerful. Please, baby, can't we try to work this out?" Veronica stared up into Joe's eyes, and for a second, she almost believed that they could. But then his pager beeped again, and the fear was back. Joe had to go. Now. Reality hit her hard and she felt sick to her stomach. She turned and moved away from the door. "That's your answer, huh?" he said quietly. Veronica kept her back to him. She couldn't speak. And she couldn't bear to watch him leave. She heard him open the bedroom door. She heard him walk through the hotel suite. And she heard him stop, heard him hesitate before he opened the door to the corridor. "I thought you were tougher than this, Ron," he said, a catch in his voice. The door clicked quietly as it closed behind him.

Chapter 20 The guys in Alpha Squad were avoiding Joe. They were keeping their distance—and it was little wonder, considering the black mood he was in. The "emergency1' calling them all back to Little Creek had been no more than an exercise in preparedness—a time test by the powers that be. The top brass were checking to see exactly how long it would take SEAL Team Ten to get back to their home base in Virginia, from their scattered temporary locations around California and the Southwest. Blue was the only man who ignored Joe's bad mood and stayed nearby as they completed the paperwork on the exercise and on the Ustanzian tour operation. Blue didn't say a word, but Joe knew his executive officer was ready to lend a sympathetic ear, or even a shoulder to cry on if he needed it. Early that evening, before they left the administration office, there was a phone call for Joe. From Seattle. Blue was there, and he met Joe's eyes as the call was announced. There was only one person in Seattle who could possibly be calling Joe. Veronica St. John. Why was she calling him? Maybe she'd changed her mind. Blue turned away, sympathy in his eyes. Damn it, Joe thought. Were his feelings, his hope for the impossible that transparent? There was no real privacy in the office, and Joe had to take the call at an administrator's desk, with the man sitting not three feet away from him. "Catalanotto," he said into the phone, staring out the window. "Joe?" It was Veronica. And she sounded surprised to hear his voice. "Oh, Lord, I didn't think I'd actually get through to you. I thought... I thought I'd be able to leave a message with your voice mail or... something." Terrific. She didn't actually want to speak to him. Then why the hell had she called? "You want me to hang up?" he asked. "You can call back and leave a message." "Well, no," she said. "No, of course not. Don't be silly. I just...didn't think you'd be there. I thought you'd be... shooting bad guys... or something." Joe smiled despite the ache in his chest. "No," he said. "Yesterday I shot the bad guy. Today I'm doing the paperwork about it." "I thought..." "Yes...?" "Aren't you shipping out or... something?" "No," Joe said. "It was an exercise. The brass wanted to see how fast SEAL Team Ten could get our butts back to Little Creek. They do that sometimes. Supposedly it keeps us on our toes." "I'm glad, "she said. "I'm not," he stated flatly. "I was hoping they were sending us down to South America. We're still no closer to nailing Diosdado. I was looking forward to tracking him down and having it out with him once and for all." "Oh," she said very softly. And then she was silent. Joe counted to five very slowly, then he said, "Veronica? You still there?" "Yes," she replied, and he could almost see her shake her head to get herself back on track. But when she spoke, her voice was no less tentative. "I'm sorry, I...urn, I was calling to pass on some news I received this afternoon. Mrs. Kaye called from Washington, D.C. Cindy died this morning at Saint Mary's." Joe closed his eyes and swore. "Mrs. Kaye wanted to thank you again,” Veronica continued, her voice shaking. She was crying. Joe knew just from the way her voice sounded that she was crying. God, his arms ached to hold her. "She wanted to thank both of us, for your visit. It meant a lot to Cindy." Joe held tightly to the phone, fighting to ignore the six pairs of curious eyes and ears in the room. Veronica took a deep breath, and he could picture her wiping her eyes and face, adjusting her hair. "I just thought you'd want to know," she said. She took another breath. "I have to run. The cruise ship sails in less than an hour." "Thanks for calling to tell me, Veronica," Joe said. There was another silence. Then she said, "Joe?"

"Yeah." "I’m sorry," she said falteringly. "About.. .you and me. About it not working out. I didn't mean to hurt you." Joe couldn't talk about it. How could he stand here in the middle of all these people and talk about the fact that his heart had been stomped into a million tiny pieces? And even if he could, how could he admit it to her—the woman responsible for all the pain? "Was there something else you wanted?" he asked, his voice tight and overly polite. "You sound so... Are you... are you all right?" "Yeah," he lied. "I'm great. I'm getting on with my life, okay? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to it, all right?" Joe hung up the phone without waiting to see if she said goodbye. He turned and walked away, past Blue, past the guard at the front desk. He walked out of the building and down the road, heading toward the empty parade grounds. He sat in the grass at the edge of the field and held his head in his hands. And for the second time in his adult life, Joe Catalanotto cried. Standing at the pay phone, Veronica dissolved into tears. She hadn't expected to speak to Joe. She hadn't expected to hear his familiar voice. It was such a relief to know that he wasn't risking his life—at least not today. But he'd sounded so stilted, so cold, so unfriendly. He'd called her Veronica, not Ronnie, as if she were some stranger he didn't know. He was getting on with his life, he'd said. He clearly wasn't going to waste any time worrying about what might have been. That was the way she wanted it, wasn't it? So why did she feel so awful? Did she actually want Joe Catalanotto carrying a torch for her? Did she want him to be hurt? Did she want his heart to be broken? Or maybe she was afraid that by turning him down, she'd done the wrong thing, made the wrong choice. Veronica didn't know. She honestly didn't know. The only thing she was absolutely certain of was how terribly much she missed him. Joe sat in the bar nursing a beer, trying not to listen to the endless parade of country songs about heartbreak playing on the jukebox. "At ease, at ease. Stay in your seats, boys." Joe looked into the mirror behind the bar and saw Admiral Forrest making his way across the crowded room. The admiral sat down at the bar, next to Joe, who took another sip of his beer, not even looking up, certainly not even smiling. "Rumor has it you survived your mission," Mac said to Joe, ordering a diet cola from the bartender. "But it looks to me like you extracted without a pulse or a sense of humor. Am I right or are you still alive over there, son?" "Well, gee whiz, Admiral," Joe said, staring morosely into his beer. "We can't all be a barrel of laughs all the time." Mac nodded seriously. "No, no, you're right. We can't." He nodded to the bartender as the man put a tall glass of soda on the bar. "Thanks." He glanced down the bar and nodded to Blue McCoy, who was sitting on Joe's right. "Lieutenant." Blue nodded back. "Good to see you, Admiral." .Forrest turned back to Joe. "Hear you and some of your boys had a run-in with Saiustiano Vargas two days ago." Joe nodded, glancing up at the older man. "Yes, sir." "Also hear from the Intel grapevine that the rumor is, Vargas was disassociated from Diosdado and the Cloud of Death some time ago." Joe shrugged, drawing wet lines with the condensation from his mug on the surface of the bar. He exchanged a look with Blue. "Vargas wasn't able to verify FInCOM's information after we had it out with him. He was too dead to talk." Admiral Forrest nodded. "I heard that, too," he said. He took a long sip of his soda, then set it carefully back down on the bar. "What / can't figure out is, if Salustiano Vargas was not working with Diosdado, why did earlier FInCOM reports state that members of the Cloud of Death were unusually interested in Prince Tedric's tour schedule?" "FInCOM isn't known for their flawless operations," Joe said, one eyebrow raised. "Someone made a mistake." "I don't know, Joe." Mac scratched his head through his thick white hair. "I've got this gut feeling that the mistake is in assuming the reports are true about this rift between Vargas and Diosdado. I think there's still some connection between them. Those two were too close for too long." He shook his head again. "What I can't figure out is why Salustiano Vargas— Diosdadp's number-one sharpshooter—would set himself up as a suicide assassin. He didn't stand a chance at getting out of there. And he didn't even hit his target." Joe took another slug of his beer. "He had the opportunity," he said. "I was on that stage, with my back to the bastard when he fired his first shot. It

wasn't until the second shot went into the stage next to me that I realized he was shooting from behind me and—" Joe froze, his glass a quarter of an inch from his lips. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph." He put his beer back on the counter and looked from Blue to the admiral. "Why would a sharpshooter of Vargas's caliber miss an easy target in broad daylight?" "Luck," Blue suggested. "You moved out of the way of the bullet at the right split second." "I didn't," Joe said. "I didn't move at all. He deliberately missed me." He stood, knocking his barstool over. "I need the telephone," he said to the bartender. "Now." The bartender moved fast and placed the phone in front of Joe. Joe pushed it in front of the admiral. "Who am I calling?" Forrest asked dryly. "Why am I calling?" "Why would Salustiano Vargas deliberately miss his assassination target?" Joe asked. He answered his own question. "Because the assassination attempt was only a diversion, set up to make FInCOM's security force relax. Which they immediately did, right? I'm out of the picture. The rest of Alpha Squad is out of the picture. Mac, how many FInCOM agents are with Prince Tedric's tour now that the alleged danger has passed?" Mac shrugged. "Two. I think." He leaned forward. "Joe, what are you saying?" "That the real terrorist attack hasn't happened yet. Damn, at least I hope it hasn't happened yet." Mac Forrest's mouth dropped open. "Jumping Jesse," he said. "The cruise ship?" Joe nodded. "With only two FInCOM agents onboard, that cruise ship is a terrorist's dream come true." He picked up the telephone receiver and handed it to the admiral. "Contact them, sir. Warn them." Forrest dialed a number and waited, his blue eyes steely in his weathered face. Joe waited, too. Waited, and prayed. Veronica was on that ship. Blue stood. "I'm gonna page the squad," he said quietly to Joe. Joe nodded. "Better make it all of Team Ten," he told Blue in a low voice. "If this is going down, it's going to be big. We're going to need all the manpower we've got. While you're at it, get on the horn with the commander of Team Six. Let's put in a request to put them on standby, too." Blue nodded and vanished in the direction of the door and the outside pay phone. Please, God, keep Veronica safe, Joe prayed. Please, God, let him be really, really wrong about the situation. Please God... Forrest put his hand over the receiver. "I got through to the naval base in Washington State," he said to Joe. "They're hailing the cruise ship now." He lifted his hand from the mouthpiece. "Yes?" he said into the telephone. "They're not?" He looked up at Joe, his eyes dark with concern. "The ship's not responding. Apparently, their radio's down. The base has them on radar, and they've gone seriously off course." He shook his head, his mouth tight with anger and frustration. "I believe we've got ourselves a crisis situation." Veronica watched a second helicopter land on the sundeck. This couldn't be happening. Five hours ago, she'd been having lunch with Ambassador Freder and his staff. Five hours ago, everything had been perfectly normal aboard the cruise ship Majestic. Tedric had been sleeping in, as was his habit. She'd been forcing down a salad even though she wasn't hungry, even though her stomach hurt from missing Joe. Lord, she didn't think it was possible to miss another person that badly. She felt hollow, empty, and hopelessly devoid of life. And then a dozen men, dressed in black and carrying automatic rifles and submachine guns, jumped out of one helicopter and swarmed across the deck of the cruise ship, declaring that the Majestic was now in their control, and all her passengers were their hostages. It seemed unreal, like some sort of strange movie that she was somehow involved in making. There were fewer than sixty people aboard the small cruise ship, including the crew. They were all on deck, watching and waiting as the second helicopter's blades slowed and then stopped. No one made a sound as the doors opened and several men stepped out. One of them, a man with a pronounced limp who was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, smiled a greeting to the silent crowd. He had a wide, friendly, white-toothed smile set off by a thick salt-and-pepper beard. Without saying a word, he gestured to one of the other terrorists, who pulled the two FInCOM agents out in front of them all. The terrorists had cuffed the two security agents' hands behind them, and now, as they were pushed to their knees in front of the bearded man, they fought to keep their balance. "Who are you?" one of the agents, a woman named Maggie Forte demanded. "What is this—" "Silence," the bearded man said. And then he pulled a revolver from his belt and shot both agents in the head.

Senator McKinley's wife screamed and started to cry. "Just so you know our guns are quite real," the bearded man said to the rest of them in his softly accented voice, "and that we mean business. My name is Diosdado." He gestured to the other terrorists around him. "These men and women all work for me. Do as they say, and you will all be fine." He smiled again. "Of course, there are no guarantees." Veronica stared at the bright red blood pooling beneath the FlnCOM agents' bodies. They were dead. Just like that, a man and a woman were dead. The man—Charlie Griswold, he'd said his name was—had just had a new baby. He'd shown Veronica pictures. He'd been so proud, so in love with his pretty young wife. And now... God forgive her, but all she could think was Thank God it wasn't Joe. Thank God Joe wasn't here. Thank God that wasn't Joe's blood spreading across the deck. Diosdado limped toward Prince Tedric, who was standing slightly apart from the rest of them. "So we finally meet again," the terrorist said. He used his submachine gun to knock the Stetson cowboy hat Tedric was wearing off his head. Tedric looked as if he might be ill. "Did you really think I'd forget about the agreement we made?" Diosdado asked. Tedric glanced toward the two dead agents lying on the deck. "No," he whispered. "Then where are my long-range missiles?" Diosdado demanded. "I've been waiting and waiting for you to come through on your part of the deal." Veronica couldn't believe what she was hearing. Prince Tedric, involved in arms smuggling? She wouldn't have believed he had the nerve. "I said I'd try," Tedric hissed. "I made no promises." Diosdado made tsking sounds. "Then it was very bad form for you to keep the money," he said. Tedric straightened in shock. "I sent the money back," he retorted. "I wouldn't have kept it. Mon Dieu, I wouldn't have.. .dared." Diosdado stared at him. Then he laughed. "You know, I actually believe you. It seems my good friend Salustiano inter vened more than once. No wonder he wanted you dead. He'd intercepted two million of my dollars that you were returning to me." He laughed again. "Isn't this an interesting twist?" He turned to his men. "Take the other hostages below, and His Highness to the bridge. Let's see what a crown prince is worth these days. I may get my long-range missiles yet." Navy SEAL Team Ten was airborne less than thirty minutes after Admiral Forrest contacted the naval base in Washington State. Joe sat in the airforce jet with his men, receiving nearly continuous reports from a Blackbird SR-71 spy plane that was circling at eighty-five thousand feet above the hijacked cruise ship, over the northern Pacific Ocean. The Blackbird was flying so high the terrorists and hostages on board the Majestic couldn't have seen it even with high-powered binoculars. But with the Blackbird's high-tech equipment, Joe could see the cruise ship. The pictures that were coming in were very sharp and clear. There were two bodies on the deck near two high-speed attack helicopters. Two bodies, two pools of blood. More detailed reports showed that one of the bodies was wearing a skirt, her legs angled awkwardly on the deck. One man, one woman. Both dead. Joe studied the picture, unable to see the woman's features for all the blood. Please, God, don't let it be Veronica! He glanced up to find Blue looking over his shoulder. Blue shook his head. "I don't think it's her," he said. "I don't think it's Veronica." Joe didn't say anything at first. "It could be," he finally said, his voice low. "Yeah." Blue nodded. "Could be. And if it's not, it's someone that somebody else loves. It's already a no-win situation, Cat. Don't let it interfere with what we've got to do." "I won't," he said. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That bastard Diosdado isn't gonna know what hit him." Veronica sat in the dining room with the other hostages, wondering what was going to come next. Tedric sat apart from the others, staring at the walls, his jaw clenched tightly, his arms crossed in front of him. It was funny, so many people had seen Joe and thought that he was Tedric. But to Veronica, their physical differences were so clearly obvious. Joe's eyes were bigger and darker, his lashes longer. Joe's chin was stronger, more square. Tedric's nose was narrower, and slightly pinched looking at the end. Sure, they both had dark hair and dark eyes, but Tedric's eyes shifted as he spoke, never settling on any one thing. Veronica had worked for hours

and hours, trying to teach the prince to look steadily into the TV cameras. Joe, on the other hand, always looked everyone straight in the eye. Tedric was in constant motion—fingers tapping, a foot jiggling, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Joe's energy was carefully contained. He could sit absolutely still, but one could feel his leashed power. He nearly throbbed with it, but it didn't distract—at least, not all the time. Veronica closed her eyes. Was she ever going to see Joe again? What she would give to put her arms around him, to feel his arms holding her. But he was in Virginia. It was very likely that he hadn't even heard about the hijacking yet. And what would he think when he found out? Would he even care? He'd been so cold, so formal, so distant during their last conversation. Diosdado had opened communications with both the U.S. and the Ustanzian governments. Ustanzia was ready to ship out the missiles the terrorists wanted, but the U.S. was against that. Now the two governments were in disagreement, with the U.S. threatening to drop all future aid if Ustanzia gave in to the terrorists' demands. But Senator McKinley was on board the Majestic, too. So between the senator and Crown Prince Tedric, Diosdado had hit a jackpot. But jackpot or not, Diosdado was losing patience. He limped into the room now, and all of the hostages tensed. "Men on one side, and women on the other," said the leader of the Cloud of Death, drawing an imaginary line down the center of the room with his arm. Everybody stared. No one moved. "Now!" he commanded quite softly, lifting his gun for emphasis. They all moved. Veronica stood on the right side of the imaginary line with the rest of the women. There were only fourteen women on board, compared to the forty men on the other side of the dining room. Mrs. McKinley was shivering, and Veronica reached down and took the older woman's icy fingers. "Here's how it's going to work," Diosdado said pleasantly. "We're going to start with the women. You're going to go up to the bridge, to the radio room, and talk to your government. You're going to convince them to give us what we want, and to keep their distance. And you're going to tell them that starting in one hour, we're going to begin eliminating our hostages, one each hour, on the hour." There was a murmur in the crowd, and Mrs. McKinley clung more tightly to Veronica's hand. "And," Diosdado said, "you may tell them that once again we're going to start with the women." "No!" one of the men cried. Diosdado turned and fired his gun, shooting the man in the head. Several people screamed, many dove for cover. Veronica turned away, sickened. Just like that, another man was dead. "Anyone else have any objections?" Diosdado asked pleasantly. Except for the sound of quiet sobbing, the hostages were silent. "You and you," the terrorist said, and it was several moments before Veronica realized he was talking to her and Mrs. McKinley. "To the radio room." Veronica looked up into the glittering chill of Diosdado's dark eyes, and she knew. She was going to be the first. She had only one more hour to live. One very short hour. Even if Joe knew, even if Joe cared, there was nothing he could do to save her. He was on the other side of the country. There was no way he could reach her within an hour. She was going to die.

Chapter 21 Joe stood in the briefing room of the USS Watkins, and tried to work out a plan to get SEAL Team Ten onto the Majestic, and the hostages off. "Infrared surveillance shows the majority of the hostages are in the ship's dining hall,” Blue reported. He pointed to the location on a cutaway schematic of the cruise ship that was spread out on the table among all the other maps and charts and photographs. "We can approach at dusk, going under their radar with inflatable boats, climb up the sides of the Majestic, and bring the hostages out without the terrorists even knowing." "Once everyone's clear of the cruise ship," Harvard said with a hard smile, "we kick their butts all the way to hell." "We'll need air support," Joe said. "At the first sign of trouble, Diosdado is going to split in one of those choppers he's got on the deck. I want to make sure we've got some fighters standing by, ready to shoot him down if necessary." "What you need,” Admiral Forrest said, coming into the room, "is a go-ahead from the president. And right now, he wants to sit tight, wait and see what the terrorists do next." The intercom from the bridge crackled on. "We have a report from the Majestic,” a voice said over the loudspeaker. "Another hostage is dead. The terrorists say they'll kill one hostage every hour until they get either twenty million dollars or a shipment of long-range missiles." Another hostage was dead. Joe couldn't breathe. God help Diosdado if he so much as touched Veronica. He looked around the room at the grim faces of his men. God help that bastard, anyway. SEAL Team Ten was after him now. The telephone rang, and Cowboy picked it up. "Jones," he said. He held the receiver out to the admiral. "Sir, it's for you." He swallowed. "It's the president." Forrest took the phone. "Yes, sir?" He nodded, listening hard, then looked up at Joe. He spoke only one word, but it was the word Joe had been waiting for. "Go." As the sun began to set, Mrs. McKinley was taken back to the dining room, leaving Veronica alone with Diosdado and one of his followers. "Right about now, you're wondering how you ever got into this mess," Diosdado said to Veronica, offering her one of the cigarettes from his pack. She shook her head. "It's okay," he said. "You can smoke if you want." He laughed. "After all, you don't have to worry about dying from lung cancer, right?" "Right about now," Veronica said with forced calm, "I'm wondering what your head would look like—on a pike." Diosdado laughed, and touched her on the cheek. "You Brits are so bloodthirsty." She pulled her head away, repulsed. He just laughed again. "They're all going to die," he said. "All of the hostages. You should be thankful your death is going to be painless." Joe met Blue's eyes in the dimness of the corridor outside the dining hall. They both wore headsets and mikes, but at this proximity to the terrorists, they were silent. Joe nodded once and Blue nodded back. They were going in. The door was open a crack, and they knew from looking in that both guards had their backs to them. Both guards were holding Uzis, but their stances were relaxed, unsuspecting of trouble. Joe smiled grimly. Well, here came trouble with a capital T. He pointed to Blue and then to the guard on the left. Blue nodded. Joe held up three fingers, two fingers, one... He pushed the door open, and he and Blue erupted into the room as if they were one body with a single controlling brain. The guard on the left spun around, bringing his Uzi up. Joe fired once, the sound of the shot muffled by his hush-puppy. He caught the Uzi as the man fell, turning to see Blue lower the other guard, his head at an unnatural angle, to the ground. The hostages didn't make a sound. They stared, though. The entire room reeked of fear. "Dining room secure," Blue said into his microphone. "Let's get some backup down here, boys." He turned to the hostages. "We're U.S. Navy SEALs," he told them in his gentle Southern accent as Joe searched the crowd for Veronica. "With your continued cooperation, we're here to take y'all home." There was a babble of voices, questions, demands. Blue held up both hands. "We're not out of danger yet, folks," he said. "I'd like to ask you all to remain silent and to move quickly and quietly when we tell you to." Veronica wasn't here. If she wasn't here, that meant...

"Veronica St. John," Joe said, his voice cracking with his effort to stay calm. Just because she wasn't here didn't necessarily mean she was dead, right? "Does anyone know where Veronica St. John is?" An older woman with graying hair raised her hand. "On the bridge," she said in a shaky voice. "That man, that murderer, is going to kill her at six o'clock. They took the prince somewhere else, too." The clock on the wall said five fifty-five. Joe's watch said the same. He turned to look at Blue, who was already speaking into his headset. "Harvard and Cowboy, get your fannies down here on the double. We've got to get these people off this ship, pronto, and you're the ones who're gonna do it." . With Blue only a few steps behind, Joe slipped the strap of the Uzi over his shoulder along with his HK machine gun and headed back down the corridor at a run. "I'm sorry," Diosdado said into the radio, sounding not one bit sorry. "Your promise to deliver twenty million to my Swiss bank account isn't enough. I gave you plenty of time to get the job done. Maybe you'll do it before the next hostage is killed, hmm? Think about it. This communication has ended." With a flick of his wrist, he turned the radio off. He took a sip of coffee before he faced Veronica. "I'm so sorry," he said. "Your government has let you down. They don't think you're worth twenty million dollars." "I thought you wanted missiles," Veronica said. "Not money." It was 6:01 p.m. Maybe if she could keep him talking, maybe if she could stall him, something, some miracle would happen. At the very least, she'd live a few minutes longer. She'd already lived one minute more than she'd thought she would. "Either one would be fine," Diosdado said with a shrug. He turned to his guard. "Where is our little prince? I need him in here." The man nodded and left the room. Veronica felt incredibly calm, remarkably poised, considering that, miracles aside, she was going to get a bullet in her head in a matter of minutes. She wasn't going to see another sunrise. She wasn't going to see Joe's beautiful smile, hear his contagious laughter again. She wasn't going to get a chance to tell him that she'd been wrong, that she wanted him for however long he was willing to give her. Facing her own death made her see it all so clearly. She loved Joe Catalanotto. So what if he was a Navy SEAL. It was who he was, what he did. It was quite probably the reason she'd fallen in love with him. He was the best of the best in so many different ways. If by being a SEAL, he had to live on the edge and cheat death, so be it. She would learn to cope. But she wasn't going to have a chance to do that. Because of her own fears and weaknesses, she'd pushed Joe away. She'd given up the few moments of happiness she could have had with him. She'd given up a lingering kiss goodbye. She'd given up a phone call that could have been filled with whispered "I love you's" instead of stilted apologies and chilly regrets. How ironic that she was the one who was going to die a violent and horrible death. Four minutes past six. "What could be taking them so long?" Diosdado mused. He smiled at Veronica. "I'm so sorry, dear. I know you must be anxious to get this over with. I'd do it myself, but when Prince Tedric comes in, we're going to play a little game. Do you want to know the rules?" Veronica looked into the eyes of the man who was going to kill her. "Why do you do this?" she asked. "Because I can." The eyes narrowed slightly. "You're not afraid, are you?" he asked. She was terrified. But she was damned if she was going to let him know that. She replied, "I'm saddened. There's a man that I love, and he's never going to know just how much I really do love him." Diosdado laughed. "Isn't that tragic," he said. "You're just as pathetic as the rest of them. And to think, for a moment I was actually considering sparing you." Five minutes past six. He'd never had any intention of sparing her. It was just another of his head games. Veronica didn't allow any expression to cross her face. "You didn't let me tell you about this game we're going to play," the terrorist continued. "It's called 'Who's the Killer?' When Prince Tedric comes in, I'll put a gun on the table over here." He patted the tabletop. "And then, with my gun on him, I'll order him to pick up that gun and fire a bullet into your head." He laughed. "Do you think he'll do it?" "You aren't afraid he'll turn and use the gun on you?" "Prince Tedric?" Diosdado blew out a burst of disparaging air. "No. The man has no.. .backbone." He shook his head. "No, it will be your brains on these nice windows, not mine."

The door was pushed tentatively open, and Prince Tedric came onto the bridge. He was still wearing his cowboy hat, pulled low over his face. But his jacket was unbuttoned. That was odd—surely a sign of his despondency. Veronica had never seen him look anything but fastidious. "Your Royalness," Diosdado said. He swooped low in a mocking bow. "I believe you are familiar with Miss Veronica St. John, yes?" Tedric nodded. "Yes," he said. "I know Ronnie." Ronnie? Veronica looked up at Tedric in surprise—and met Joe's warm brown gaze. Joe! Here? The rush of emotions was intense. Veronica had never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life. Or so frightened. Lord, please, don't let Joe be killed, too— "Get down," Joe mouthed silently. "We're going to play a little game," Diosdado was saying. "I've got a game for you," Joe said in Tedric's Ustanzian accent. "It's called 'Show-and-Tell.’ " He pulled the biggest machine gun Veronica had ever seen in her life out from under his open jacket and aimed it at Diosdado. "I show you my gun," Joe finished in his regular voice, "and you freeze. Then tell your army to surrender." Diosdado didn't freeze. He lifted his gun. Veronica dove for the floor as Joe opened fire. The noise was incredible, and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. But just as quickly as it started, it stopped. And then Joe was next to her on the floor, pulling her into his arms. "Ronnie! God, tell me you're all right!" She clung to his neck. "Oh, Joe!" She pulled back. "Are yow all right?" He seemed to be in one piece, despite all of the bullets that had been flying just moments earlier. "He didn't hurt you, did he?" Veronica shook her head. He kissed her, hard, on the mouth and she closed her eyes, pulling him closer, kissing him back with as much strength and passion. She welcomed his familiar taste, giddy with relief and a sense of homecoming she'd never experienced before. He'd come to save her. Somehow he'd known, and he'd come. "Well," Joe said, his voice husky as he drew back. "I guess this is probably the one situation where you'd be indisputably glad to see me, huh?" He smiled, but there was a flash of re morse in his eyes as he took off Tedric's jacket, revealing some kind of dark uniform and vest underneath. He was serious. He honestly thought the only reason she was so happy to see him was because he had come to save her life. "No, Joe—" she said, but he stopped her, standing and pulling her to her feet. "Come on, baby, we've got to get moving," Joe said. "In about thirty seconds, this place is going to be crawling with tangos who heard that gunfire. We've got to get out of here." "Joe-" "Tell me while we're moving," he said, not unkindly, as he pulled her toward the door. She hesitated only a second, glancing back over her shoulder at where Diosdado had stood only moments before. "Is he...?" Joe nodded. "Yeah." Holding her hand, he led her gently down the corridor. She was shaking slightly, but otherwise seemed okay. Of course, it was entirely possible that the shock of what she'd just been through hadn't set in. Still, they had to move while they could. "Can you run?" he asked. "Yes, "she said. They set off down the corridor at an easy trot. She was still holding his hand, and she squeezed it slightly. "I love you," she said. Joe glanced at her. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she managed to smile as she met his gaze. "I didn't think I'd get the chance to tell you that ever again," she explained. "And I know we're not out of danger, so I wanted to make sure you knew, in case—" Veronica was right—they weren't out of danger. They were at the opposite end of the ship from the extraction point, and the tangos had surely been

alerted to the fact that there were intruders on board. They had surely noticed that their hostages were missing and their leader was dead. SEAL Team Ten had stirred up one hell of a hornet's nest—and Joe and Veronica were still in the middle of it. But Joe wasn't about to tell Veronica that. They could pull this off. Damn it, they would pull this off. He was a SEAL and he was armed to the teeth. Several dozen terrorists didn't stand a chance against him. Hell, with stakes this high, with the life of the woman he loved at risk, he could take on several hundred and win. Joe slowed, peering around a corner, making sure they weren't about to run head-on into a pack of terrorists. Veronica loved him, and even though she didn't love him enough to want to marry him, he didn't care anymore. He honestly didn't care. If he'd been five minutes later, if that evil bastard Dios-dado hadn't wanted to play games with his victims, if any number of things had been different, he would have lost Veronica permanently. The thought made him crazy. She could have been killed, and he would be alone, without her forever and ever. But she hadn't been killed. They'd both been given a second chance, and Joe wasn't going to waste it. And he wanted to make his feelings clear to her—now—before she walked away from him again. "When this is all over," he said almost conversationally, "after you're off this ship and safely back onshore, you're going to have to get used to me coming around to visit you. You don't have to marry me, Ronnie. It doesn't have to be anything permanent. But I've got to tell you right now—I have no intention of letting this thing between us drop, do you follow?" Silently, she nodded. "Good," Joe said. "You don't have to go out with me in public. You don't have to acknowledge our relationship at ail-not to your friends, not to your family. I'll keep sneaking in your back door, baby, if that's the way you want it. You can just go on slumming, indefinitely. I don't give a damn, because I love you." To hell with his pride. To hell with it all. He'd take her any way he could get her. "Slumming?" Veronica echoed, surprise in her voice. "What—" "Beg your pardon, Romeo," came Blue's voice over Joe's headset, and Joe held up his hand, cutting Veronica off, "but I thought you might want to know that I've extracted with my royal luggage. Ronnie's the last civilian on board. The tangos know something's up, so move it, Cat—fast. The USS Wat-kins is moving into position, picking up the IBS's with the hostages. I'm coming back to the Majestic to assist you—" "No," Joe interrupted. Veronica was watching him, with that look on her face that meant she was dying to speak. He shook his head, touching his headset as he spoke to his XO. "No, Blue, I need you to stay with the prince," he ordered. "But make sure there's a boat waiting for me and Ronnie at the bottom of that rope at the bow of this ship." "You got it," Blue said. "See you on the Watkins." "Check," Joe replied. Veronica watched Joe. Slumming? What had he meant? Then her words came back to her. Different worlds. She'd talked about their different worlds when she'd turned down his marriage proposal. She'd been referring to the differences between his matter-of-fact response to danger, his thrill for adventure, and her fears of letting him go. Had he somehow misunderstood her? Had he actually thought she'd been talking about their supposed class differences—assuming something as absurd as class differences even existed? Could he actually have thought she was put off by something as ridiculous as where he came from or where he grew up? Veronica opened her mouth, about to speak, when suddenly, from somewhere on the ship, there was an enormous, swooshing noise, like a rocket being launched. "What was that?" Veronica breathed. But Joe was listening again, listening to the voices over his headset. "Check," he said into his microphone. He turned toward Veronica. "The T's are firing artillery at the hostages. Return fire," he ordered. He listened again. "You're gonna have to," he said tersely. "We're down below, outside the game room, but that's gonna change real soon. I'll keep you informed of my position. You just use that high-tech equipment and make sure you aim when you shoot. Fire now. Do you copy? Fire now." "My Lord!" Veronica said.. Joe had just given an order for the men on the USS Watkins to return fire at the cruise ship-while she and Joe were still on board! A deafening explosion the likes of which Veronica had never heard before thundered around them. The missile from the USS Watkins rocked the entire ship, seeming to lift it out of the water and throw it back down. Joe grabbed Veronica's hand and pulled her with him down the hallway. "Okay, Watkins," he said over his headset. "We're heading away from the game room, toward the bow of the ship." There was a flight of stairs leading up toward the deck. Joe motioned for Veronica to hang back as he crawled up and peeked over the edge. He motioned with his hand for her to follow him. "Heading toward the recreation deck," he said into his microphone as he climbed up the steps and got his bearings, hanging back in the shadows and looking around. Veronica wasn't sure what he saw, but it didn't make him happy. "We're not going to make it to the extraction point," he said. "We've got to find another way off—" Then Joe saw it—the perfect escape vehicle—and smiled. Diosdado's helicopters were sitting there, waiting to be hijacked. But this time by the good guys.

They were twenty yards from the helicopter. Twenty yards from freedom. "Heading for the choppers up on the deck," he said into his mike. "Keep those missiles coming in, but keep 'em clear of us." Fifteen yards. Ten. God, they were going to make it. They were— All hell broke loose. It was a small squad of T's—-only about five of them—but they came out of nowhere. Joe had his gun up and firing as he stepped in front of Veronica. He felt the slap of a bullet hit him low in his gut, beneath the edge of his flak jacket, but he felt no pain, only anger. Damn it, he wasn't going to let Ronnie die. No way in hell was he going to let her die. Not now. Not when he was so close to getting her to safety... His bullets plowed through the terrorists, taking them down, or driving them away from him to cover. But the sound of gunfire drew more of them toward him. His mind registered the first sensations of pain. Pain? The word didn't come close to describing the white-hot, searing agony he felt with every step, every movement. He was gut-shot, and every pounding beat of his heart was pumping his blood out of his body. It wouldn't be long before he bled to death. Still firing his gun, he tried to stanch the flow. He'd been trained as a field medic—all SEALs were. He'd been trained to provide first aid to his men, and even to himself. He needed to apply pressure, but it was tough with a wound this size. The bullet had penetrated him, leaving an exit wound in his back, through which he also bled. God, the pain. Through it all, he kept going. If they could reach the chopper, he could still fly Ronnie out of here. If they could reach the chopper, bleeding or not, dying or not, he could get her to the Watkins. The door to the bird was open—God was on his side—but Joe didn't seem to have the strength to push Veronica in. "Dear Lord, you're bleeding," he heard her say. He felt her push him up and into the cockpit. And then, damned if she didn't grab his extra gun, and turn and fire out the open door, keeping the T's at bay while, through a fog, Joe started the engine. He could fly anything, he told himself over and over, hoping that the litany would somehow make his brain respond. They didn't make a chopper he couldn't handle. But his arms felt like lead and his legs weren't working right. Still, he had to do it. He had to, or Veronica was going to die alongside him. And then, miracle of miracles, they were up. They were in the air and moving away from the ship. "We're clear of the Majestic," Joe rasped into his microphone. "Launch a full-scale attack." The world blurred for a second, and then snapped sharply into focus. That was smoke he saw coming from the engine. Sweet Jesus, the chopper must have sustained a direct hit. Somehow, Joe had gotten the damned thing up, but it wasn't going to stay in the air too much longer. "Tell them you need a medic standing by," Veronica said. "We've got bigger problems," Joe told her. She saw the smoke, and her eyes widened, but her voice didn't falter as she told him again, "You've been shot. Make sure someone on the Watkins knows that, Joe." "We're not going to make it to the Watkins," Joe said. He spoke into his microphone. "Blue, I need you, man." "I'm here, and I see you," Blue's familiar Southern drawl sounded in his ears. "You're leaving a trail of smoke like a cheap cigar, Cat. I'm coming out to meet you." "Good," Joe said. "Because I'm going to bring this bird low, and Ronnie's gonna jump out into the water, you copy?" "I'm not going anywhere without you," Veronica said, adding loudly, loud enough for Blue to hear, "Joe's been hit, and he's bleeding badly." "I have a medic standing by," Blue said to Joe. "Is it bad, Cat?" Joe ignored Blue's question. "I'm right behind you, Ronnie," he said to Veronica, knowing damn well that he was telling her a lie. "But I'm not going to ditch this bird until you're clear." He could see her indecision in her eyes. She didn't want to leave him. God, he was getting light-headed, and this chopper was getting harder and harder to handle as he hovered ten feet above the water's surface. The combination was not good. "Go," he said. "Joe—"

"Baby, please..." He couldn't hold on much longer. "Promise you'll be right behind me?" He nodded, praying to God for forgiveness for his lie. "I promise." She slid open the door. "I want us to get married right away," she said, and then she was gone. The water was cold as ice. It surrounded Veronica, squeezing her chest as she surfaced and tried to take in a breath of air. But then a boat was there, and hands reached for her, pulling her up. Veronica ignored the cold as she turned to watch the chopper, hovering above the waves, its whirling blades turning the ocean into choppy whitecaps. Someone wrapped a blanket around her— Blue, it was Blue McCoy, Joe's executive officer. The plume of smoke from the helicopter was darker, thicker. And the chopper seemed to lurch instead of holding still. "Why won't he jump?" she wondered aloud. Before she finished speaking, the helicopter jerked forward and down—into the water. She could hear shouting—it was Blue's voice—and she couldn't believe that the noise—some noise, any noise, wasn't coming from her own throat. The helicopter was sinking beneath the waves, taking Joe with it, taking all her hopes and dreams for the future away from her. "No!" she cried, the word torn from her raggedly. "I'm going in after him." It was Blue. "Pull this boat closer." "Sir, I can't let you do that," said a young man in a naval uniform. His face was pale. "If the chopper doesn't pull you under, the water's so cold, it'll kill you. You won't last more than five minutes before hypothermia sets in." "Pull the damned boat closer, Ensign," Blue said, his voice as cold as the Alaskan water. "I'm a SEAL, and that's my commander down there. I'm going after him." The water was cold as ice. It roused Joe from his fog as it splashed him in the face. Damn, he'd gone down. He didn't remember going down. All he remembered was Ronnie-Ronnie telling him that she wanted to... marry him? The last pocket of air bubbled out of the helicopter cockpit. No way was he going to die. Ronnie wanted to marry him. No way was he going to drown. Or bleed to death, damn it. The water was cold as hell, but it would slow his bleeding. All he had to do was get his arms and legs to work. But he hurt. Every single cell in his body hurt, and it took so much god-dammed effort to lift even a finger. This was worse than anything he'd ever experienced, worse even than Hell Week, that torturous final week of SEAL training that he'd lived through so many years ago. He'd never wanted anything as badly as he'd wanted to be a SEAL. It had kept him going through the nonstop exertion, through the pain, through the torturous physical demands. "You got to want it badly enough, " one of his instructors had shouted at them, day after day, hour after hour. And Joe had. He'd wanted to be a SEAL. He'd wanted it badly enough. He'd wanted to be a SEAL almost as much as he wanted Veronica St. John. And she was there, up there, above the surface of that freez- ing water, waiting for him. All he had to do was kick his legs, push himself free and he would have her. Forever. All he had to do was want it badly enough Veronica stared at the water, at the place where first the helicopter and then Blue had disappeared. Please, God, if you give me this, I'll never ask for anything ever again Seconds ticked into one minute. Two. Three... Was it possible for a man to hold his breath for this long, let alone search for a wounded, drowning man... ? Please, God.

And then, all at once, a body erupted from beneath the surface of the water. Veronica peered into the area lit by the searchlights. Was that one head or... Two! Two heads! Blue had found Joe! A cheer went up from the sailors on board the boat, and they quickly maneuvered closer to the two men, and pulled them out. Dear God, it was Joe, and he was breathing. Veronica stood aside as the medics sliced his wet clothes from his body. Oh, Lord, he'd been shot in the abdomen, just above his hip. She watched, clutching her own blanket more tightly around her as he was wrapped in a blanket and an IV was attached to his arm. "Cat was coming up as I was going down after him," Blue said, respect heavy in his voice. "I think he would have made it, even without me. He didn't want to die. Not today." Joe was floating in and out of consciousness, yet he turned his head, searching for something, searching for... "Ronnie." His voice was just a whisper, but he reached for her, and she took his hand. "I'm here," she said, pressing his fingers to her lips. "Did you mean it?" He was fighting hard to remain conscious. He was fighting, and winning. "When you said you'd marry me?" "Yes," she said, fighting her own battle against the tears that threatened to escape. Joe nodded. "You know, I'm not going to change," he said. "I can't pretend to be something I'm not. I'm not a prince or a duke or-—" Veronica cut him off with a kiss. "You're my prince," she said. "Your parents are going to hate me." "My parents are going to love you," she countered. "Nearly as much as I do." He smiled then, ignoring his pain, reaching up to touch the side of her face. "You really think this could work?" "Do you love me?" Veronica asked. "Absolutely." "Then it will work." The boat was pulling up alongside of the USS Watkins, where a doctor was waiting. From what Veronica had gathered from the medics, they believed the bullet had passed through Joe's body, narrowly missing his vital organs. He'd lost a lot of blood, and had to be stitched up and treated for infection, but it could have been worse. It could have been far worse. Joe felt himself placed onto a stretcher. He had to release Ronnie's hand as he was lifted up and onto the deck of the Watkins. "I love you," she called. He was smiling as the doctor approached him, smiling as the nurse added painkiller to his intravenous tube, smiling as he gave in to the drug and let the darkness finally close in around him. Joe stared up at the white ceiling in sick bay for a good long time before he figured out where he was and why he couldn't move. He was still strapped down to a bed. He hurt like hell. He'd been shot. He'd been stitched up. He'd been promised a lifetime filled with happiness and Veronica St. John's beautiful smile. Veronica Catalanotto. He smiled at the idea of her taking his name. And then Blue was leaning over him, releasing the restraints. "Damn, Cat," he said in his familiar drawl. "The doc said you were grinning like a fool when he brought you in here, and here you are again, smiling like a fox in a henhouse." "Where's Ronnie?" Joe whispered. His throat was so dry, and his mouth felt gummy. He tried to moisten his dry lips with his tongue. Blue turned away, murmuring something to the nurse before he turned back to Joe, lifting a cup of water to his friend's lips. "She's getting checked by the doctor," he told Joe. Joe's smile disappeared, the soothing drink of water forgotten. "She okay?" Blue nodded. "She's just getting a blood test," he said. "Apparently she needs one." "Why?" "Because I'm hoping to get married," Ronnie said, leaning forward to kiss him gently on the mouth. "That is, if you still have that ring. If you still want me." Joe gazed up at her. Her hair was down, loose and curling around her shoulders. She was wearing a sailor suit that was several sizes too large,

white flared pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up several times. She was wearing no makeup, and her freshly scrubbed face looked impossibly young—and anxious—as she waited for his answer. "Hell, yes," he somehow managed to say. She smiled, and Joe felt his mouth curve up into an answering smile as he lost himself in the ocean color of her eyes. “Do you still want me?" Blue moved quietly toward the door. "I guess I'll leave you two a—" Ronnie turned then, looking up at Joe's XO and best friend. "Wait," she said. "Please?" She looked back at Joe. "I'll marry you, but there's one condition." Blue shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Anything," Joe said to Veronica. "I'd promise you anything. Just name it." "It's not something you can promise me," she said. She looked up at Blue again, directly into his turquoise eyes. "I need Blue's promise—to keep Joe safe and alive." Blue nodded slowly, taking her words seriously. "I'd die for him," he said, matter-of-factly. Veronica had seen them in action. She'd seen Blue dive into the icy Alaskan waters after Joe, and she knew he spoke the truth. It wasn't going to make her fear for Joe's safety disappear, but it was going to make it easier. "I didn't want to marry you because I was—I am—afraid that you're going to get yourself killed," she said, turning back to Joe. "I knew I couldn't ask you to leave the SEALs and..." She saw his eyes narrow slightly as he understood her words. "Then..." Veronica felt more than saw Blue slip from the room as she leaned forward to kiss Joe's lips. "I wasn't 'slumming.'" She mock shuddered. "Nasty expression, that." He laced his fingers through her hair, wariness and concern in his eyes. "I can't leave the SEALs, baby—" She silenced him with another kiss. "I know. I'm not asking you to. I'm not going to quit my job and become a career navy wife, either," Veronica told Joe. "I'll travel and work—the same as you. But whenever you can get leave time, I'll be there." As she gazed into Joe's midnight-dark eyes, the last of his reservations drained away, leaving only love—pure and powerful. But then he frowned slightly. "Your ring's back in Little Creek, "he said. "I don't need a ring to know how much you love me," Veronica whispered. Joe touched his chest, realized he was wearing a hospital gown, then pressed the call button for the nurse. A young man appeared almost instantly. "Problem, sir?" "What happened to my uniform?" Joe demanded. "There wasn't much left of it after the medics cut it off you, sir." The nurse gestured toward a small table just out of reach of the bed. "Your personal gear is in that drawer." "Thanks, pal," Joe said. "Can I get you anything, sir?" "Just some privacy," Joe told him, and the nurse left as quickly as he had come. Joe turned to Veronica. "Check in that drawer for me, will you, baby?" Veronica stood up and crossed to the table. She pulled open the drawer. There were three guns inside, several rounds of ammunition, something that looked decidedly like a hand grenade, a deadly-looking knife, several bills of large denominations, a handful of change... "There should be a gold pin," Joe said. "It's called a 'Bud-weiser.'" A gold pin in the shape of an eagle with both an ocean trident and a gun, it was Joe's SEAL pin, one of his most precious possessions. He'd gotten it on the day he graduated, the day he became a Navy SEAL. Veronica took it from the drawer. It felt solid and heavy in her hand as she carried it to Joe. But he didn't take it from her. He wrapped her fingers around it. "I want you to have it." Veronica stared at him. "There are two things I've never given anyone," he said quietly. "One is this pin. The other is my heart." He smiled at her. "Now you got 'em both. Forever." He pulled her head down to him and kissed her so gently, so sweetly, so perfectly.

And Veronica realized again what she'd known for quite some time. She had found her prince. END

2 - Forever Blue

For Jodie Kuhlman and Patricia McMahon, for their amazing brainstorming power and naming skill, and for Sarah Telford, for lending Lucy her little black dress.

Prologue Lieutenant Blue McCoy was the point man, leading the six other men of SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad across the marshlike ground. He moved painstakingly slowly, inch by inch through the darkness, touching, feeling the soft, loamy earth; searching for booby traps and land mines before actually putting his weight down on any one spot. He watched the shadows, scanning the brush in front of him, memorizing the placement of each faintly silhouetted leaf and branch, alert to even the most minute movement. The sounds of the night surrounded him. Insects buzzed and clicked; a dog barked maybe a mile away. An owl called through the darkness, its eerie cry proclaiming itself lord of this nocturnal domain, king of this night world. It was a world in which Blue McCoy belonged, a world where he could lead a group of men so silently and invisibly through the darkness that the crickets at their feet didn't sense their presence. It had taken them more than an hour to cross the open field. Five more yards and they'd be in the cover of the brush. They'd be able to move faster then. Faster, but no less cautiously. Blue listened, so in tune with the land around him that he was the night. His heart beat slowly in time with the silent, age-old rhythm of the earth and he thought of nothing-nothing but survival. All the noises and sounds of the air force base where Alpha Squad had been just ten hours earlier had long since evaporated, leaving only the night. There were six other men behind him, but Blue heard not a sound from any of them. He knew they were there only from faith, but it was a faith in which he had no doubts. The other SEALs were guarding his back as he led them forward. He knew they would die to protect him, as certainly as he would give his life for them. Blue sniffed the air and froze, catching a faint, musky odor. But a second sniff convinced him that it was only an animal, some kind of rodent that moved as silently through the night as he did. It wasn't a human smell, and human animals were the prey he was hunting tonight. Directly through the woods, dead ahead at twelve o'clock, forty yards distant, was a cabin. According to the spooks from FInCOM—the agents from the Federal Intelligence Commission—inside the cabin was United States Senator Mike Branford's fifteen-year-old daughter, Karen. The latest infrared satellite photos of the cabin revealed that at least four members of the terrorist group that had kidnapped her were inside the cabin with her. Another ten people were sleeping in a second structure, twenty yards to the northeast. And two five-man units of terrorists patrolled the surrounding woods. Only minutes ago, one of the units had come within four feet of Blue and the Alpha Squad. The unit commander had lit a cigarette, tossing the smoking match inches from Blue's hand before ordering his men to move on. With their faces painted green and black, and with their intensive SEAL training, experience and discipline, Alpha Squad was invisible, embraced by the darkness, enshrouded by the cloak of night. As the SEALs positioned themselves in the brush that surrounded the cabin, Blue turned to look at his commanding officer and best friend, Lieutenant Joe Catalanotto. Blue could barely see Joe Cat's face in the darkness, but he saw the man's nod. Time to go. Out of the corner of his eye, Blue caught the stealthy movement of Cowboy, Lucky, Bobby and Wes as they faded toward the northeast and the second structure. They were going to secure that building and neutralize the terrorists inside. That left Joe Cat and Harvard cooling their heels outside the main cabin while Blue crept inside to snatch back the girl. H. stood guard while Joe and Blue scanned the exterior of the cabin, in particular the window that was to be Blue's insertion point, his way in. There were no booby traps, no alarms, no extra security. That was because the quarter mile surrounding the cabin was loaded with booby traps, alarms and armed security patrols. It was also because Aldo Fricker, the terrorists' leader, had forgotten the number-one rule: Never assume. The terrorists had left their vulnerable underbelly unprotected because they'd assumed that no one would be able to penetrate the fiercely guarded outer perimeters of their compound. They were wrong. Al Fricker, meet SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad. As Blue watched, Joe Cat quickly and quietly cut the pane of glass from the cabin's window. Harvard gave Blue a boost up, and he was inside. Blue did a quick scan of the interior with his night-vision glasses, quickly locating the senator's young daughter. She was curled up in an old brass bed in the southeast corner of the room. From what he could see she was still alive. The four guards were in sleeping bags or stretched out on the bare floor near the door. Blue took off his NVs and waited several seconds for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark again, listening to the quiet breathing of the sleeping guards. It wouldn't do any good to wake the girl up while wearing the NVs, looking like some kind of alien from outer space. She was going to be frightened enough as it was. He took four syringes from his battle vest and moved silently through the room, giving each of the guards a carefully dosed guaranteed good night's sleep. He sealed the needles back up and packaged the now-empty syringes in a bag marked Biohazardous Waste. A quick search of the cabin convinced him that no other guards were lurking, so he moved toward the senator's daughter. He flicked on his penlight, shielding the light in the palm of one hand as he looked down at the sleeping girl. She was curled in a fetal position, knees tucked into her chest, one arm up, wrist attached by handcuffs to the brass headboard of the bed. Her hair was tangled and knotted, and dirt

and blood from abrasions streaked her face and bare arms and legs. She was wearing a pair of blue shorts and a sleeveless top. Both were badly torn. The bastards had hurt her. Karen. Her name was Karen Branford. They'd beaten her. Probably raped her. Christ, she was fifteen years old. Rage filled him. Hot, molten and deadly, Blue felt it seep through his body, under his skin, spreading out all the way to his fingers and toes. It was a familiar sensation in his line of business. Normally he welcomed it. But tonight his job wasn't to fight back. Tonight his job was to take this battered little girl out of here and get her to safety. When he adjusted his headset, pulling the lip microphone closer to his mouth, his voice was steady. "Cat," he said almost silently to his commanding officer. "They hurt her." Joe Catalanotto cursed. "Bad?" "Yeah." "Can she walk?" "I don't know," Blue said. He turned toward the girl again, sensing from the change in the sound of her breathing that she was awake. Awake and terrified. Quickly he knelt down next to her, holding the penlight so that it lit his camouflaged face. "I'm Lieutenant Blue McCoy, miss," he said in a low voice. "I'm a U.S. Navy SEAL, and I'm here to bring you home." She stared at him, eyes wide, taking in his uniform, his gun, and he knew she didn't understand. "I'm an American sailor, Karen," he said. "I'm a friend of your daddy's, and I'm gonna get you outta here." At the mention of her father, understanding and hope flared simultaneously in her brown eyes. She had been clutching at her torn shirt in a futile attempt at modesty, but now she removed her hand to cover his light. "Shh," she whispered. "You'll wake the guards." "No, I won't," Blue said. "They're not going to wake up for a while. And when they do, they're going to be in jail." He extracted his lock pick from the waterproof case in his vest and set to work on her cuffs. Three seconds was all it took, and the lock snapped open. As she rubbed her wrist, Blue slipped off his pack and battle vest and quickly unbuttoned the camouflage shirt he wore underneath it. It was damp with perspiration and probably didn't smell too good, but it was the best he could offer her under the circumstances. She accepted it silently, slipping it on and buttoning it clear up to her neck. Blue had to give her credit. After her initial surprise and fear, she now gazed back at him unflinchingly. Her eyes were clear and brave. He'd seen brown eyes like hers somewhere before, a lifetime ago. The owner of those eyes had been fifteen years old, too— Lucy. Little Lucy Tait. Hell, he hadn't thought about her in years. Blue glanced at his watch, double-checking to make sure his pack was secure. According to the plan, diversionary tactics should be just about ready to start. Blue took a deep breath, looked down at Karen and quietly asked, "Can you walk?" The young girl stood up. The tail of Blue's shirt came all the way down to her knees. "Better than that," she said stoutly, "I can run." Blue smiled for the first time in what seemed like hours. "Well, all right. Let's go." They were halfway through the brush, when Blue heard the first shots ring out. Joe Cat and H. were right behind him, and he sensed them both turning toward the sounds of the skirmish, wondering which men of Alpha Squad were involved, wishing they could go toward the fighting and provide backup. "This is the wrong way," Blue heard Karen gasp. She pulled free from his grasp, looking wildly around. He took her arm again. "No, it's not—" "Yes, it is," she insisted. "I tried running this way before. There are nothing but cliffs. There's no path down to the ocean. We'll be trapped!" The kid had tried to escape. Blue marveled at her guts. She was tough. Again he couldn't help but think about Lucy Tait. He'd been a senior and Lucy had been a little freshman, and the first time they met, she had been getting the stuff kicked out of her by a gang of kids. She was bloody and clearly the odds were against her, but she had a defiant lift to her chin and a "you can't beat me" glint in her brown eyes. Cowboy's voice came in over Blue's headset. "Cat! About four tangos broke free. They're heading in your direction!" "Copy that," Cat replied. He turned to Blue. "Go." "We're going to parasail down to the water," Blue told Karen. "There's a boat waiting for us."

She didn't understand. "Parasail? How?" "Trust me," he said. Karen hesitated only a fraction of a second, then nodded. Then they were running again, this time without Cat and Harvard on their heels. The forest opened up into a field, and Blue felt vulnerable and exposed. If one of the terrorists broke through Cat and Harvard's ambush... But they wouldn't. "Knock the hell out of them for me," he said into his lip microphone, and he heard Joe Catalanotto chuckle. "You bet, buddy." Blue stopped at the edge of the cliff and made adjustments to his pack so that Karen could be latched against him and they could parasail down to the water together. She didn't complain, didn't say a word, although he knew that the proximity of his body to hers had to remind her of the brutalities she'd endured over the past four days. But he couldn't think about that; couldn't wonder, couldn't focus on her pain. He had to think about that ship bobbing in the darkness, made invisible by the night. He flipped on the homing device in his vest, reassured by the series of blips and beeps that told him the ship was indeed out there. "Hold on," he said to the girl, and then he jumped. Blue was on the deck of the USS Franklin when the chopper carrying the rest of Alpha Squad touched down. He looked closer, trying for a quick head count. It was a reflex from the time all those years ago when Frisco had gone down. He hadn't been KLA— killed in action—but he may as well have been. He still hadn't recovered from his injuries. His leg had damn near been blown off and he was still in a wheelchair—and still mad as hell about it. Frisco had been Alpha Squad's unofficial goodwill ambassador. He had been friendly and lighthearted, quick to talk and to make friends with everyone around him. He had a sharp sense of humor and a fast wit—he soon had strangers laughing and smiling wherever he went. And his friendliness was sincere. He was a walking party. He always had a good time, whatever the situation. In fact, Alan "Frisco" Francisco was the only SEAL Blue knew who actually enjoyed basic training's endurance test called Hell Week. But when Frisco was told that he could never walk again, he'd stopped smiling. To Frisco, losing the use of his leg was the worst thing that ever could have happened to him. Even worse, maybe, than dying. Blue watched the men jump down from the big bay doors of the helicopter. Joe Cat—his dark hair worn longer and tied back in a ponytail, his stern face relaxed in a smile nearly all the time now that he was married. Harvard—his shaved head gleaming like a coffee-colored bowling ball, looking big and mean and scary as hell. Bobby and Wes— unidentical twins, one big and tall, the other wiry and short, yet they moved in unison, finished each other's sentences. Lucky O'Donlon—Frisco's swim buddy. And the new guy—Cowboy. Harlan "Cowboy" Jones—temporary replacement first for Lucky on the same rescue mission that had injured Frisco, then temporary replacement for Frisco. Except it had been years and years, and it sure as hell looked as though temporary had turned pretty damned permanent. They were all there, and they were all walking and breathing. Joe Cat spotted Blue and moved in his direction. "Everything okay?" he asked. Blue nodded, heading with Joe toward the stairs leading below deck. "The doctor checked out the girl," he drawled. "She's with the shrink and the support staff right now." He shook his head. "Four days, Cat. Why the hell did it take them so long to let us go in after her?" "Because the average politician and top-brass pencil pusher doesn't have a clue what a SEAL team can do." Joe Cat unfastened his battle vest, heading directly toward the .mess hall. "So a fifteen-year-old girl is brutalized for four days while we sit around with our thumbs up our—" Cat stopped walking, turning to face Blue. "Yeah, it bugs me too," he said. "But it's over now. Let it go." "You think Karen Branford is gonna just let it go?" Blue could see from Cat's dark eyes that the CO didn't like the answer to that question. "She's alive," he said quietly. "That's much better than the alternative." Blue took a deep breath. He was right. Cat was right. He exhaled loudly. "Sorry." They started walking again. "It's just... The girl reminded me of someone I used to know back in Hatboro Creek. A girl named Lucy. Lucy Tait."

Joe Cat eyed him with feigned astonishment as they turned the corner into the mess hall. "Yo," he said. "Am I hearing you correctly? You actually knew other girls besides Jenny Lee Beaumont in Hatboro Creek? I thought the sun rose and set with Jenny Lee, and all other girls were rendered invisible by her magnificent shine." Blue staunchly ignored Cat's teasing tone. "Lucy wasn't a girl," he said, pouring black, steaming coffee into a paper cup. "She was just... a kid." "Maybe you should look her up while you're back in South Carolina for the wedding." Blue shook his head. "I don't think so." Cat took a mug from the rack, regarding Blue specula-tively. "You sure you want to go to this wedding?" he asked. "You know, I can arrange for Alpha Squad to be part of some vital training mission if you need an excuse not to be there." "It's my brother's wedding." "Gerry's your stepbrother," Cat noted, "and he happens to be marrying Jenny Lee, your high-school sweetheart and the only woman I've ever heard you talk about— with the exception now of this Lucy Tait." Blue took a swallow of the coffee. It was strong and hot and it burned all the way down. "I told him I'd be his best man." Joe Cat's teeth were clenched as he gazed at Blue. The muscle worked in his jaw. "He shouldn't have asked you for that," he said. "He wants you there, giving him your stamp of approval, so he can stop feeling guilty about stealing Jenny Lee from you." Blue crumpled up his empty paper cup, then tossed it into the garbage. "He didn't steal her," he said. "She was in love with him right from the start."

Chapter 1 It was going to be the wedding of the year—-shoot, it was going to be the wedding of the decade. And Lucy Tait was going to be there. Oh, not that she'd be invited. No, Lucy wasn't going to get one of those fancy, gold-lettered invitations printed on heavy, cream-colored stock, no way. She was going to this wedding as a hired hand—first to keep the traffic moving outside Hatboro Creek's posh country club and then to stand inside the ballroom, guarding the pile of expensive wedding gifts. Lucy adjusted the collar of her police uniform as she cruised Main Street in her patrol car, searching for a parking spot near Bobby Joe's Grill. Not that she'd expected to be invited to Jenny Lee Beaumont's nuptials. She'd never run with that crowd, not even back in high school. But man, back then, back when Lucy was a scrawny freshman and blond, beautiful homecoming queen Jenny Lee had been a senior, Lucy had desperately wanted to join Jenny's exclusive club. She would never have admitted it. The same way she would never have admitted the reason she wanted so desperately to be close to Jenny Lee—namely, Blue McCoy. Blue McCoy. Rumor had it he was coming back to town for his stepbrother's wedding. Blue McCoy. With dark blond hair and dark blue eyes that burned with an intensity that made her heart stand still, Blue McCoy had haunted all of Lucy's adolescent dreams. He was the hero of her teenaged years—a loner, quiet, dark and dangerous, capable of just about anything. Including winning beautiful Jenny Lee Beaumont's heart. Except Jenny Lee wasn't going to marry Blue McCoy on Saturday afternoon. She was marrying his stepbrother, Gerry. He was two years older than Blue, with a quicksilver smile, movie-star good looks and a happy-go-lucky attitude. Some people might have found Gerry the more attractive of the McCoy boys. Apparently Jenny Lee had. Lucy found a parking place a block down from the Grill and turned off the patrol car's powerful engine. On second thought, she turned the key again and pushed the buttons to raise the power windows. The summer sky looked threatening. Lucy was willing to bet it was going to pour before she finished her lunch. She checked to make sure her sidearm was secured in her belt holster as she hurried down the sidewalk. She was already ten minutes late, and her friend Sarah's self-imposed work schedule didn't allow her to take more than a hour for lunch. The Grill was crowded, as usual, but Sarah was saving a table. Lucy slid into the booth, across from her friend. “I'm sorry I'm late." Sarah just smiled. "I would have ordered lunch," she said. "But Iris hasn't worked her way around to this part of the room.” Lucy leaned back against the plastic cushion of the bench seat. She let out a burst of air that lifted her bangs up off her forehead. "I haven't stopped running since 7 a.m." She eyed her friend. Sarah looked tired and hot, her dark hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail, dark circles under her hazel eyes. "How are you?" "I'm nine months pregnant with a child that has obviously decided not to be born until he's old enough to vote," Sarah said dryly. "It's ninety-seven degrees in the shade, my back hurts when I lie down, my sciatic nerve acts up when I sit, I have a review deadline that I can't possibly make because I've spent the past three days cooking instead of writing, my husband has been home from his shift at the hospital four hours in the past fortyeight, my mother-in-law calls every five minutes to see if my water has broken, I miss living in Boston and this is the first chance I've had in nearly a week to complain." Lucy grinned. "Then don't stop now." "No, no, I'm done," Sarah said, fanning herself with her napkin. "Afternoon, ladies." Iris took her pen from behind her ear and held it poised over her ordering pad. "What can I get you today?" "I'd like some marzipan," Sarah said. Iris sighed good-naturedly, pushing a stray red curl back up into her bun. "Honey, I told you before, if it's not on the menu..." "I need some marzipan," Sarah said almost desperately. "Almond paste. Or maybe a piece of my mother's fruitcake. I haven't been able to think about anything else for days...." "We'll both take a turkey club," Lucy said smoothly, "on whole wheat, mustard, no mayo, extra pickles." "Sorry, hon," Iris murmured to Sarah as she moved on to the next table.

"My life," Sarah intoned dramatically, "is an endless string of disappointments." Lucy had to laugh. "You're married to the nicest guy in town, you're about to have a baby, you just won a prize for your music and you're disappointed?" Sarah leaned forward. "I'm insanely jealous of you," she said. "You still have a waistline. You can see your feet without craning your neck. You—" She broke off, staring across the room toward the door. "Don't look now, but I think we're being invaded." Lucy turned around as the glass door to the grill swung open and a man in green army fatigues, carrying a heavy-looking green duffel bag casually over one shoulder, came inside. He was clearly a soldier, except on second glance his uniform wasn't quite inspection ready. The first thing Lucy noticed was his arms. The sleeves had been torn from his green shirt at the shoulders and his arms were muscular and strong. He looked as if he could easily bench-press three times his body weight. He wore his shirt open at the collar and unbuttoned halfway down his broad chest. His fatigue pants fit him comfortably, but instead of clunky black army boots, he wore only sandals on his feet. He had sunglasses on, but his gaze swept quickly around the room and Lucy imagined that he didn't miss much. His hair was thick and a dark, sandy blond. And his face was one she recognized. Lucy would have known Blue McCoy anywhere. That strong chin, his firm, unsmiling mouth, those rugged cheekbones and straight nose. Twelve years of living had added power and strength to his already strong face. The lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, adding a sense of compassion or wisdom to his unforgivingly stern features. He had been good-looking as a teenaged boy. As a man, he was impossibly handsome. Lucy was staring. She couldn't help herself. Blue McCoy was back in town, larger than life. He finished his quick inspection of the room and his eyes returned to her. As Lucy watched, Blue took off his sunglasses. His eyes were still the brightest shade of blue she'd ever seen in her life, and as he met her gaze she felt frozen in place, hypnotized. He nodded at her, just once, still unsmiling, and then Iris breezed past him. "Sit anywhere, hon!" she called out to him. The spell was broken. Blue looked away from Lucy and she turned back to the table and Sarah. "Do you know him?" Sarah asked, her sharp eyes missing nothing—particularly not the blush that was heating Lucy's cheeks. "You do, don't you?" "Not really, no," Lucy said, then admitted, "I mean, I know who he is, but..." She shook her head. "Who is he?" Lucy glanced up again, but Blue was busy stashing his duffel bag underneath a table on the far side of the room. "Blue McCoy." Lucy spoke softly, as if he might overhear even from across the noisy restaurant. "That's Gerry McCoy's brother? He looks nothing like him." "They're stepbrothers," Lucy explained. "Blue's mother married Gerry's father, only she died about five months after the wedding. Mr. McCoy adopted Blue shortly after that. The way I hear it, neither Mr. McCoy nor Blue was happy with that arrangement. Apparently they didn't get along too well, but Blue had nowhere else to go." "I guess not, since he didn't make it back into town when Mr. McCoy died a few years ago," Sarah commented. "Gerry told me Blue was part of Desert Storm," Lucy said. "He couldn't get leave, not then, and Gerry didn't want to hold up the funeral, not indefinitely like that." "Gerry's brother is in the army?" "Navy," Lucy corrected her. "He's in the Special Forces—a Navy SEAL." "A what?" "SEAL," Lucy said. "It stands for Sea, Air and Land. SEALs are like supercommandos. They're experts in everything from... I don't know... underwater demolition to parachute assaults to... piloting state-of-the-art jets. They have these insane training sessions where they learn to work as a team under incredible stress. There's this one week-Hell Week—where they're allowed only four hours of sleep all week. They have to sleep in fifteen-minute segments, while air-raid sirens are wailing. If they quit during Hell week, they're out of the program. It's pretty scary stuff. Only the toughest and most determined men make the grade and become SEALs. It's a real status symbol—for obvious reasons." Sarah was gazing across the room, a speculative light in her eyes. "You seem to have acquired an awful lot of information about a man you claim you don't know."

"I've read about SEALs and the training they go through. That's all." "Hmm." Sarah lifted one delicate eyebrow. "Before or after Gerry's brother joined the navy?" Lucy shrugged, trying hard to look casual. "So I had a crush on the guy in high school. Big deal." Sarah rested her chin in her hand. "Out of all the people in this place, he nods at you," she remarked. "Did you date him?" Lucy couldn't help laughing. "Not a chance. I was three years younger, and he was..." "What?" Iris approached the table, carrying two enormous sandwiches and a basket of French fries. Lucy smiled her thanks at the waitress, but waited for her to leave before answering Sarah's question. "He was going out with Jenny Lee." "Beaumont... ?" Sarah's eyes lit up. "You mean the same Jenny Lee who's marrying his brother on Saturday?" At Lucy's nod, she chuckled. "This is getting too good." "You didn't know?" Lucy asked. "I thought everyone in town knew. It seems it's all anyone's talking about— whether or not Blue McCoy will show up to the wedding of his stepbrother and his high-school sweetheart." "Apparently the answer to that question is yes," Sarah said, glancing across the room at the man in uniform. Lucy took a bite of her turkey sandwich, carefully not turning around to look at this man she found so fascinating. Sarah was right. The question about whether or not Blue would attend Gerry's wedding had been answered, Now the town would be abuzz in speculation, wondering if Blue was going to create a disturbance or rise to his feet when the preacher said "speak now or forever hold your peace." The temptation proved too intense, and Lucy glanced over her shoulder. Blue was eating his lunch and reading the past week's edition of the Hatboro Creek Gazette. His blond hair fell across his forehead, almost into his eyes, and he pushed it back with a smooth motion that caused the muscles in his right arm to ripple. As if he could feel her watching him, he looked up and directly into her eyes. Lucy's stomach did circus tricks as she quickly, guiltily, looked away. God, you would think she was fifteen again and sneaking around the marina where Blue worked, hoping for a peek at him. But he hadn't noticed her then and he certainly wouldn't notice her now. She was still decidedly not the Jenny Lee Beaumont type. "What was his mother thinking when she named him Blue?" Sarah wondered aloud. "His real name is Carter," Lucy said. "Blue is a nickname—it's short for 'Blue Streak.'" "Don't tell me," Sarah said. "He talks all the time." Lucy had to laugh at that. Blue McCoy was not known for running on at the mouth. "I don't know when he first got the nickname," she said, "but he's a runner. He broke all kinds of speed records for sprinting and long-distance races back in junior high and high school." Sarah nodded, peering around Lucy to get another peek at Blue. Lucy's police walkie-talkie went off at nearly the exact instant the skies opened up with a crash of thunder. "Report of a 415 in progress at the corner of Main and Willow," Annabella's voice squawked over the radio's tinny speaker. "Possible 10-91 A. Lucy, what's your location?" Main and Willow was less than a block and a half from the Grill, in the opposite direction of her patrol car. It would take her less time to jog over there than it would to get to her car and drive. Lucy quickly swallowed a half-chewed bite of her sandwich and thumbed the talk switch to her radio. "The Grill," she said, already halfway out of the booth. "I’m on it. But unless you want me to stop at my car to check my code book, you better tell me what a 10-91A is." The police dispatcher, Annabella Sawyer, was overly fond of the California police ten code. Never mind that they were in South Carolina. Never mind the fact that Hatboro Creek was so small that they didn't need half the codes most of the time. Never mind that the police officers weren't required to memorize any kind of code. Annabella liked using them. She clearly had watched too many episodes of "Top Cops." Lucy knew what a 415 was, though. A disturbance. She'd heard that number enough times. Even a town as tiny as Hatboro Creek had plenty of those. "A 10-91A is a report of a vicious animal," Annabella's voice squawked back. Lucy swore under her breath. Leroy Hurley's brute of a dog had no doubt gotten loose again. "Be careful," Sarah said. "I'll wrap your sandwich," Iris called as Lucy pushed open the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The rain soaked her instantly, as if someone had turned a fire hose on her from above. Her hat was back in her car, and Lucy wished for both of them—hat and car—as she headed toward Willow Street at a quick trot. With any luck, this sudden skyburst had sent that 10-91A scurrying for shelter. With any luck, the 415 had ceased to exist. With any luck... No such luck. Leroy Hurley's snarling Doberman had treed Merle Groggin on Andy Hayes's front lawn. Andy was shouting for Merle to get the hell out of his expensive Japanese maple. Merle was brandishing his hunting knife and shouting for Leroy to get his damned dog locked up or put down, and Leroy was laughing his size forty-six-waist pants off. It was decidedly a bonafide 415. As Lucy approached Leroy Hurley, his huge dog caught sight of her and turned. Her stomach tightened at the animal's threatening growl. She liked dogs. Most dogs. But this one had one mean streak. Just like his master. "Leroy," Lucy said, nodding a greeting to the big man, as if they weren't both standing in a torrential downpour. "What did I tell you last week about keeping your dog chained in your yard?" The Doberman shifted its weight, glancing from Lucy to Merle Groggin, as if deciding who would make a tastier lunch. Leroy shrugged and grinned. "Can't help it if he breaks free." She could smell the unmistakable scent of whiskey on his breath. Damn, he got meaner than ever when he'd been drinking. "Yes, you can," Lucy said, taking her ticket pad from her pocket. It was instantly soaked. "He's your dog. You're responsible for him. And in fact, to help you remember that, I'm going to slap you with a fifty-dollar fine." The big man's smile faded. "I'm the only thing standing between you walking away from here in one piece and you getting chewed," he said, "and you're gonna fine me?" Lucy stared at Leroy. "Are you threatening me, Hurley?" she asked, her voice low and tight but carrying clearly over the sound of the rain. "Because if you're threatening me, I'll run both you and your dog in so fast your head will spin." Something in Leroy's eyes shifted, and Lucy felt a surge of triumph. He believed her. She'd called his bluff, he believed her and was going to back down, despite the whiskey that was screwing up the very small amount of good judgment he had to begin with. "Call your dog off," Lucy said calmly. But before Leroy could comply, all hell broke loose. Andy Hayes fired a booming shot from his double-barrel shotgun, sending Merle plunging down from the tree. The Doberman leaped toward the fallen man, who struck at the dog with his big knife, drawing blood. With a howl, the animal dashed away down the street. "Stay the hell away from my tree!" Andy shouted. "You stabbed my dog!" Leroy Hurley roared at Merle. "You coulda killed me," Merle shouted at Andy as he hurried out of the man's yard. "Why the hell didn't you just shoot the damned dog?" Leroy moved threateningly toward Merle. "If that dog dies, I’m gonna string you up by your—" "Hold it right there!" Lucy planted herself firmly between Merle and Leroy. She raised her voice so it would carry to the house. "Andy, you know I'm going to have to bring you in—reckless endangerment and unlawful discharge of a firearm. And as for you two—" "I hope that stupid animal does kick." Merle spoke to Leroy Hurley right through Lucy, as if she wasn't even there. "Because if it doesn't, I’m gonna come after it one of these nights and finish it off." "I ain't going nowhere," Andy proclaimed. "I got rights! I was protecting my property!" "Maybe I'll just finish you off first!" Leroy's fleshy face was florid with anger as he shouted at Merle. Lucy keyed the thumb switch on her radio. "Dispatcher, this is Officer Tait. I need backup, corner of Willow and-" Leroy Hurley pushed her aside with the sweep of one beefy arm, and Lucy went down, hard, on her rear in the street, dropping the radio and her ticket pad in the mud. Leroy moved up the walkway to Andy's house with a speed surprising for such a large man, and as Lucy scrambled to her feet, he grabbed Andy's shotgun and pointed it at Merle. Merle ducked for cover behind Lucy, and Leroy swung the gun toward her. "Leroy, put that down," Lucy ordered, pushing her rain-soaked hair back from her face with her left hand as she unsnapped the safety buttons that held her sidearm in her belt holster with her right hand. "Freeze! Keep your hands where I can see 'em," Leroy ordered her.

Lucy lifted her hands. Shoot. How could this have gotten so utterly out of control? And where the hell was that backup? Leroy was edging toward them; Merle was cowering behind her, using her as a shield; and for once Andy Hayes was silent. "Step away from Merle," Leroy growled at her. "Leroy, put the gun down before this goes too far," Lucy said again, trying to sound calm, to not let the desperation she was feeling show in her voice. "If you don't step away from him," Leroy vowed, his eyes wild, "I'll just blast a hole right through you." Dear God, he was serious. He raised the shotgun higher, closing one eye as he took aim directly at Lucy's chest. Her life flashed briefly and oh, so meaninglessly through her eyes as she stared into the barrel of that gun. She could very well die at this man's hands. Right here in the rain. And what would she have to show for her life? A six-month-old police badge. A liberal-arts degree from the state university. A computer business she no longer had any interest in. An empty house at the edge of town. No family, only a few friends... "Don't do this, Leroy," Lucy said, inching her hand back down toward her own gun. She didn't want to die. She hadn't even begun to live. Dammit, if Leroy Hurley was going to shoot her, she was going to die trying for her gun. "Freeze!" Leroy told her. "I said to freeze!" "Leroy, I'm holding an Uzi nine-millimeter submachine gun," a soft voice drawled from over Lucy's shoulder. "It looks small and unassuming, but if I move my trigger finger a fraction of an inch, with a firing rate of sixteen bullets per second, I can cut even a man as big as you in two." It was Blue McCoy. Lucy would have recognized his velvet Southern drawl anywhere. "You have exactly two seconds to drop that shotgun," Blue continued, "or I start firing." Leroy dropped the gun. Lucy sprang forward before the barrel had finished clattering on the cement walkway and scooped up the gun. She cradled it in her arms as she turned to look at Blue. His blond hair was drenched and plastered to his head. His clothes were as soaked as her own, and they clung to his body, outlining and emphasizing his muscular build. He squinted slightly through the downpour, but otherwise stood there holding a very deadly looking little submachine gun as if the sky were clear and the sun were shining. He was still watching Leroy, but his brilliant blue eyes flickered briefly in Lucy's direction. "You okay?" She nodded, unable to find her voice. There was a crowd of people down the block, she realized suddenly. No doubt they had all been drawn out into the wet by the sound of Andy's first gunshot. Great. She looked like a fool, unable to handle a few troublemakers, requiring a Navy SEAL to come to her rescue. Terrific. "Leroy, Andy, Merle," Lucy said. "You're all gonna take a ride to the station." "Aw, I didn't do a damned thing," Merle complained as the long-awaited police backup arrived, along with the police van for transporting the three men. "You got nothing on me." "Carrying a concealed weapon ought to do the trick," Lucy said, deftly taking his hunting knife from him and handing it and the shotgun to Frank Redfield, one of the police officers who had finally made the scene. "Talk about carrying a concealed weapon," Merle snorted, gesturing with his head toward Blue McCoy as Frank led him toward the van. "What are you going to charge him with?" Lucy pushed her wet hair back from her face again, stopping to pick up her sodden ticket pad and the fallen walkie-talkie from the mud before she approached Blue. "Merle is right, you know, Lieutenant McCoy," she said to him, hoping he would mistake the shakiness in her voice as a reaction to the excitement rather than as a result of his proximity. "I'm not sure I can let you walk around town with one of those things." He handed the gun to her, butt first. "You let Tommy Parker walk around town with it," he said. Tommy Parker? Tommy Parker was nine years old— Lucy looked down at the gun she was holding. It was light- weight and... "My God,” she said. "It's plastic. It's a toy." She looked back up into Blue's eyes. "You were bluffing." "Of course I was bluffing," he said. "I wouldn't be caught dead with an Uzi. If I wanted an assault weapon, I'd only use a Heckler and Koch MP5-K." Lucy stared at him and he gazed back at her. And then he smiled. His teeth were white and even and contrasted nicely with his tanned face. "I'm kidding," he explained gently. "If I had to, I'd use an Uzi. It's not my weapon of choice, though." Great, he must think she was some kind of imbecile, the way she was staring at him. Lucy closed her eyes briefly, but when she opened them he was still watching her.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I really owe you one. You saved my neck back there, and...well, thanks." He nodded, gracefully acknowledging her clumsy thanks. "You're welcome," he said. "But haven't we already had this conversation? I'm getting a real sense of deja vu here." His smile flashed again—pure sunshine in the pouring rain. "It seems every time I'm in Hatboro Creek, I end up saving little Lucy Tait's... neck." Lucy was shocked. "You remember me?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth she was embarrassed. Of course he remembered her. Standing here soaking wet, resembling a drowned rat, she no doubt looked not too different from the skinny fifteen-year-old girl Blue had saved from a serious thrashing out on the far side of the town baseball field all those years ago. "I'm a little surprised to see you," Blue drawled. "I'd have thought you would've packed up and left South Carolina years ago, Yankee." Yankee. It had been her nickname all throughout high school. Lucy Tait, the Yankee girl. Moved to town with her widowed mom from someplace way up north. She was still referred to all the time as "Yankee girl." It had been twelve years. Twelve years. Her mother was no longer alive. And Lucy wasn't a girl anymore. But some things never changed. "No," Lucy said evenly. "I'm still here in Hatboro Creek." "I can see that." Blue gazed at Lucy, taking in her long, brown—wet— hair, tied back in a utilitarian ponytail; her unforgettable dark brown eyes; the lovely, almost delicate shape of her face; and her tall, slender body. Little Lucy Tait wasn't so little anymore. The rain had softened the stiff fabric of her police uniform, molding it against her female curves. Yes, Lucy Tait had definitely grown up. Blue felt an unmistakable surge of physical attraction and he had to smile. At age eighteen, he never would have believed that the sight of scrawny little Lucy Tait standing in the rain could possibly turn him on. But if there was one thing he learned in his stint as a Navy SEAL, it was that times—and people—were always changing. Nothing ever stayed the same. "How long have you been an officer of the law?" he asked. The crowd was gone and the police van was pulling away. The rain was relentless but warm. Blue liked the way it felt on his face, and Lucy didn't seem to be in any hurry to get to shelter. Lucy crossed her arms. "Six months." Blue nodded. She lifted her chin. "I'm the first woman on the Hat-boro Creek police force." Blue tried to hide his smile, but it slipped through. "First Yankee on the force, too, no doubt." Lucy must have realized how defensive she looked, because she slowly smiled, too—at first almost sheepishly, then wider. "Yeah," she said. "I suppose I've been setting all kinds of new Hatboro Creek records lately." Her face wasn't exactly what you'd call pretty. At least, not at first glance. Her mouth was too wide, too generous, too big for her face—except when she smiled. Her smile transformed her totally, making her eyes dance and sparkle and charming dimples appear in the perfect, smooth, slightly olive-tinted complexion of her cheeks. Her nose was straight and large, but not too big for her face, revealing a faintly Mediterranean ancestry. Her eyes were warm and the deepest shade of brown, framed by thick, dark eyelashes. forever Blue Her ears were small and amazingly delicate looking. Blue found himself watching, fascinated, as a drop of rain clung to her unpierced earlobe before dripping onto her shoulder. "I'm surprised Chief Bradley lets you patrol alone," Blue said. Lucy's smile vanished. "Why? Because I'm a woman or because I'm a Yankee?" “Because you're a rookie." "I had Leroy Hurley handled," Lucy remarked, her dark eyes flashing. "Until Andy got his gun." Blue nodded, forcing his gaze out and into the distance, down Main Street, toward the marina. How long had it been since he'd been with a woman? Two months? Three? Longer? He honestly couldn't remember. He usually didn't pay his sexual appetite much mind—until it sat up and demanded priority attention. Like right now. In a flash he could picture Lucy standing in the warm rain, sans uniform, water washing down her lean, shapely female body—full, soft breasts; flat stomach; slim hips; dangerously long, well-muscled thighs. The image sent an intense rush of heat through him, heat he knew she'd be able to see in his eyes. It was strange. In the past, Blue had always been attracted to the overly feminine type—the helpless type of woman who wore lots of frills and lace and needed to be rescued. It was true that he had in fact come to Lucy's rescue more than once, but both times she'd certainly been doing her best to save herself. She was independent and strong. Even though she was soaking wet and only a rookie, she wore her police uniform and the gun at her side with an air of authority and competence. That should have pushed him back a step or two. Instead, he found himself inching forward, trying

to get closer. "I assumed Andy was harmless," Lucy was saying with a frown. "I focused on Leroy and didn't pay Andy any attention. That was my big mistake." "Never assume anything," Blue said. He could tell from the way she met his gaze, then suddenly looked away, that she had gotten a glimpse of the fire in his eyes. She blushed, a tinge of pink darkening her cheeks as she looked down at the mud-encrusted radio and ticket pad she still held in her hands. She slipped the pad into her belt and tried to wipe the radio clean. She appeared to be intent on fixing her equipment, but she couldn't keep from glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes. Suddenly, Blue remembered the rumor he'd heard his senior year in high school that the little Yankee freshman girl had a crush on him. He'd been flattered and amused, and as kind to the girl as he could be without leading her on. Was it possible that Lucy's high-school crush had survived all these years? Blue had noticed right from the first moment he'd spotted her sitting in the Grill that she wasn't wearing a wedding band. Was it possible that Lucy was still single, still unattached? Blue had come to Hatboro Creek today out of obligation. He'd come with every intention of enduring his visit—he hadn't planned to enjoy any of it. But he was on leave, and his leave time was infrequent and irregular. Why not take hold of an opportunity and have a little pleasure, especially since that pleasure seemed to be handing itself to him on a silver platter? Why not? Especially since the attraction he was feeling right now was stronger than anything he'd felt in a long, long time. "I, um, I better go," Lucy said. “I’ll need to fill out a report and..." She turned toward him, using the back of one hand to push her wet hair from her face, but succeeding in leaving a streak of mud on her cheek. "Can I give you a ride somewhere? Are you staying at your brother's?" As Lucy watched, Blue glanced up at the cloudy sky as if noticing the rain for the first time. It was finally starting to let up. He pushed his hair back from his face but didn't meet Lucy's eyes again. "No," he said. "Jenny Lee has already moved into Gerry's place. I thought it would be better if I stayed at the motel. And it's not far. I can walk there probably faster than you could drive." Lucy nodded, wishing almost inanely that he would smile at her again, or that he would look at her and let her get a second glance at that slowburning heat she'd imagined she'd seen in his eyes. But it had to be just that—imagined. Blue McCoy would never be interested in her. Would he? "I wish I could think of a way to thank you properly for what you did," she said, backing away. He stepped toward her, following. "/ can think of a way," he said in his soft drawl. “There's a party tonight at the country club, a sort of rehearsal dinner for Saturday's wedding. Come as my date." Lucy stopped short. Her first reaction was to laugh. This had to be some sort of joke. Go to Hatboro Creek's exclusive country club—on a date with Blue McCoy, her childhood hero? But Blue wasn't laughing. He was... serious? Why? Lucy searched his eyes, looking for the reason he'd asked her out. Why? There had to be a reason. She found the answer in the heat in his eyes, as clear as day. Sex. He was a man and she was a woman, and although his invitation had been to attend a fancy, high-society party, what he really wanted to do with her wouldn't require any kind of party dress at all. She could see all that in his eyes— and more. Lucy was floored. Blue McCoy wanted her. He wanted her. He was actually physically attracted to and interested in the tall, skinny, gawky, awkward Yankee tomboy, Lucy Tait. Oh, she had no misconceptions about the extent of his desire. It was purely sexual. There were no emotions involved. At least not from his end. But it was clear from the look in his eyes that if she went on this date with him, he was going to do his damnedest to see that she didn't get home tonight until well after dawn. A clear and extremely erotic image of Blue pulling her down with him onto his bed at the Lighthouse Motel flashed through Lucy's mind. Tangled arms and legs, seeking mouths, straining bodies, skin slick with sweat and desire ... Strobelike pictures bombarded Lucy's senses, along with a thousand other thoughts. She had been plenty reckless and wild before—but never in her personal life. As crazy as she'd been with her career, Lucy had always been extremely careful when it came to relationships. But ever since she'd first laid eyes on Blue McCoy at age fifteen, she'd desperately wanted to run her fingers through his thick, dark blond hair. Lucy knew she meant nothing to Blue and would no doubt continue to mean nothing to him, even if he slept with her. She'd never made love to a man before without knowing that their relationship was going to grow, without hoping for some kind of permanence. Yet Blue was in town for only a few days—a week at the most. Chances were that he wouldn't be back. Maybe not for another twelve years. As she gazed up at Blue, he reached out and touched the side of her face, gently wiping what was no doubt a smudge of dirt from her cheek with

his thumb. His hand was warm, warmer even than the rain, and his touch sent a wave of fire spiraling through her, down to the depths of her very soul. She couldn't help herself. She reached up and touched his hair. It was wet, but still soft and thick. It was remarkable. One small movement and she was living one of her wildest dreams. Blue's eyelids grew heavy at her touch, heavy with pleasure—and satisfaction. He'd won, and he knew it. "I'll pick you up at 1900...seven o'clock," Blue said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Or would you rather meet me over there, at the club? Lucy found herself nodding. Yes. "I'll meet you there," she breathed. Dear God, yes, she was going to do this. She was going to go to this party with Blue McCoy, and later... Later, she was going to live out one of her most powerful, most decadent fantasies. It wasn't until after he walked her back to her patrol car, until after he went inside the Grill for the rest of his lunch and his duffel bag and with a nod headed toward the motel, and until after Sarah drove by in her little black Honda Accord, giving Lucy a toot of her horn and a big thumbs-up, that reality crashed in. What the hell did Lucy think she was doing? Was a one-night stand with Blue McCoy—no matter that he was the man of her hottest dreams—worth the talk and gossip and speculative looks she'd have to endure weeks and even months after he'd gone? Was one night—or even two or three nights—worth the silence that was sure to follow? Because Lucy had no false expectations. Blue would not write. He would not call. He could be killed on a training mission, and she'd be the very last to know. Could she really love a man she knew would be loving someone else, some other woman, this time next month—or hell, maybe even next week? She wished she could call Edgar, wished she could tell him about Blue's invitation, wished they could talk it over, hash it out. But even though Edgar wasn't around, Lucy knew exactly what he would have said. Go for it. Edgar was the only person Lucy had ever told about her high-school crush on Blue. He was the only one who had known that she still carried a torch for a guy she never even really knew. Yeah, go for it was what Edgar would have said. And then he would have reminded her to have safe sex. Safe sex. Now there was an oxymoron if Lucy had ever heard one. A condom would help with some of the physical dangers. But what about her emotional safety? What kind of protection could she use to ensure herself that? Down at the police station, Lucy went through the motions, taking a shower; putting on a clean, dry uniform; filling out the forms and reports. But all afternoon, she asked herself the same questions over and over again. Could she really go out with Blue tonight, knowing damn well where it was going to lead? The answer wavered between Edgar's possible go for it and no. No, it wasn't worth it. No, she couldn't do this. Could she? How could she pass up her wildest, hottest sexual fantasy? But every time she told herself no and started to pick up the phone to dial the Lighthouse Motel, where Blue was staying, Lucy remembered the liquid desire in his eyes and the hot touch of his hand on her face. She remembered the answering pull of her own longing and need, the promise of a wild, reckless passion the likes of which she'd never known. And she knew exactly why she'd said yes.

Chapter 2 .Lucy pulled her truck into the Hatboro Country Club's elegant driveway, feeling out of place. She parked in the back lot, unwilling to leave the keys to her trusty but beat-up old Ford four-by-four with the valets. She couldn't stand the thought of them snickering as they pulled it alongside the Town Cars and Cadillacs. She also wasn't sure she could handle walking in the front entrance of the posh country club wearing this little black dress she'd borrowed from Sarah. Little was the key word. It was sleeveless, with a sweetheart neckline and a keyhole back, and it hugged Lucy's body, ending many, many inches above her knees. On Sarah, the tight skirt had been short, but Lucy was at least four inches taller than her friend. Aided further by high heels, the dress made Lucy's long legs appear as if they went on forever—-an effect, Sarah had pointed out, that would not be lost on Blue McCoy. Lucy glanced in one of the mirrors that lined the hall as she went in the country club's back door. Sarah had fixed her hair, too, piling it on top of her head. It seemed as if Lucy had casually swept it up off her neck, but in reality the carefree look had taken the solid part of a half hour to achieve. She was also wearing more than her usual dab of lip gloss. Mascara, liner and shadow adorned her brown eyes, and blush accentuated her wide cheekbones. Lucy looked like...somebody else. Instead of skinny, she looked slender, her legs long and graceful. Instead of girl-next-door average, she looked exotic, glamorous and mysteriously sexy. Blue probably wasn't going to recognize her. She could barely recognize herself. Which made sense, because Lucy certainly didn't recognize this odd sensation she felt, knowing that she was here to meet a man who was practically a stranger—a stranger who could very well be her lover before the night was through. Blue McCoy. But he wasn't a stranger. Not really. After all, he'd been her hero for years. He was pure masculine perfection—if you went for the big, brooding, enigmatic type. And Lucy definitely did. Music was playing in the country club's big ballroom, and it filtered down toward Lucy. She started up the stairs, heart pounding; she knew that Blue was somewhere up there near that pulsating music. The country club had undergone changes in its interior decor since the last time she had been there. She couldn't remember what color the thick wall-to-wall carpeting had been, but she was positive that it hadn't been this deep, almost smoky shade of pink. The wallpaper was different, too, a muted collection of flowers and squiggles, in tasteful off-whites and beiges and various shades of that same dark pink. Her high heels made no noise at all on the plush carpeting as she moved down the corridor toward the ballroom. The lights in the ballroom had been dimmed, and hundreds of candles had been placed around the room—on the dining tables, on the serving tables, even in candlesticks mounted on the walls. The effect was lovely, giving the entire room a flickering, golden, fairy-tale like glow. The dining tables covered half the room, leaving the other half of the hardwood floor open for dancing. A small band—drums, keyboard and guitar— was set up in the corner opposite the bar. Lucy recognized many of the people scattered about the big room. It was a who's who of the county's wealthiest and most powerful citizens. The police chief and his wife were there, as was the president of the bank. The mayor and his wife were chatting with the owner of Carolina Island, the seaside resort located several miles north of the Hatboro Creek town line. The women wore glittering gowns and the men were dressed in black tuxedos—all except for one. One man-Blue McCoy—was dressed in the resplendent, almost shimmering white of a naval dress uniform. As he turned, the candlelight gleamed on the rows and rows and rows of ribbons and medals he wore on his chest. His shoulders appeared impossibly broad, with his well-tailored uniform jacket tapering down to his lean hips. He wore officer's insignia, and Lucy was reminded that Blue was a full lieutenant—unless he'd been even further promoted since the last time she'd asked Gerry about his stepbrother's naval career. He was carrying a white hat in his hands. His hair, a dark, shining golden blond, reflected the dim light. He was talking to Mitch Casey, the chairman of Hatboro Creek's chamber of commerce. Blue's tanned face looked so serious, so stern, as he nodded at something Casey was saying. He was listening intently, but his blue eyes kept straying toward the front entrance, as if he were waiting for someone. Her? Lucy felt a flash of pleasure. He was. Blue McCoy was watching and waiting for her. He held himself slightly stiffly, as if he wasn't quite comfortable in his surroundings. But why should he be? Gerry and his father were the ones who had had the memberships to the country club. Throughout high school, Blue had chosen to hang out and work down by the docks where he kept his little powerboat. Even when Blue was dating Jenny Lee Beaumont he had stayed away from the country-club set. He'd been a loner back in high school, with only one or two friends, who were also outcasts or misfits. He wore a leather jacket and rode a motorcycle that he'd rebuilt from parts, yet unlike the other tough kids, his grades were exceptionally above average. Still, he had a reputation for being a troublemaker simply because he looked the part.

Even back in high school Blue had been slow to smile. He'd been serious and quietly watchful, missing nothing but rarely stepping in. Unless, of course, the cruel teenaged teasing and rudeness went beyond the limits—like the time five members of the boy's junior-varsity baseball team decided to demonstrate just how unhappy they were that a girl, a Yankee girl, had made the cut and gotten onto the team. Lucy could hold her own in a fair fight, but five to one were tough odds. Until Blue fearlessly stepped in, ending the violence with his mere presence. The other kids had learned to keep their distance from him, wary of his quietly seething temper and his ability—and willingness—to fight. And to fight dirty, if he had to. Apparently he'd had to more than a few times. According to the story Lucy had heard, Blue had been five when Gerry's father had adopted the little boy out of obligation. Apparently neither Blue nor Mr. McCoy had been overly happy about that, but Blue had had nowhere else to go. Blue had grown up in his elder stepbrother's shadow, clearly a burden to his stepfather. Was it any wonder that the little boy should have quickly become self-sufficient and self-reliant? And quietly grim? Was it any wonder that both the boy and the man he'd become were watchful, intensely serious and slow to smile? Lucy remembered the way Blue had smiled at her that afternoon. Had Blue smiled at Jenny Lee that way back in high school? It was hard to believe that he had. If he had, with a smile like that, surely Jenny would be marrying Blue this coming Saturday rather than his elder stepbrother. As Lucy watched, Blue's attention was pulled away from both the main entrance and Mitch Casey when Gerry McCoy and Jenny Lee Beaumont swept onto the dance floor. Jenny was wearing a long, pink dress that set off her soft, blond curls and her peaches-and-cream complexion. It had been fifteen years since she'd been in high school, but her skin was still smooth and clear. She still looked like the captain of the cheerleading squad, with her sweet smile and perfect, beautiful features—a fact that no doubt had helped her land her job as entertainment news reporter for the local TV station. Gerry, however, looked tense, his smile forced as he led his bride-to-be in a slow dance. Was he feeling threatened, perhaps, by his stepbrother's larger-than-life presence? Physically, the two men couldn't have been less alike. Gerry was taller than Blue but slighter, almost willowy, if that word could be used to describe a man. Although they both had blond hair, Gerry's was a lighter, paler shade, and his hair was fine and slightly thinning on top, not thick and wavy like Blue's. And though Blue's smiles were scarce, Gerry's were almost constant. In fact, Gerry's carefree, fun-time, no-worries attitude contrasted so sharply with Blue's serious intensity that Lucy found it hard to believe the two men had lived under the same roof as young boys. It seemed almost impossible that they'd shared a home and not driven each other crazy with their different approaches to life. But the talk around town was that despite their differences, Gerry and Blue had been closer than many blood brothers, that their strengths and weaknesses had complemented one another. Lucy didn't know for sure that that was true. By the time she and her mother had moved to Hat-boro Creek, Gerry was off at college, and by the time Gerry returned after college, Blue had already left to join the navy. Lucy gazed across the ballroom, studying Blue's face, watching him as he watched Gerry dance with Jenny Lee. His gaze swept around the room, passing directly over Lucy with no glint of recognition, as if she wasn't even there—or as if he'd forgotten that she even existed, as if she paled so absolutely compared with Jenny Lee. Lucy's stomach clenched in disappointment. But really now, she scolded herself. What did she expect? Did she honestly think she'd be anything to Blue but a poor substitute for the woman he truly wanted? She had to keep her imagination in line here. If she wasn't careful, she'd start believing that Blue had unconsciously reached out to her because deep down he was searching desperately for a good woman to love. Or she might start believing that she could make Blue fall in love with her, that just one glorious night of lovemaking with Lucy would soften his damaged heart. No, the sad truth was, Lucy had come here tonight with her eyes wide open. She knew exactly what Blue wanted from her. He wanted sex. No strings, no desperate search, no falling in love, no softening hearts. She knew that, and she'd come anyway. Except now the way Blue's eyes seemed to look right through her signified a decided lack of interest on his part. Lucy was a fool for thinking she could ever compete with Jenny Lee. Even though Jenny was engaged to marry another man, she was so pretty and sweet it was crazy to think that Blue wouldn't be carrying a torch for her. No doubt he'd asked Lucy here tonight hoping for a distraction—a distraction that she'd failed to provide. Lucy knew she should turn away, walk out of the room and down the long corridor to the stairs that led out to the back parking lot. But she couldn't move. She could only gaze at Blue and wish that things were different. His rugged features were impassive, his eyes revealing nothing—no emotion, nothing. And that, of course, convinced Lucy that there was something Blue was working so hard to hide. On the other hand, she had to admit it was a no-win situation for Blue. She knew that she was not the only person in the room watching him for his reaction to his stepbrother and his former sweetheart's dance. If he smiled, it would be with "bittersweet longing." If he frowned, it would be with "barely concealed jealousy." No, Blue's were not easy shoes to be in right now, and Lucy had to give the man credit for showing up in the first place.

Shoes. Blue wasn't wearing shoes, Lucy realized suddenly. He was wearing sandals. He was wearing his gleaming white navy dress uniform with rows and rows of ribbons and medals on his chest, and a pair of leather sandals on his feet. As more and more people moved out onto the dance floor, Blue turned away and headed for the French doors that led out onto the patio. The doors were closed tonight. It was too hot to keep them open. The air-conditioning would escape and the muggy night air would be let in. With his hand on the doorknob, Blue turned back and looked across the room—directly at Lucy. This time he didn't look through her. This time he met her eyes. He moved his head almost imperceptibly, but his message was clear. Follow him outside. Lucy's heart was pounding as she moved along the ballroom wall toward the patio doors. Perhaps she'd been wrong. Blue did recognize her. He did know she was here. It took her several minutes to work her way around the room, but finally she reached the French doors and slipped out onto the patio. The sounds of the music and laughter from the party became muffled and distant as she shut the door behind her. The heat brushed against her face and arms like something solid. The moon was nearly full and it glowed through a haze of high clouds. The patio was wide and made of carefully evened-off flagstones, with a decorative cast-iron railing surrounding it. Several chairs and tables with flickering citronella candles were set up around the edges. Japanese lanterns were strung overhead, but the pale light they cast couldn't compete with the moonlight. As Lucy stood and let her eyes grow accustomed to the dimness, she saw Blue in the shadows, leaning against the railing, just watching her. Blue couldn't believe his eyes. That was strange, because he'd been a lot of places, seen both the best and the worst that humanity could offer, and he'd begun to think that nothing could ever surprise him. But Lucy Tait, dressed to kill in a sexy black dress, with her legs looking at least seven miles long, with her hair piled sophisticatedly atop her head and her brown eyes made up and smoldering, had proven him wrong. He'd expected her to arrive at the country club wearing something demure and functional. He'd expected he would have to use his imagination to see beyond her clothing to the woman he suspected was underneath. She started toward him, and he felt his pulse kick into the double time of anticipation, which he immediately tried to squelch. He hadn't been thinking straight when he'd asked her to come to this party with him. It wasn't until he arrived and realized that he was the focus of covert—and some not so covert—attention that it occurred to him that, as his date, Lucy would be subjected to the same curious stares and speculation. She didn't deserve that. He had to send her home before anyone saw them together. That was why, when he first noticed her standing on the other side of the room, he didn't allow himself to react. He didn't even let himself do the double take he so desperately wanted to do. But here in the darkness, away from all the prying eyes, Blue could do all the double takes he wanted. Mercy. She could have been the poster model for carnal desire. But as he gazed into her eyes, he realized that it was entirely possible that Lucy didn't know how incredibly sexy she looked. He could see hesitation in her eyes, and a kind of vulnerability that, combined with her incredible outfit, made her seem a curious mix of experience and innocence. Blue couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a woman and wanted her more than the way he wanted Lucy right now. He pushed himself up off the railing as she drew closer. The sexy black spike heels of her shoes made her nearly his own height and she gazed directly into his eyes. "Seems I've been away from town longer than I thought,” Blue said softly. He felt his body tighten as he dropped his gaze to her mouth to watch her nervously moisten her lips with the pink tip of her tongue. "Twelve years," she murmured. He nodded. "So...why aren't you married...settled down with a couple of kids and all?" She crossed her arms, one dark eyebrow lifting slightly. "Why aren't you?" "I never met someone I couldn't live without," he said bluntly. "I guess I'm picky that way." Lucy lifted her chin challengingly. "And what makes you think I'm not?" Blue had to smile. "Touche." With that defiant gleam in her eyes, she looked so like the girl he'd first met all those years ago—and so unlike her, all at the same time. He could still remember the way fifteen-year-old Lucy had tried to hide her pain, even after the boys who had been beating on her had run off. Her nose had been bleeding slightly, and she was holding her side. Though Blue had seen one of the boys kick her savagely in the ribs when she was down on the ground, she never cried, and tried not to let on that she was badly hurt. But there was a sheen or perspiration on her face that had told Blue otherwise.

She'd sat on the grass, knees pulled in tightly to her chest, and he'd sat down next to her. "You all right, Yankee?" "Yeah," she said, wiping the blood from her nose with the back of one hand. "Yeah, I'm... fine." "You don't look so fine." "I just... need to sit here for a minute." "Okay," Blue said quietly. "Mind if I sit here for a minute, too?" She shook her head. No, she didn't mind. "Those boys give you a reason for kicking the bejesus out of you?" Blue asked. "They don't think a girl belongs on the baseball team," Lucy said. "Well, it is called the boy's baseball team," Blue commented. Lucy's eyes flashed. "So where's the girl's team?" Blue shrugged. " 'Round these parts, girls try out for the cheerleading squad." "The coach said I'm the best shortstop this hick town has ever seen," Lucy said flatly. "And from what I've seen, he might be right. He put me in the starting lineup and has me batting lead-off. And you want me to be a cheerleader?" Blue hid a smile. "You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" "There are some things boys can do better than girls—like pee standing up," Lucy told him, her eyes narrowed dangerously, "but playing baseball is not one of them. I'm going to stick it in those creeps' faces by winning MVP this year—and accepting the award in a dress." Blue might have even laughed out loud at that, except a spasm of pain made Lucy wince. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. Her face looked so pale. "How about I give your mama a call?" Blue asked. Lucy shook her head. "She's working." "You're hurt--" "I'm fine." Blue stood up. "She works in the office at the mill, doesn't she?" "I said, I'm fine!" Lucy scrambled to her feet, and the effort made her sway. Blue reached for her, holding her up. "You got a broken rib, Yankee. I'm taking you over to Doc Gray's." "No, please!" Lucy's dark-brown eyes were wide, her voice beseeching as she gazed up at him. "It's only a crack. The doctor will tape me up and tell me I can't play ball for three weeks. By then I'll have been off the starting lineup for so long I'll have lost my place. I'll spend the rest of the season on the bench." "Sometimes you gotta sit out." "Not this time," Lucy said desperately. "If I sit out, those creeps will win. I can't let that happen." Blue was silent. "I'll tape myself up," Lucy had told him, chin held high. "It'll hurt, but I'm damned if I'm not going to play." She had played, and sure enough, that year she'd won the coveted Most Valuable Player award for the junior-varsity team. She'd had one hell of a stubborn streak back then, and from the way she was holding her head at that same challenging angle, it seemed that she still had those same guts and grit now. Inside, she wasn't that different. It was the outer packaging that had changed some. A whole lot of some. Blue let his gaze travel over Lucy's formfitting black dress and down her long, nylon-clad legs. "I guess what I really meant," he said, gazing back into her eyes, "was that I can't believe you're unattached. I can't believe you could walk into this place alone, looking the way you do." "But I'm not alone," she said softly. "I'm with you." Desire knifed sharply through Blue, and despite all his best intentions, he knew there was no way he could send Lucy home. Not unless he went, too. But maybe he could go. In half an hour or so he could make his excuses to Gerry and Jenny Lee and bow out before dinner was served. Until then, he and Lucy could stay out here on the patio. No one would see them. No one would have to know.

Lucy held Blue's gaze, wondering almost desperately what he was thinking. And he was thinking. He was planning, deciding. There was more than sheer, hot, raw desire in his eyes—although there was plenty of that, too. She'd have to tell Sarah, she thought almost inanely, that her little black dress was a raging success. "May I have this dance?" Blue finally said, his smooth Southern drawl like black velvet in the darkness. Oh, yes. But... "Right here?" Lucy asked, breaking free from the magnetic hold of his eyes to glance around the deserted patio. Blue smiled crookedly, just a slight lifting of one side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said. He hooked the rim of his hat over one of the posts of the castiron railing. And then he reached for her. Inside the country club, the band was playing an old, slow, familiar tune. The music seemed to drift in the stillness of the night, distant and haunting and pure. Lucy slipped her right hand into Blue's, resting her other hand on the solidness of his shoulder. She felt his arm encircle her waist, felt the warmth of his hand on her back. Dear God, she was slow-dancing with Blue McCoy. He was graceful and surefooted, and when his thigh brushed hers, she knew it was not by accident. Slowly and so surely he pulled her in, closer to him, until her breasts touched his broad chest, until their legs touched continuously. His hand moved upward, exploring the back of her dress, finding the round keyhole of exposed skin. Lucy felt herself sigh, felt herself tighten her hold on Blue as his slightly work-roughened fingers caressed her back. Gently she pulled her fingers free from his and ran her hand up his arm and shoulders to meet her other hand at the back of his neck. She could see satisfaction in the ocean-colored depths of Blue's eyes. He knew as well as she did that she was probably going to end up in his bed tonight. It was clear that pleased him. It was also clear that he desired her, too—-she couldn't help but be aware of that from the way their bodies were molded together. Any moment now, he was going to kiss her. Any moment now, he was going to lean forward and touch his lips to hers and they were both going to explode with passion. She could imagine them making a beeline for Blue's motel room, undressing each other as they climbed into the cab of her truck, barely making it inside before... Lucy felt dizzy. This was moving much too quickly. Yes, she wanted to make love to this man. She'd come here tonight knowing that the clothes she was wearing sent a message, knowing that her mere presence was a loud and clear affirmative to Blue's unspoken sexual question. But she'd imagined them having dinner first—shoot, at least having a drink and a certain amount of conversation—before giving in to the animal attraction that flashed between them. But polite conversation and small talk had no place in this relationship. Her body understood that, heat flooding her, readying her for what she really wanted—the most basic and intimate of acts. Lucy didn't wait for Blue to kiss her. Pulling his mouth down to hers, she kissed him. She felt more than heard his surprised laughter—laughter that lasted only a fraction of a second before he angled his head and returned her kiss with an urgency that took her breath away. He pulled her with him deeper into the darkness of the shadows. His hands explored her body, covering her breasts, slipping down to cup her derriere, reaching for the edge of her dress and sliding up underneath the hem, pushing her miniskirt up along her nylon-smooth thigh. He discovered the edge of her thigh-high stockings and groaned, kissing her harder, deeper, as his fingers caressed the soft smoothness of her skin, as he found the silky lace of her panties. They weren't even going to make it back to his hotel room. The thought flashed crazily through Lucy's head. But they had to. There were laws against making love in public. For God's sake, she was a police officer. She couldn't do this. Not here. Lucy pulled back slightly. "Blue..." "Come back to my room with me." His velvet voice was rough, hoarse, and out of breath. She nodded. "Yes." Blue kissed her again and she clung to him, shutting her eyes tightly against the regrets that were sure to come in the morning and all the rest of her tomorrows. But for the first time in her life, Lucy refused to think beyond the here and now. She lost herself again in his kiss. He tasted the way she'd always imagined he would—sweet and clean and wonderful. He broke away from her, taking her hand and pulling her toward the gate. "Come on." "We're just going to leave?" His eyes were blazing hot in the dim glow from the Japanese lanterns. "You bet.” "But..."

"Come on, Yankee. Let's go make all my dreams come true." His voice was low, vibrating with his desire as he tugged on her hand. "Your brother will look for you." His brother and a hundred or so odd guests. "He'll wonder where you went." "If Gerry caught sight of you walking into that country club, he'll know exactly where I went." Lucy blushed. "I'm serious," she said, pulling her hand free from his grasp. "You know how small-town gossip can be. Everyone is going to think that you left because you couldn't stand watching Gerry with Jenny Lee." "Me and Jenny Lee," Blue said, shaking his head. "That's ancient history." Lucy could almost believe him. Almost. "That's not the way it's going to look," she said quietly. "No one is going to know that you left with me—no one has even seen us together." "And I don't want 'em to," Blue said. "I don't want 'em talking about you, too." Lucy smiled ruefully. "Whatever they'd be saying, it would probably be true, wouldn't it?" He smiled, a tight, sexy, dangerous smile. "Well, yeah," he said, "if they say I took one look at you and lost control." His soft words made Lucy's heart leap into her throat. But they were just words, she reminded herself. "I'd be willing to bet," she said, "that you don't ever lose control." His eyes were unreadable, mysterious. "There's always a first time." His voice dropped to a nearly inaudible level. "All I know is, I'd do damn near anything to make love to you right now, Lucy." "Well, shoot," Lucy said, crossing her arms and smiling to hide the way his words made her pulse race. "Maybe if I play my cards right, we can make that wedding on Saturday a double ceremony." She was baiting him, watching to see if her words made him back off. "I said damn near anything,”Blue said, smiling at her expression—she thought she had him retreating. So he called her bluff. "I guess getting married falls into that description. Sure. But why wait till Saturday? We can fly out to Las Vegas and get hitched tonight. Right now." Lucy surrendered. "We both know you don't have to marry me to get what you want—what / want, too." He stepped toward her. "Then what are we waiting for?" She lifted her chin. "We're waiting for you to go inside and make your excuses to Gerry and Jenny Lee." Blue smiled again—damn, he couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled and laughed so much. But this was fun. Lucy Tait was able to hold her own against him. She was a worthy sparring opponent, and he liked that. He liked it a lot. He'd moved close enough to her to put his arms around her waist, close enough to lean forward for another long, sensuous kiss. But Lucy reached out for him first, sweeping her hands along the lapels of his jacket, lightly tracing the ribbons and medals he wore on his chest with one finger. "Look at all these," she mused. "What are you, some kind of hero?" "Just a SEAL," Blue murmured, mesmerized by the elegant curve of her lips, by the spattering of freckles that ran across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, by the delicate shell-like curve of her ears. She leaned forward so that her lips were only a whisper away from his. "Go find your brother," she breathed. He kissed her again—he couldn't resist—drowning in her softness, marveling how one woman could be such a complete montage of sweetness and spice. When he finally pulled away, his voice didn't sound like his own. "Don't go anywhere." Lucy smiled. "I won't."

Chapter 3 Blue searched the country-club dining room for any sign of Gerry. The band was still playing in the corner, and couples were still out on the dance floor, but most of the crowd were starting to get seated at the round banquet tables that dotted half the room. His sharp eyes finally picked Gerry out of the crowd. He was in the corner, having what looked like a serious discussion with R. W. Fisher, the Tobacco King. Fisher had sold his tobacco farms and cigarette factories in Virginia and moved his massive fortune to Hatboro Creek about the same time Blue had moved to town with his mother. It had been more than twenty-five years since Fisher had earned his wages from growing and selling tobacco, but he would no doubt be known as the Tobacco King until the day he died. Gerry was forever trying to work his way into R. W. Fisher's exclusive circle of friends and business acquaintances. Blue knew better than to disturb his stepbrother now. On the other hand, Lucy was waiting for him out on the patio— He could just as easily make his excuses for leaving to Jenny Lee, tell her that he'd talk to Gerry in the morning. Blue turned back to the table where he'd last seen his stepbrother's bride-to-be talking with several of her friends. He worked his way across the room, and Jenny Lee glanced up. She rose to her feet, smiling a welcome, her cheeks dimpling prettily. Her friends were noticeably quiet, watching them both. "Carter," Jenny said in her soft Southern accent. "We haven't properly said hello yet, have we?" She held out her hand to him, and he reached for it automatically. Jenny Lee Beaumont. There had once been a time when he'd wanted this girl more than life itself. Her blond hair and blue eyes, her diminutive yet well-rounded figure, her lacy, frilly clothes had all seemed the definition of femaleness. It was funny, but now she seemed overdone—a caricature of the Southern belle, all peaches and sugar and girlish charm. Funny, but somewhere during the past twelve years he'd developed a definite preference for spice. And for full-grown women. Jenny Lee's fragrant scent enveloped him, cloyingly sweet and chokingly strong. Hell, he used to love the way she smelled. Now he had to fight a nearly overpowering urge to step back, away from her, to find some fresh air. As she smiled up into his eyes, Blue felt nothing. He had been afraid to see her again, he realized suddenly. He'd been scared that all the old wants and needs and hurts would come flooding back. But he felt nothing. Except an urge to get back out to that patio, where Lucy Tait was waiting for him. "Jenny, I'm sorry," he said, gently disengaging his hand from hers, "but I can't stay for dinner. I've got to head out." "Oh, dear. I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you." As her smile faded, Blue could see lines of worry on Jenny's usually smooth face. And when she smiled again, he could see that it was forced and unnatural. Blue glanced at the tableful of women, all still listening, as if they were watching an episode of "As the World Turns." Whatever Jenny had to say, she didn't want to say it in front of an audience. "Of course, I really can't leave without at least one dance,” Blue said, knowing that whatever was bothering her, she could tell him on the privacy of the dance floor. Relief flashed through Jenny's eyes. "Of course," she said, letting him lead her out into the middle of the room. The women at the table were still watching, but at least they wouldn't be able to hear them. "Is everything all right?" Blue asked. Dancing with Jenny was odd after he'd held Lucy in his arms. Lucy was nearly his own height, a perfect fit; Jenny was so much shorter. He felt awkward, as if he had to bend clear over to talk to her. "I don't know what's going on," Jenny said. "Gerry has been acting so strangely the past few days... so worried and upset. I can't figure out why. Business has been better than ever. He just bought a new car, and the honeymoon plans he's made are extravagant.... It's not financial worries that have him down, that's for sure." Her eyes were bright with tears, but Blue still felt nothing. Nothing more than brotherly concern for Gerry's future wife. She looked as if she was going to say more, so he waited. "I just wonder..." If she were Lucy, she would have spit out whatever was bugging her the moment they'd begun to dance. Lucy was straightforward and to the point. She said what was on her mind. It was refreshing, Blue realized. He liked it much better than Jenny Lee's approach, where every tiny piece of information had to be wheedled out of her.

"What is it, Jenny Lee?" he asked. "Just tell me." She couldn't look him in the eye, embarrassment making her blush. "I just can't help but wonder if I haven't made a colossal mistake by inviting you here," she whispered. Ten minutes stretched into fifteen, and all Lucy's doubts and reservations grew bigger and bigger. What was she doing? Now that she was taking the time to think about it, the incredible power of the passion she felt from Blue's kisses scared her to death. What if she did something really stupid? What if she fell in love with this guy? Fell in love? Lord help her, she was already halfway over the edge. Could she really have sex with Blue, keeping the physical and emotional totally separate? Or would the physical intimacy send her into a tailspin from which she could never pull free? Where was he? What was taking him so long? Lucy had no questions, no doubts, when she gazed into Blue's eyes. She could move in no other direction but ahead. It was only when he wasn't around that she started to back away. She opened the French doors and went back into the country club. Blue had probably gotten into some deep discussion with Gerry and couldn't get free. And she—she needed a drink, something with a kick to give her the courage to keep from running away. Halfway to the bar, she saw him. Blue was out on the dance floor, with Jenny Lee Beaumont in his arms. Didn't it figure. Lucy turned away, too disgusted with her own self to feel angry at Blue. Blue and Jenny Lee, ancient history? Lucy had almost believed it. That made her as big a fool as Blue. She had to get away from here, fast, so she headed for the doors to the corridor. She was nearly there when the shouting started. Lucy turned back, her police officer's training not allowing her to run from sounds of trouble. What she saw made her heart sink. Gerry, his face livid, was standing in the middle of the dance floor, between Blue and Jenny. And even though he'd lowered his voice, he pushed at Blue repeatedly, clearly upset and angry. Lucy could see from Blue's stance and from the way he held both hands in the air, palms out and facing his step- brother that he had no intention of letting this argument become violent. But Jenny was in tears, and Gerry pushed Blue harder and harder with every sentence he spoke. Lucy moved closer, wondering whether she should step in even though she wasn't on duty. Not that she'd had much luck settling this afternoon's disturbance The room was silent. Even the band had stopped playing. Sheldon Bradley, the chief of police, moved quickly to Gerry's side, and Lucy was glad. He had far more experience than she did, in addition to being one of Gerry's friends. "I want him out of here." Gerry's voice started to get louder again. "Who the hell gave him permission to dance with Jenny Lee anyway?" Was his speech slurred? He sounded funny, as if he were... "Gerry, you're drunk," Jenny Lee said. "It was your idea to invite him," Gerry shot back harshly, turning to berate his fiancee. "Stepbrother or not, I didn't think it was right to invite one of your ex-lovers to my wedding. But maybe you had some other kind of reason to want him here...?" "When you sober up, brother," Blue drawled softly, "you're going to feel like a real idiot." "Stay the hell out of my life," Gerry said, his eyes wild. "You're not my brother. I don't want you hanging around. I didn't when we were kids, and I sure as hell don't now." The flash of pain that appeared in Blue's eyes left so quickly that Lucy was sure she was the only one who'd seen it. But she had seen it. Gerry's bitter words had hurt Blue deeply. "Come on now, boys." Chief Bradley tried to step between the two men. "Besides, Jenny Lee is mine now." Gerry glared past Bradley at Blue. "You had your chance. You can't have her." "She's not going to be yours too much longer if you keep this up," Blue said evenly, quietly. "Is that some kind of threat? Because if that was some kind of a threat, I'm gonna..." Gerry swung at Blue.

Blue caught his hand effortlessly, stopping his stepbrother's punch midswing. "Now, come on," the police chief said, "is this any way for brothers to treat each other?" "He's not my brother." Gerry pulled his hand free from Blue's. "If my old man hadn't felt guilty for picking up and bedding Blue's white-trash mama—" Blue reacted so quickly that Lucy didn't even see his movement. One moment he was standing several feet away from Gerry, and the next he had backed his stepbrother up against a support pillar and was holding on to the taller man by the lapels of his expensive tuxedo. Chief Bradley looked as if he was thinking twice about getting on the wrong side of Blue. Still, he stepped forward. "Here now, boys. Let's not—" Blue ignored Bradley, glaring into Gerry's eyes. "That time you went too far," he said softly. "I don't give a damn what you say about me, but you keep my mother out of this." "Blue," the police chief said. "Son, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." "You so much as breathe her name again," Blue continued, "and there'll be hell to pay, you understand me?" Gerry nodded, finally silenced. Chief Bradley wasn't used to being ignored. "Blue McCoy, I'm going to have to ask you to unhand your brother." But Blue didn't move. "You apologize to Jenny Lee, and then you go on home and sober up," he said to Gerry, still in that same low, dangerous voice. Gerry seemed to wilt, to sag, his arms going around Blue in an odd kind of embrace. He may have said something, whispered something in Blue's ear, but he spoke so softly Lucy couldn't hear it. “As far as / can see, son, you 're the one who needs to be making apologies and clearing on out of here." Chief Bradley looked around the room, searching for any kind of support. He spotted Lucy. "You on duty tonight, Tait?" "No, sir. I'm here as-" "Consider yourself on duty as of right now," Bradley said grimly. "Im ordering you to escort Lieutenant McCoy back to his motel. See that he gets there without any more trouble." "But..." Lucy glanced at Blue, who had let go of Gerry. Blue turned to Jenny Lee. "I'm sorry," he said. "I am, too," she said. She held her head high despite the tears that were in her eyes, and with a withering look at Gerry, she swept out of the room. Blue turned and headed for the other door. Chief Bradley had pulled Gerry aside and was talking to him in a low voice. Lucy briefly considered waiting and voicing her arguments about being suddenly placed on duty during her night off, but she knew it wouldn't make any difference. Sheldon Bradley ran the/Hatboro Creek Police Department according to his own set of rules. With a sigh, Lucy turned and followed Blue. She had to run to catch up with him. "McCoy-wait!" He turned and waited, his face impassive, his eyes expressionless. Together, they walked in silence out to Lucy's truck. It wasn't until Lucy was pulling out of the country-club driveway that Blue spoke. "I'm sorry about that," he murmured. She glanced at him. He was watching her in the dim light from the dashboard. "You can't help the way you feel," she said quietly. He shifted in his seat, turning so that he was facing her. "You don't think I was..." He stopped and started over. "Do you really think I would put the moves on Jenny Lee at the rehearsal dinner for her wedding to my stepbrother?" Lucy pulled carefully up to the stop sign at the corner of Main Street and Seaside Road. "Everyone at that party was waiting for something to happen between you and Jenny Lee," she said, taking a left onto Main Street. "Everyone at that party saw you dancing with her and came to the same conclusion—that you're here to stir up trouble, that you want to win Jenny Lee back." Blue's face was in the shadows, but she knew that he was watching her. "Everyone at the party. Including you?" She had to be honest. "Yes." "And if I told you everyone at the party was wrong? That I feel nothing for Jenny Lee... ?" "I'd have to assume you were only saying that in a last-ditch effort to get me to spend the night with you," Lucy said bluntly, pulling her truck into the motel parking lot and rolling to a stop.

"That's not true," Blue said quietly. "Yes, I want you in my bed, but I wouldn't lie to get you there. Come on, Yankee, let's just leave the past in the past." He reached out across the cab of the truck, gently touching her hair. Lucy shifted away from him. "Don't." "Lucy-" She closed her eyes, trying to shut him out. "I can't do this," she said. "I thought I could, but I can't." She opened her eyes and looked at Blue. "I can't be a substitute for Jenny Lee." Blue laughed, a flare of impatience in his eyes. "You're not—" "Look, McCoy, I've got to go—" "Why don't we go get a beer and talk about this?" he suggested. "Is that roadhouse—what's it called? The Rebel Yell. Is it still around? Why don't we go there?" "No. Believe it or not, I'm actually on duty now. I've got to go back to the station and file a report." "You know damn well you could do that in the morning." "Yeah," Lucy said. "But I want to do it now." Silence. Lucy stared out the front windshield, hoping and wishing that Blue would just open the door and climb out of the truck's cab. She heard him sigh. "Damn Gerry to hell," he said tiredly. "I should have wrung his neck while I had the chance." He opened the door and climbed out of the truck. "It was a genuine pleasure seeing you again, Lucy Tait," he said in his soft drawl. "I've got to tell you—I wish it could have been an even bigger pleasure. If you're ever in California, give me a call." She turned to look at him—she couldn't help it. "Are you leaving town?" His blond hair glistened in the cab's overhead light as he nodded. "I'm heading out on the next bus. I don't care where it goes, as long as it's a city big enough to have an airport." He was leaving as soon as he could. Lucy looked away from him, afraid that he'd see the disappointment that surely crossed her face. "Bye, Lucy," Blue whispered. He closed the cab door and was gone. Lucy's phone rang well before dawn, waking her from a restless sleep. It was Annabella Sawyer, the police dispatcher. "You better get down to the station," she said in her raspy voice, without any words of greeting. "All hell has broken loose. The chief is calling in all available manpower." Lucy rolled over and looked at her clock. It was a few minutes after 4 a.m. "What's going on?" "It started as a 10-65," Annabella said. "Jenny Beaumont called in at 2:11 a.m., reporting Gerry McCoy missing. He hadn't come home. Fifteen minutes ago, Tom Harper came across Gerry's motor vehicle by the side of Gate's Hill Road. Shortly after that, the 10-65 became a 10-54r. At 3:56, Doc Harrison confirmed it. We've got ourselves a 187." Lucy tiredly closed her eyes. "You mind translating that for me, Annabella?" "The missing person became a report of a dead body," Annabella said. "We've got a homicide on our hands." Lucy sat up. "What?” "Gerry McCoy is dead," Annabella intoned. "He's been murdered."

Chapter 4 Lucy rushed into the police station, pulling her hair back into a ponytail and trying to rein in her growing sense of dread. Gerry McCoy was dead, and Lucy was almost positive that the tragedy wasn't over yet. Officer Frank Redfield was behind the front desk, on the phone, but he nodded to her, holding up one finger, signaling her to wait. "All right," he said into the telephone. His thinning brown hair was standing up straight, as if he'd rolled directly out of bed. "I understand, Chief. I'll get right on it." He hung up the receiver and turned to Lucy. "Hell of a situation," he said to her, taking a long swig of black coffee. "You been filled in on the specifics?" "I've heard that Gerry McCoy's body was found up off Gate's Hill Road," Lucy said, pouring her own mug of coffee from the urn in the lobby. "I don't know any of the details. How did he die? Gunshot?" Nearly all the deaths in the county were gun related. "Come on," Frank said, gesturing for her to follow him. "I've got to put out an all-points bulletin, but I'll try to bring you up to speed while I'm entering the info into the computer." Lucy hurried down the hall after him. Frank was about four inches shorter than she was, and thin as a rail. But what he lacked in weight, he made up for in speed and good nature. It certainly wasn't his fault that, standing next to him, Lucy felt like some kind of Amazon. He was always friendly and respectful. In fact, Frank and his best friend, Tom Harper—tall and black and built like a defensive lineman—were the only men on the Hatboro Creek police force who hadn't muttered and complained about Lucy joining their previously exclusively male organization. "First of all," Frank said in his thick South Carolina accent, "cause of death wasn't gun related. Gerry McCoy died from a broken neck." "We're certain it wasn't accidental?" Lucy asked. "Sustained in a fall?" "Gerry's body was found in the middle of a clearing," he said. "Unless he fell out of the sky, there was no way his injuries were accidental." He sat down at the computer desk, glancing up at her and grimacing. "Doc Harrington reported that his neck was broke clean through. Snapped like a twig." He shuddered. "Doc estimated time of death to be a little bit after eleven. We'll get a more accurate time when the forensics guy gets out here in the morning." "Who's the APB for?" "The stepbrother," Frank said, typing the information into the computer, fingers moving at his usual breathtaking speed. Lucy's dread deepened. "Blue McCoy." Of course they were going to want to talk to Gerry's stepbrother—particularly since Blue was seen publicly arguing with the deceased hours before the estimated time of death. Family members were always high on the suspect list early on in a murder investigation. Statistically, most murders were committed by someone near and dear to the victim. Yet Blue wasn't a cold-blooded killer. He was a soldier, a warrior, but not a murderer. Still, damn Gerry to hell, Blue had said. / should have wrung his neck while I had the chance. Wrung his neck, he'd said. And now here Gerry was, dead—that very same neck snapped in two. My God, was it possible... ? No, Lucy couldn't believe it. She wouldn't believe it. "We want to bring him in for questioning," Frank said. "You don't need an APB for that," Lucy said. Questioning. Being brought in for questioning was marginally better than being brought in with charges already filed. "Blue McCoy is staying over at the Lighthouse Motel." "Not any more," Frank said. "Chief just called in and reported that Gerry's brother checked out of the motel at around 1 a.m. Jedd Southeby over at the Lighthouse said Blue paid his bill and just walked out of there with some kind of heavy duffel bag over his shoulder." He looked up at Lucy. "In fact, now that you know as much as we know, you better get on the ball and join the search. A man on foot carrying a heavy load couldn't have gotten far." What was it Blue had said as they were saying goodbye? I'm heading out on the next bus. I don't care where it goes... Lucy picked up the phone and dialed information. "Yeah, I need the number of the bus station in Georgetown." She scribbled it on a piece of paper as Frank glanced over at her in barely concealed disbelief. "There's no way in hell the stepbrother could've gone to Georgetown," he said. "It's nearly fifteen miles away. Use your head, Luce. This time of night the roads are quiet. He couldn't even get there by hitching. Nobody is around to pick him up." "Georgetown has the nearest all-night bus station," Lucy said, dialing the number she was given. "And fifteen miles is an after-dinner stroll to a Navy SEAL." "You're wasting your time," Frank said in a singsong voice. After nearly seventeen rings, the phone at the Georgetown bus station was picked up. Lucy identified herself and was forwarded to the manager. "I

need the schedule of all buses that have left or are leaving your terminal, starting at 3:00 a.m.," she said. It was unlikely that Blue had arrived in Georgetown that early, but she wanted to be safe. "No buses left between 2:00 a.m. and 3:55," the bus station manager told her. "At 3:55, we had a departure for Columbia and Greenville. At 4:20, just a few minutes ago, a bus left for Charleston, and the next bus... Let's see—" "Isn't there a naval base in Charleston?" Lucy asked Frank. He nodded. "Yeah." "That's the bus," Lucy said. It had to be the one Blue would take. He'd ride the bus to Charleston, and at the naval base he'd catch the next flight out of state, probably back to California. "Is there any way to contact the bus driver?" "Not short of chasing him and flagging him down. The local buses aren't equipped with radios," the manager told her. "We can contact the bus depot in Charleston, but that's about it." "What time does that bus get in?" "It's not an express," the manager said, "so it stops in nearly every town along Route 17 from here to Charleston. It won't arrive at the final destination until 6:45 p.m. That's if they're running on time." "Thank you," Lucy said, hanging up the phone. "I'm going to Charleston," she said to Frank. "What you're going on is a wild-goose chase," he told her. "Aren't my orders to join in the search to find Blue McCoy?" Lucy asked. "Well, yeah, but-" "I'm joining in," Lucy said, heading for the door. "Chief is gonna get riled—" "Tell the chief," Lucy said, "that I'll be back before eight o'clock—with Blue McCoy." Blue was drifting in and out of sleep. It seemed incredible that he had spent most of last night hiking to the bus station in Georgetown. It seemed amazing that he had worked so hard just to get on this crummy old bus. It seemed particularly incredible that he had worked so hard to leave Hatboro Creek, because for the first time in his life, Hatboro Creek was precisely where he wanted to be. Because a woman named Lucy Tait was there, and try as he might, he couldn't get her off his mind. She still lived in the same big, old house that she'd shared with her mother back when Blue had been in high school. Unable to sleep, he'd gone for a walk last night and found himself standing and staring at her darkened windows, wanting to go up to her door and knowing that he shouldn't. He could have rung her doorbell, finagled an invitation inside. Once in Lucy's living room, it wouldn't have taken much to seduce her. He already knew that she found the attraction between them nearly impossible to resist. He'd forced himself to turn around, to turn his back on the paradise that making love to Lucy Tait would bring. Why? He didn't know for sure, but he suspected his motivation was due to wariness. There was something inside that warned him that maybe, just maybe, this Lucy Tait was someone special. And Blue knew, plain as day, that he had no room in his life for anyone, particularly not someone who was special. He knew from watching Joe Catalanotto, the commander of SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad and Blue's best friend, that finding someone special wasn't all hearts and flowers. Yeah, Joe seemed happy most of the time. Yeah, in general he smiled more and got irritated and frustrated less. But during the times when the Alpha Squad was on a mission, when it had been weeks since Joe had seen his wife, Veronica, and weeks, possibly even months, until he'd get a chance to see her again, Joe would grow quieter and quieter. Joe never complained, never spoke about it, but Blue knew his friend. He knew that Joe missed the woman he loved, and that he worried about her when he was gone for so long. Blue didn't want that, didn't need that. No, sir—no, thanks. So why was he sitting here on this bus, dozing and fantasizing about Lucy Tait, as if he could conjure her up just by wishing and wanting? When he pulled into Charleston, he'd look up one of the women he knew from back when he'd been stationed at the naval base, and... "What the hell... ?" he heard someone say. "Why are we pulling over here?" "This stop ain't on the route," another voice said. Blue opened his eyes. Sure enough, the bus was moving to the side of the road. Two men in work clothes, sitting across the aisle and several seats toward the front, were the only ones on the sparsely filled bus who were talking. "Aw, hell," the first man said. "Driver must've been speeding. We're getting pulled over by a cop." "If I don't get to Charleston by 7:00, I'm going to lose my job," the second voice complained. "I've been late too many times before."

Blue tried to see out of his window, but couldn't see a police cruiser, couldn't see anything, so he closed his eyes again. It didn't matter to him if this took five minutes or an hour. He'd get to Charleston when he got there. He heard the hiss as the driver opened the door, heard the murmur of voices from the front of the bus. "Oh, sugar," the first man said. "Come and arrest me." "Where do I sign up to get frisked?" the other man asked with a giggle. "I've heard that one before," a third voice said, "so unless you can come up with something original, why don't you just keep your mouths shut?" Lucy? Blue opened his eyes, and sure enough, there she was, standing in the aisle, looking down at him. "McCoy, you've got to grab your stuff and come off the bus with me," she said. She looked tired, and her face had been wiped clean of last night's makeup. Her hair was up in a utilitarian pony-tail, and her uniform shirt hid the soft curves of her body. Still, she looked damn good and Blue felt his mouth curve up into a smile of pleasure. "Hey," he said, his voice rusty from sleep. He cleared his throat. "Yankee. Didn't think I'd see you again." "Come on, we're holding these people up," Lucy said. She wouldn't look him in the eye, as if she were afraid of the inferno of attraction he knew was burning there. "Am I under arrest?" he teased, tilting his head so that she was forced to meet his gaze. But she didn't smile. "No," she said. "Not yet." Blue felt his own smile fade as he searched her eyes. She wasn't kidding when she'd said "not yet." Whatever Lucy was doing here, it wasn't gonna be good. "What happened?" he asked, suddenly concerned. Clearly she hadn't followed him halfway to Charleston because of their unconsummated, sizzling attraction to each other. "Something happened, didn't it?" She gestured with her head toward the front of the bus. "Get off the bus and I'll fill you in." Blue stood up and swung his duffel bag down from the overhead rack. He followed Lucy down the aisle and out the narrow stairs onto the dusty road. Something was going on here. Something bad. As the bus pulled back onto Route 17, he dropped his duffel bag onto the street. "Spill it." "Why don't you get into the car?" she suggested. Blue didn't move. "Don't play games, Lucy. It's not your style. Just tell me what's going on." "I've got bad news," she said tightly. "I'd like you to sit down." Bad news. Bad news meant death or the equivalent. Last time Blue got "bad news," he'd been in the hospital, waiting with the rest of Alpha Squad for word about Frisco. For hours, they didn't know if he was going to live or die. And I've got bad news was what the doctor had said when he'd come out of surgery. Frisco was going to live, but he wasn't going to walk ever again. That doctor knew about Navy SEALs. He knew that losing mobility, losing the ability to run and jump and even walk, was bad news akin to death. And in a way, Frisco had died in Baghdad. The unsmiling man lying in that hospital bed with lines of pain around his eyes and mouth was nothing like the laughing, upbeat SEAL Blue had once known. Bad news. Someone had died. He could see it in Lucy's eyes. But who? Blue didn't want to guess. He just wanted her to tell him. Lucy felt a rush of relief as she looked at Blue. He was gazing into her eyes as if he were trying to read her mind. He honestly didn't know what she was about to tell him. He didn't know—he honestly didn't know that Gerry was dead. He couldn't possibly be the killer. No one was that good a liar. "I don't need to sit down to get bad news," Blue said in his soft drawl. Lucy knew that she was just supposed to tell him that his stepbrother was dead. That way she could gauge his reaction, further verify that he didn't know anything about the killing. But it seemed so cruel, so heartless. Although recently Blue and Gerry hadn't been on the best of terms, they had been friends in their youth.

"Come on, Yankee," Blue said softly. "If it's gonna hurt, do it fast, get it over with." Lucy nodded, moistening her lips. "Gerry is dead." Blue squinted slightly, as if the sun were suddenly too bright for him. "Gerry," he said, looking out over the farmland that stretched into the distance as the muscle in his jaw clenched again and again. "Dear God. How?" "He was killed sometime last night," Lucy said. Blue turned to look sharply at her, his blue eyes neon and intense in the morning light. "Killed," he repeated. "As in...murdered?" Lucy nodded. "His neck was broken." Blue swore under his breath. "Who would've done that to him—three days before his wedding?" "We don't know yet. The homicide investigation has just started." Something changed in his eyes and his entire body became stiffer, more tense. "Am I a suspect?" "Right now everyone in town is a suspect," Lucy told him. "As a family member, you just happen to be up a little higher on the list." "I can't believe he's dead." Blue shook his head. "Gerry. When I was a kid, I thought he was immortal. One of the gods." He laughed, but it held no humor. "The last thing I said to him I said in anger, and now he's dead." He fixed Lucy with his brilliant blue gaze, and she caught her breath at the depth of the pain she saw in his eyes. "I loved him," Blue said simply. "He was my brother. I wouldn't kill my brother."

Chapter 5 “I believe him," Lucy said. Sarah gazed back at her silently for several long moments from her prone position on the couch. "Richard told me that Gerry's neck was broken cleanly," Sarah said. "He said that in order to do that, a man either had to be a martial-arts expert or have extreme upper-body strength." She paused for a moment, pushing herself up on one elbow to take a cooling sip from a tall glass of orange juice. "Speaking of upper-body strength, didn't you tell me something about Navy SEALs being able to bench-press three or four hundred pounds or something like that?" Lucy shook her head. "I know what you're getting at," she said. "Yes, you're right. Blue McCoy probably has the strength and ability to break a man's neck the way Gerry's was broken. But I don't think he did it." "Have they arrested him?" Sarah asked, her hazel eyes sympathetic. "No," Lucy said. "They don't have enough to hold him. The fact that he was—quote, unquote—'fleeing the scene of the crime' is only circumstantial evidence." The phone rang jarringly loudly, disrupting the calm of Sarah's living room. Lucy jumped and Sarah winced, making a face in apology. “Richard got a ring amplifier for the phone," she explained. "He was afraid he'd sleep straight through some medical emergency because he wouldn't hear the phone ringing in the middle of the night. I tell you, it's tough being married to a small-town doctor." Her smile turned impish. "Or maybe it's just tough being married to Richard. Excuse me for a sec." Sarah reached out and took the cordless phone from its resting place on the coffee table in front of her. "Hello?" Lucy gazed around Sarah's living room. It wasn't until the baby was well on its way that Sarah and Richard had gotten around to furnishing their new house. For nearly a year, there had been almost nothing in the living room. But now everything was finally out of boxes. The house was filled with furniture that was toddler friendly. There were no sharp edges or breakable surfaces; everything was softly rounded, designed for being bumped by small heads and grabbed by tiny fingers. Yet despite its functional furnishings, the living room was tastefully decorated. Sarah wouldn't have had it any other way. "No," she was saying into the phone. "I'm still waiting for this baby to decide that it's time to be born." She laughed. "Don't worry, you'll get a call." She paused, glancing up at Lucy. "Yes, she's here. Do you want to talk to her?" "Who is it?" Lucy mouthed. "Tom Harper," Sarah mouthed back. "Oh, okay. I'll give her that message. Consider her on her way." She laughed. "Sure, Tom. Thanks. Bye." Sarah pressed the off button, looking up at Lucy. "Tom was calling with a message from the chief. You're wanted down at the station. Immediately." Lucy drained the last of her orange juice. "Did he happen to say why?" Sarah smiled. "He mentioned something about Chief Bradley putting you in charge of the entire investigation since you did such a good job tracking Blue McCoy down." Lucy nearly dropped her glass. "Me?" "I don't understand," Lucy said vehemently, climbing into her truck. "Every other person on this police force is better qualified to handle this investigation. Why me?" Blue stowed his duffel bag under his feet and calmly closed the passenger door, locking it with his elbow. "Because every other person on this police force thinks that I killed Gerry." "And since when does Chief Bradley let the prime suspect select the officer in charge of the investigation?" she sputtered. "Drive this thing, will you?" Blue said, squinting as he gazed out the front windshield. "I want to get out of here." It was clear that he wasn't going to answer any of her questions until she put her truck in gear and pulled out of the parking lot. It wasn't until she was on Bluff Drive, heading down toward the beach, that Blue started to talk. "Bradley doesn't know that / chose you," he said in his soft drawl. "He thinks he did. He was trying to get me to sign a confession and he claimed that the case against me was gonna be open and shut. Even though they don't have enough evidence to hold me today, the chief said this one was so easy that even the dumbest, greenest rookie on the force would be able to collect the necessary evidence to send me to jail within forty-eight hours. I took the opportunity to maneuver him into standing by his claim." "And I'm that dumbest, greenest rookie," Lucy said dryly. "You're green, Yankee," Blue said, "but you're not dumb. And you're not going to overlook any evidence that supports my innocence in your zeal to hang me." Lucy was silent for a moment. "What if I only find evidence that will help convict you?" she finally asked. Blue pointed toward the beach parking lot. "Pull in," he said. "Please." Lucy did. At this time of the late afternoon, the parking lot was almost empty, the last of the beachgoers heading home. She pulled up to the big boulders that lined the lot and turned off the engine. When she was in high school, this was where kids had come at night to park and make out. She'd never gone, but she was willing to bet that Blue had brought Jenny Lee here plenty of times.

Blue turned in his seat to face her. "I have a gut feeling," he said slowly, "that you're only going to find evidence that points to my guilt." He held up one hand, stopping her before she could speak. "Something about this whole thing reeks of setup. Whoever killed Gerry wants it to look like I'm the murderer. I don't know who's involved, or how far they're willing to take this. Until I do know there's only one person I'm going to trust in this town, and that's you." Lucy stared at him in disbelief. He was serious. Out of all the people he could have turned to for help, he'd turned to her. But as the officer in charge of the investigation, her job wasn't to play favorites with a suspect. Her job was to find the killer—no matter who that killer turned out to be. Lucy rested her head on her folded arms atop the steering wheel. "What if I decide you're guilty?" "I believe you already decided that I'm not." Lucy lifted her head. "I need to question you," she said. "you need to tell me where you were at the time of Gerry's death." "I don't have an alibi," Blue told her. "I was by myself." Lucy took her notebook out of her pocket and opened the truck door. "Let's walk on the beach," she suggested. Blue nodded. "I'd like that," he said, following her out of the truck. The sand crunched beneath Lucy's shoes. Blue had kicked off his sandals, she noticed, and his feet were now bare. He had nice feet. They were strong looking, with high arches and long, straight toes. Lucy held her questions until they reached the edge of the water. They headed south along the coast in silence, watching the play of the earlyevening sun on the ocean. "We're in an interesting position here," Lucy finally said. It wasn't easy, but she had to be honest with him because she needed him to be honest with her. "Last night we were on the verge of a...certain kind of relationship, but today that relationship has to be something entirely different." Blue was quiet, just listening, so she pushed on. "I'm going to ask you a whole bunch of questions, and you've got to answer them honestly, do you understand?" Lucy moved away slightly so that a wave rushing up to shore wouldn't get her shoes wet. Blue let the water wash over his bare feet. It soaked the hem of his pants, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He glanced up as if he felt Lucy watching him, and nodded. Yes, he understood. "Okay." Lucy exhaled a burst of air. She hadn't realized it, but she had been holding her breath. "I dropped you off at your motel room around 8:30 p.m.," she said. "Tell me everything you did from then till the time you checked out." Blue narrowed his eyes, thinking. "I went inside the room, took a shower and changed out of my dress uniform. I got some fried fish and a salad to go from the Grill, went back to my room and watched part of a movie on cable while I ate dinner," he said. "It wasn't very good—the movie, not the food—so I turned it off before the end. It was probably around ten at that point. The air conditioner wasn't working real well, and I was... restless, so I went outside, for a walk." Restless. Lucy had been restless last night, too. She knew he was watching her, so she kept her eyes carefully on her notebook. "Where did you go? It's possible someone saw you while you were out." "I went down Main and cut over some back lots to the marina," Blue said. "I sat down there for a while—I don't even know how long." He paused. "And then I walked up toward Fox Run Road." Lucy couldn't keep from turning and looking at him. Her house was on Fox Run Road. "That's right," he said. "I went to see if maybe you were still awake, like me." She had been. She'd been awake last night until well into the early hours of the morning. She'd stared at the shadows on her ceiling, wishing that she had been reckless and bold, wishing that Blue were there with her. But even as she'd wished for his presence, she knew that what she really wished for was some kind of fairy-tale ending, for him to kiss her and confess that he couldn't live without her, that his only hope of finding true happiness was there in her arms. She'd told herself all along that she was walking into a short, hot, love affair, a one-night stand. She'd tried to convince herself that that would be enough. But all along, she'd hoped—secretly, even from herself—that something magical would happen and Blue would stay in town. Lucy stared down at the neat lines of notes in her pad, but her eyes were unfocused, and the notes looked more like the tracks of seabirds in the sand than words. Blue was going to stay in town, but the something that had happened was far from magical. It was evil and deadly. If Blue hadn't killed Gerry—and he was right; she didn't believe that he had—then the real killer had long since disappeared or, worse, was somewhere out there, watching and waiting, biding his time. Lucy glanced up to find Blue still gazing at her, a smoldering fire in his eyes. "There wasn't a light on in your house," he said, "but even if there had been, I wouldn't have knocked. You made it clear when you dropped me off at the motel that you didn't want me around." That wasn't true. She had wanted him around. But it just got way too complicated when she'd seen him holding Jenny Lee in his arms out on the

country-club dance floor. "I don't know why I even walked over to your place," Blue continued, glancing away from her, out at the ocean. "I guess maybe I hoped I'd find you out dancing naked on your back lawn or something." Lucy had to laugh. "I don't spend much time dancing naked these days," she said. "Too bad," he said, looking back at her with a slow smile. Too bad. It was too bad that Blue hadn't knocked on her door last night. And it was too bad that Lucy had turned down his invitation to come into his hotel room earlier. "If I'd spent the night with you, you would have had an alibi," she noted. Blue met her eyes, the heat in his gaze suddenly dangerously high. "That's right," he said softly. Lucy looked away, scanning her notes again, knowing without a doubt that it was time to get into the sticky questions, the ones she'd been avoiding asking. She needed to know about Blue's conversation with Jenny Lee and the ensuing argument with Gerry. That would keep them from drifting into these dangerous waters. "Let's backtrack a bit," Lucy said. "Last night, at the country club..." "I arrived at the club a little before six-thirty," Blue said. "See, I'd called Gerry's office in the afternoon, after I'd checked into my room at the motel. His secretary said he would be in meetings all day and that he'd said he would see me at the party, that I should come early to talk to him." Lucy stopped walking. "What did you talk about?" "He never showed." Blue drew a line in the wet sand with his toe and watched as a gentle wave erased all but part of it. "I watched for him until after seven, but the first I saw of him was when he and Jenny Lee made their grand entrance." Blue had been looking for his stepbrother at the country club last night, Lucy realized. He hadn't been watching and waiting for her as she'd thought. Disappointment washed over her, and she forced herself to ignore it. There was no room for such emotions in their current relationship as investigator and suspect. "Any idea what he wanted to talk to you about?" Blue raked his fingers through his thick, blond hair, pushing it back from his face. The breeze immediately made a wavy lock fall forward again. It danced lightly about on his forehead. "I thought it was just a casual meeting," he said. "You know 'Hey, how are you? How's it goin'? Whatcha been up to in the past two years since I last saw you?' Catching up. That stuff." "But...?" Again Lucy saw that glimmer of hurt on his otherwise expressionless face. If she hadn't seen it before, she might not have noticed it. He started forward down the beach and she walked backward, in order to watch his face as he spoke. "After that little show on the dance floor," Blue said. "I'm thinking Gerry was originally intending to give me his 'get lost' speech in private, before the party started." "You can't blame him for being jealous," Lucy remarked. "You were dancing with his fiancee." She caught herself, turning away, facing forward now, as if she were intent on reading her notes. She wasn't here to give her opinions on the situation. She was supposed to be gathering facts. "Okay, I know where you were from seven-fifteen until a few minutes before eight." "I remember that part pretty damn clearly, too," Blue said. Lucy knew that if she glanced up, she'd find him gazing at her, so she kept her eyes carefully locked on her notebook. "You went inside to talk to Gerry," she said. "Apparently you didn't find him." "He was in the middle of a business conversation with Mr. Fisher," Blue told her. "So I gave my regrets to Jenny Lee." "By asking her to dance?" Lucy couldn't keep the in-credulousness from her voice. God, she sounded like a jealous girlfriend. She immediately backpedaled. "I'm sorry. Please continue. What happened then?" But Blue didn't continue. He stopped walking and looked at her, studying her face and her eyes, his gaze probing, searching. The sensation was not unlike being underneath a microscope. "You didn't believe me when I told you that the only thing between Jenny Lee and me was ancient history," Blue finally said. "When you saw me dancing with her—that's what changed your mind about spending the night with me, wasn't it?" "That has nothing to do with this investigation—" "Come on, Yankee," Blue drawled. "I'm answering all your questions honestly. The least you can do is answer one of mine." Lucy lifted her head and looked him squarely in the eye. "Yes," she said. But it was only half the truth. The real answer was yes and no. Seeing Blue with Jenny Lee had somehow broken the spell he'd cast over her. Seeing him with her made Lucy remember that she didn't do things like sleep

with sailors who were in town for only a few days. Blue was watching her. His eyes matched the brilliant blue of the ocean. He moved a step toward her and then another step. Lucy found herself immobilized, unable to back away. He reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "Let's get back to Jenny Lee," Lucy said desperately. The mention of Blue's former girlfriend was successful, as usual, in dissolving the odd power he had over her. "When I told her I was leaving the party," Blue said, "she told me that she wanted to talk to me." He crouched and picked up a smooth rock from the beach, wiping the sand off it, weighing it in the palm of one hand. "She seemed really worried, really upset about something. It was clear that she wanted the conversation to be private, and since pulling her off into some secluded corner of the room seemed inappropriate, I asked her to dance." Blue straightened up and flung the rock out into the ocean, past the breaking waves. It skipped several times before it vanished. "You probably won't believe me," he said, his voice still matter-of-fact. "But what I'm gonna tell you is God's own truth, Lucy." Lucy nodded, her pen poised to take notes. Blue wiped the remaining sand from his hands, glancing at her notebook. "You don't need that," he said. "This doesn't have anything to do with the case." His gaze was steady. "I just wanted you to know that the entire time I was dancing with Jenny Lee, I was wishing it was you in my arms." Lucy closed her eyes. My God! Was it possible Blue still thought he had a chance with her? Was it possible that he didn't realize that their current roles didn't allow for any type of romantic interaction whatsoever? And, really, did he honestly think she was so naive she would believe he'd prefer her over Jenny Lee Beaumont? "Let's stay focused on the case," she said. "I'd rather hear God's own truth about what Jenny Lee said to you while you were dancing." Lucy didn't believe him. Blue hadn't really expected her to. But now, perhaps, was not the best time to convince her otherwise. "Jenny Lee told me that she was worried about Gerry," Blue said. "He was acting strangely, as if he was under a lot of stress. She told me that she believed she'd made a mistake in inviting me to the wedding. Apparently it was her idea to ask me to be best man. She thought Gerry liked the idea—if he didn't, he didn't tell her otherwise. But over the past few days, Jenny Lee was starting to wonder if Gerry's upset was caused by my coming back to town, considering my and Jenny's history." He paused. "In short, Jenny asked me to leave." Lucy nodded, scribbling in her notebook, lower lip clasped gently between her teeth in concentration. Blue couldn't help but remember how soft those lips had felt, how delicious Lucy's mouth had tasted, how willing she'd been to take that kiss to a more intimate level. Before he left town again, he was going to find a way back to that moment they'd shared. And when he did, the attraction that ignited between them like rocket fuel was going to launch them past the point of no return. It was going to be good. It was going to be very, very good. It was also going to be good to track down the son of a bitch who'd killed Gerry, to see him brought to justice. Although Blue and Gerry had had their disagreements in the recent past, and despite Gerry's harsh words to Blue last night, Blue couldn't forget the friendship he'd shared with his stepbrother during his childhood and adolescence. And he still couldn't believe that Gerry was really dead. The thought that he'd never see Gerry's upbeat smile again made him feel empty. "I'd like to take a look at the body," Blue said. "See if there's anything that the police might've missed." Lucy shook her head. "The state medical examiner's office is performing an autopsy. It's required on all suspicious deaths. If everything goes smoothly, the body will be returned to town on Friday for Saturday funeral services." "Who's taking care of the funeral arrangements?" Blue asked. Lucy looked up from her notebook. "Jenny Lee is." Jenny Lee. Hell, whatever pain Blue was feeling at Gerry's death, it surely was amplified hundreds of times over for poor Jenny Lee. Instead of marrying Gerry on Saturday, she was going to be burying him. "How's Jenny holding up?" "As well as can be expected, I guess," Lucy told him. As always, when Jenny Lee's name came up, her dark eyes were guarded. The shadows were getting very long, and she turned, looking back down the beach in the direction they had come. "We'd better head back." "This whole thing stinks," Blue said in a low voice. Lucy glanced at him again, compassion in her eyes. "This must be hard for you," she said. "Everyone has been so busy making accusations. No one has offered you condolences on your stepbrother's death." "It doesn't matter." "Yes, it does," Lucy said. "At times like this, you need to know that people care." Blue smiled. "I know you care, Yankee," he said. "And that's all I need."

Chapter 6 Lucy dropped Blue off at the Lighthouse Motel, then swung back onto Main Street, heading for the Grill. It was well past suppertime, and she was far too exhausted to cook. She pulled into a parking spot on the street in front of the tiny restaurant, dreaming about a cheeseburger and French fries and knowing that she'd end up ordering vegetable soup and a salad. She hadn't been inside and sitting at a booth by the window of the crowded Grill for more than five minutes, when the door opened and Blue McCoy came in. All conversation stopped. Blue headed for the only empty table—the one next to Lucy's. Giving Lucy a nod hello, he dropped his duffel bag on the floor and sat down. He glanced around the still-silent room, as if noticing for the first time that he was the center of attention. Some people were downright rude as they stared at him, hostility in their eyes. Iris came out to Blue's table. The normally friendly waitress wasn't smiling. In fact, she looked worried. "I'm sorry," she said to Blue, and it was clear that she was. "But that table is reserved for someone else." Lucy knew it damn well wasn't. Tables at the Grill had always been, and would always be, first come, first served. Blue knew that, too, but he reached down under the table and picked up his duffel bag. "Why don't you come sit with me, McCoy?" Lucy called out. "I've got this big booth all to myself." She looked up at Iris challengingly. "Unless it's suddenly reserved for someone else, too." Iris flushed, but she faced Lucy and then Blue. "I feel real bad about this, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said to Blue. "I can't risk trouble getting stirred up inside my establishment, and you, sir, are trouble." The crowd murmured its agreement. "Get him out of here," said a voice, as Iris disappeared into the back. "Yeah." Travis Southeby stood up, light glinting off his police badge. "Eating dinner with Gerry McCoy's killer in the room is gonna give me gas." Lucy raised her voice to be heard over the sudden din. "Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?" she asked, looking directly at Travis. "Blue McCoy hasn't been convicted of any crimes—he hasn't even been charged." From the other side of the room, a chair scraped across the floor as it was pushed back from a table. Leroy Hurley stood up and Lucy's heart sank. "Whatever happened to the good old days," Leroy asked the crowd, "when a town didn't have to pay millions of dollars to convict a cold-blooded killer? Anyone remember back then? My granddaddy used to tell me about those times. They didn't need no judge or jury. No, sir. They just needed the townfolk, the guilty man and a sturdy length of rope." Travis Southeby grinned. "It sure saved the taxpayers a heap of money." As Blue watched, Lucy pushed herself to her feet. She was spitting mad. Her cheeks were flushed and her brown eyes were alight with an unholy flame. Her teeth were clenched and she had one hand on the handle of her sidearm. He was glad as hell that she was on his side. "Are you talking about a lynching?" Her voice was low and dangerous. She turned to glare at the stocky police officer. "Shame on you, Travis, for making light of this. You should know better than that." She turned back to Leroy. "How about it, Hurley? Shall I run you in for attempting to incite a riot, or shall I charge you with attempted murder? Because times have changed since your dear old granddaddy was allowed to run amok in this town. These days we've got another name for a lynching, pal. It's called first-degree murder." She looked around the room. "Are you all clear on that? Does anyone have any questions? I wouldn't want to leave anyone confused about this matter." Leroy Hurley stomped out of the Grill, and the rest of the customers turned back to their food. Travis Southeby still stood, a pink tinge of anger on his puffy face. He gestured toward Blue. "If I was in charge of this investigation, he'd be locked up by now." "Well, you're not in charge," Lucy said tartly. "So just sit down and finish your dinner, Travis. If you have any complaints, take them to Chief Bradley." Travis threw down several dollar bills and left the Grill, his dinner barely touched. Before Lucy could sit down, Iris appeared from the kitchen, carrying a big paper bag. "It's enough for both of you," she said, looking from Lucy to Blue and back. "And it's on the house." She moved to the front door and opened it wide. "As long as you take it outside." Lucy shook her head. "I’m disappointed in you," she said to Iris. Blue silently slipped his duffel bag over his shoulder as Iris said, "Last time there was a fight in here, that big plate-glass window broke. Insurance company wouldn't cover it, and we were paying off the debt for three months straight. Billy Joe and me, we've got a kid in college now, Lucy. We can't afford that again. You know that." Blue went out the door first and Lucy followed. "I’m sorry," Iris said again as she shut the door tightly behind them both. "I'm sorry about that, too," Lucy said to Blue.

"People get passionate," he said quietly. "They don't always stop to think." She looked at the heavy bag he was still carrying over his shoulder. "Why didn't you leave your stuff in the motel?" He shook his head. "I'm not staying over there." "There's nowhere else in town to stay," Lucy said. "What are you going to do? Sleep outside?" Blue shrugged. "Yeah," he said. "I guess." She looked closely at him, her eyes narrowing. "What's going on?" He gazed at her several long moments before answering. "Jedd Southeby informed me that there are no vacancies at the motel at this time," Blue finally said. Lucy's mouth got tight, and she flung open the driver's-side door to her truck with more force than necessary. "Get in," she said. Blue climbed into the truck and watched with interest as she jammed the key into the ignition, revved the motor much higher than necessary and threw the truck into reverse. "There are never no vacancies at the Lighthouse Motel," she said grimly. "That's total bull. I know for a fact that there are at least fifteen rooms unoccupied right this very moment." It took less than a minute to drive to the motel. Lucy came to a halt with a squeal of tires. "Jedd Southeby, what is wrong with you?" she fumed, marching into the motel office lobby. "No vacancy, my foot!" Jedd didn't even get out of his chair. "He's not welcome here," he said coldly, motioning to Blue with his chin. He was small and angular, in contrast to his brother Travis, who was small and beefy. "That's illegal," Lucy said, crossing her arms. "You can't discriminate against-—" "I most certainly can," Jedd told her smugly. "I reserve the right to turn down any paying guest if I have justifiable reason to believe he will cause injury to my property, him self or my other paying guests. Considering Blue is suspected of killing his stepbrother, I'd have to say that I have a damned good justifiable reason, wouldn't you?" Lucy was aghast. "So where is Blue supposed to stay?" She shook her head. "Chief Bradley told him not to leave town. If you won't rent him a room..." "There's room in the town jail," Jed said. He looked at Blue and smiled nastily. "You might as well get used to sleeping in a room with bars on the windows, McCoy." Lucy took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Jedd." She carefully kept her voice steady, reasonable. "Your own brother is on the police force. I'm sure he's told you that no one gets any sleep at the station at night. The lights are always up, it's noisy, the TV is on and—" "Blue shoulda thought of that before he killed Gerry, huh?" "What if it rains tonight?" Lucy asked, slapping her hand down on the counter as she lost her cool. "Are you going to sit there and tell me that you're going to make this man—who, I might point out, has not been accused of any crime—sleep out in the rain?" "I don't give a flying fig where he sleeps." Jedd turned back to his television set. "Dammit!" Lucy turned away, pushing open the glass door and stepping out into the muggy heat of the night. Giving in to her urge to slap Jedd Southeby's smug smile off his face wouldn't do Blue or her career any good. "Dam-mit!" "I'm a SEAL. I've slept in the rain before," Blue said calmly. He looked up at the sky. "Besides, it's not gonna rain." "Get in the truck," Lucy fumed, climbing back into the driver's seat of her Ford. Blue looked at her through the open passenger's-side window. "Where are we going?" he asked. "Because I'd honestly rather sleep out in the rain than spend the night in the Hatboro Creek jail house." "Don't worry, I'm not taking you to the jail," she said. She took in a deep breath, then let it slowly out in an at tempt to calm herself down. This was not the best solution, but it was the only one she could think of at the moment. "You can spend the night at my house." Blue opened the door and climbed into the truck. "That sounds like the best idea anyone has had all day." Lucy shot him a dangerous look. "In one of the spare bedrooms." He smiled back at her. "Whatever you say." Lucy's house was a great big, rambling old thing on top of the hill off Fox Run Road. It had been built sometime around the turn of the century, Blue guessed. He knew that it had stood empty for a few years before the Taits had moved into town. No one had wanted to buy it—it would have cost

way too much to keep up—and Lucy's mother had gotten it for a song. Of course, the Taits had spent every weekend and most weekday evenings scraping paint and sanding and painting and repairing the old monster. When they finished with the inside, they started in on the outside. Even in the eerie glow of twilight, Blue could see that all their hard work had paid off. The big, old house was gorgeous. They'd painted it white, with dark green shutters and trim. It looked clean and fresh and as if it might even glow in the dark. "Place looks great," Blue sajd. "Thanks." "Still as big as ever." "Yep. Too big since my mom died." She snorted. "Too big before that, too." "Maybe you should sell it," Blue said. Lucy looked up at the house as she climbed out of the truck. "I could. Betty Stedman over at the real-estate agency rnakes me an offer on the place every few months or so. It's just... It's the reason I'm still here in town," she admitted. "If I sold it, I'd have to find someplace else to go." "There are about a million choices out there," Blue said dryly, pushing himself up so that he was sitting on the hood of her truck, "and in my opinion just about every one of 'em is better than Hatboro Creek." "You were in a big hurry to get out of this town, weren't you?" Lucy asked, gazing up at him. "I made a promise I'd get my high-school diploma. I knew I needed it to get where I wanted to go in the navy," Blue said, "or I would've left town the day I turned sixteen." "If you had, I never would've met you," Lucy mused. "I would've had the devil kicked out of me, or worse—remember that day the boys from the baseball team tried to beat me up?" Blue nodded. "Yes, ma'am." He leaned forward slightly to see her face in the darkening twilight. "What do you mean, 'or worse'?" "Nothing really." Lucy hefted the paper bag that Iris had handed her. "What do you say we sit on the porch and eat some of this food?" Blue slid down off the hood of the truck, following her up the path to the house. "You wouldn't have said ‘or worse' if you meant nothing." He caught her arm before she went up the stairs. "Lucy, what did those boys do to you? Did they ever come near you again?" Her eyes were wide as she looked down at where he was holding on to her arm, but he wouldn't let go. "They just..." She sighed. "They were jerks. They told me that if I stayed on the baseball team they'd take me out in the woods and show me the only thing a girl was good for—and I don't think they had cooking and cleaning in mind. I was too embarrassed to tell you—or anyone—about their threats." She gently pulled free from his grasp and went up the stairs and onto the porch. "Did they... ?" He could hardly get even that much of the question out as she sat down on a porch swing. "They never touched me again," Lucy said. "Not after you did your superhero imitation. They thought I was high up on your list of friends." She glanced up at him, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. "Of course, I helped perpetuate that myth by telling them how Blue McCoy was going to take me fishing, or how I was helping Blue McCoy fix up his boat.... I had quite the little fantasy world going, and they bought into every word of it." When Lucy smiled at him like that, Blue forgot about everything—about Gerry's untimely and tragic death, about the murder charges looming over him, about how the people in this town had turned their backs on him yet again. He could only think about Lucy—about the way she'd had that same sparkling smile back when she was a high-school freshman, back when she'd had a crush on him. If he had known then what he knew now, things would have been mighty different for him. He probably wouldn't have left town with his heart stomped into a thousand pieces. No, he would have left Lucy with her young heart trashed and broken, instead. But that really wasn't more appealing than the way things had worked out. Of course...maybe...if Lucy Tait had been his girlfriend back in high school, Blue wouldn't have left town at all. Now, where the hell had that thought come from? Blue had wanted to leave Hatboro Creek from the first moment he'd pulled into town at the tender age of five. Even if things had turned out differently between Blue and Jenny Lee, even if she had truly loved him rather than tried to use him to reach Gerry, he still wouldn't have stayed in town. And if Jenny Lee Beaumont, with her considerable charms, couldn't keep Blue from leaving town, what made him think Lucy Tait could have done otherwise? "It looks like Iris packed a couple of burgers, a vegetable soup, some of her fish chowder, two turkeys on whole wheat, an order of fries and some onion rings," Lucy said, spreading the feast out on the porch railing. "There are even plastic spoons. I've got dibs on the veggie soup, but everything else is up for grabs." Blue picked up the waxed cardboard soup bowl that held the fish chowder and pried off the lid. He gave the fragrant soup a stir with one of Iris's plastic spoons, then sat down next to Lucy on the porch swing. He sensed her stiffen, and knew the words were coming before she even spoke. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't sit quite so close."

"Come on, Yankee. You know you've got to have two on one of these swings to get the proper balance." Lucy didn't look up at him. She wouldn't meet his eyes. She just stared down into her vegetable soup as if it held the answers to all the questions in the universe. And when she finally did speak, she surprised him again with her frankness. "I know you're probably thinking about me as a sure thing," Lucy said. When he started to protest, she held up one hand, stopping him, her dark eyes serious. "I mean, here we are at my house. I brought you home to spend the night, right? Sure, I said you'd have to sleep in the spare bedroom, but you're figuring I probably didn't mean it. How could I mean it after last night? We nearly went all the way on the patio outside the country club. And if we had gone straight to your motel room from that patio, things would have turned out really different than they did." She set her soup down on the railing and turned to face him. "Yes," she continued. "In some ways you're right. Yes, we came very close to having sex last night. You wanted to. I wanted to. And if we'd been anywhere but out in public, we most likely would have. Even though it's not something I'm comfortable admitting, and even though I've never done anything so reckless in my life before last night, I can't deny that. "It puts a very odd spin on our relationship today—-because today if there is one thing that I absolutely, positively cannot do, it's engage in sexual activity with you. I'm the investigator. You're the suspect. If I were to allow us to have sex, I'd be breaking every rule in the book and then some." She took a deep breath. "So there, I've said it." Blue nodded, trying to hide his smile. Damn, but he liked this girl. She didn't play games. She just laid the facts out straight, just lined 'em all up on the table in full view. "No chance of changing your mind?" he asked. She didn't realize he was kidding. She shook her head. "No way. I'd lose my job. And my self-respect." "Well, all right," Blue said. "I guess there's only one thing we can do." Lucy was watching him, her eyes nearly luminous in the porch light. He wanted to kiss her. Instead, he stood. "We start with me easing back a bit. We don't want any spontaneous combustion," he added. "Then we wake up tomorrow morning, bright and early, and work our butts off to find a way to eliminate me from the list of suspects. And tomorrow night... we can take it from the porch swing." Lucy sighed, closing her eyes briefly. "I wish it were that simple." Blue tossed his empty chowder bowl into the empty brown paper bag. "It is simple." But Lucy didn't look convinced. She looked tired and wistful and very weighed down by responsibility. Blue wanted to put his arms around her and ease her burden. But right now he knew that would only make it harder to bear.

Chapter 7 Lucy's alarm clock rang at 5:45, pulling her up and out of a deep, dreamless sleep. She'd finally fallen asleep sometime after midnight. Before that she'd lain awake in her bedroom, listening to the familiar quiet noises of her house, straining to hear any hint of Blue moving around upstairs in the guest bedroom. She'd heard the thump of the pipes as he turned on the shower, and the hum of the pump and the hissing of the water as it was pushed up from the deep well. Several minutes later, she'd heard another thump as the water was turned off, but then... nothing. Silence. No footsteps. No noise. Not that she'd expected to hear anything. Blue was Alpha Squad's point man. She'd asked, and he'd told her that last night, after she'd shown him to the guest room and gotten several clean towels down from the linen closet. "I lead the squad in combat or clandestine situations," he said. Blue didn't know it, but Lucy already knew what a point man was. A point man could lead his team of SEALs silently right up to an enemy encampment without being discovered. A point man could lead his squad single file through a mine field without a single injury. A point man moved silently, carefully, always alert and watchful, responsible for the safety of his men. Lucy already knew all this because she'd read every book about SEALs that she could get her hands on. She'd read the first book in high school because she'd been thinking about Blue, and had heard through the local grapevine that he'd been accepted into the SEAL training program. She'd read the rest of the books not because of Blue, but because the first book had fascinated her so thoroughly. The concept of a Special Forces team like the SEALs intrigued her. They were unconventional in every sense of the word. They were trained as counterterrorists, taught to think and look and act, even smell, like the enemy. Due to the special skills of individual team members in areas such as language and cultural knowledge, they were able to lose themselves in any country and infiltrate any organization. They were tough, smart, mean and dedicated. They were a different kind of American hero. And Blue McCoy was one of them. Every man in a SEAL unit was an expert in half a dozen different fields, including computers, technical warfare, engine repair, piloting state-of-theart helicopters and aircraft. Each SEAL in the elite Team Ten was an expert marksman, intimately familiar with all types of firearms. Each was an expert scuba diver and extensively trained in demolition techniques—both on land and underwater. Each could parachute out of nearly any type of aircraft at nearly any altitude. They seemed superhuman, strong and rugged and very, very dangerous. And Blue McCoy, already her hero, was one of them. She was attracted to him. There was no point in denying that. And Blue had made it quite clear that the feeling was mutual. He'd told her that he'd thought about her as he'd danced with Jenny Lee at the country club. That was a hard one to swallow—Blue McCoy thinking about Lucy Tait while he was dancing with Jenny Lee Beaumont. Still, he'd told the truth about his conversation with Jenny. Lucy had read Jenny Lee's statement about the events leading up to the time of Gerry's death. The statement had included a description of Jenny's conversation with Blue at the country club. Jenny's version was identical to Blue's. But there was no way to verify exactly what Blue had been feeling when he'd danced with Jenny, holding her in his arms. Lucy knew that Blue wanted to make love to her. She saw that truth in his eyes every time he looked in her direction. The power of his desire was dizzying. But she was brought down to earth quickly enough by the thought that Blue probably only wanted her because Jenny Lee was not available. Lucy moved quietly into her bathroom and took a quick shower before pulling on a clean uniform. She brushed out her hair, leaving it down as it dried, grabbed an apple from the kitchen and left the house. She'd be back before Blue even woke up. Blue saw Lucy's truck pull away from the house as he finished his morning run. He'd slept only two hours last night. He'd gotten up well before sunrise, wide awake and alert, filled with a restless kind of energy and anticipation he'd felt in the past before going into combat situations. This time, however, it was laced with an undercurrent of sexual tension that sharpened the feeling of anticipation, giving it a knifelike edge. He had run five miles before dawn, another five as the sun rose, and still the edginess wouldn't go away. He watched the dust rise as Lucy's truck pulled out of the driveway. She looked as if she had on her uniform, and he was willing to bet she was heading down to the police station. She was probably going to fill the chief in on all that Blue had told her yesterday and find out if anything new had come in from the autopsy report. Blue climbed the stairs to the porch and tried the kitchen door. It was locked. He'd left his bedroom window open all the way up on the third floor. He knew be could get in that way; still, there was bound to be another window open a bit closer to the ground. The ground-floor window over the kitchen sink was open, but the sill was lined with plants being rooted in jars of water. He spotted an open window

on the second floor, recognizing it instantly as Lucy's room by its location. He climbed easily up the side of the porch and was outside the window in a matter of moments. There was nothing to knock over inside, just a filmy white curtain blowing gently in the morning breeze. He unfastened the screen and slipped into the house. Lucy's room was big—at one time it had no doubt been a front parlor or a sitting room. She'd put her bed in an offset area, surrounded on almost three sides by big bay windows. Her bed was unmade, her sheets a bold pattern of dark blues and reds and greens. A white bedspread had been pushed off the bed onto the highly polished hardwood floor. A white throw rug was spread on the floor. It was unnecessary in the summer heat, but it would be nice in the winter when the bare floors would be cold. The walls were white, with a collection of framed water-colors breaking up the monotony. The pictures were mostly seascapes with bright-colored sailboats out on the water or beach scenes. There were only two framed photographs, and they sat on a dresser. Blue recognized Lucy's mother in one, smiling through a hole in the half-finished wall of the kitchen. The other was a photo of Lucy, her arms around a tall, thin man he didn't recognize. The man had his arms around Lucy's shoulder, and the two of them were laughing into the camera. Who the hell was he? What did he mean to Lucy that she should keep this picture in her bedroom? Was he a former lover? A current lover? If so, where was he? Did he live across the street, or across the country? Lucy hadn't mentioned having a boyfriend. She hadn't acted as if she had one, either. But on the other hand, Blue had no right to feel these pangs of jealousy. He wasn't looking for commitment, just a night or two of great sex. If Lucy had some kind of steady thing going on the side, that was her problem, not his. So why did the thought of Lucy laughing like this as she leaned forward to kiss this other man leave such a bad taste in Blue's mouth? Why did he have this compelling urge to tear this photograph in two? Blue headed for the door, suddenly very aware that he was invading Lucy's privacy. But he turned and looked back over his shoulder before he headed for the stairs up to his bedroom and the third-floor shower. It was a nice room, a pleasant room, spacious and as uncluttered as the rest of the house. Lucy wasn't the sort of person who had to fill every available space with doodads and souvenirs. She wasn't afraid of a clean surface or an empty wall. Yeah, he liked this room. He hoped he had a chance to see it again—from the perspective of Lucy's bed. "Lucy!" Lucy turned to see Chief Bradley jogging down the corridor toward her. "Hey, glad I caught you, darlin'," he said, out of breath. "I see you picked up a copy of the autopsy report. Good. Good. Did you also get the message from Travis Southeby? He just happened to be talking to Andy Hayes over at the Rebel Yell last night and found out that Andy saw Blue McCoy leave his motel room at about ten o'clock on the night of Gerry's murder." Lucy nodded. "Yes, sir," she said. "That fits with what Blue told me as to his whereabouts that evening." Sheldon Bradley nodded, running his fingers through his thinning gray hair. "Did he also mention that Matt Parker was just in, not more than a few minutes ago, saying how he thought he saw someone who looked just like Blue McCoy arguing with Gerry at around 11 p.m., up in the woods near where the body was found? He saw them there just twenty minutes before the established time of death." "Matt thought he saw someone who looked like Blue?" Lucy allowed her skepticism to show. "No, I didn't get that message. I'll make a point to go over and talk to both Matt and Andy this afternoon." "Let me know what else you come up with," the chief said. "I'll have another report typed up and on your desk by the end of the day," Lucy told him. She opened the door, but again Bradley stopped her. "Oh, and one more thing," he said. "Leroy Hurley mentioned that he saw Blue McCoy here in town with a automatic weapon." "Chief, it wasn't a real—" He held up his hand. "As a result, it came to my attention that as of yet no one has confiscated whatever weapons McCoy might have—and I've heard some of those Special Forces types walk around carrying an arsenal." "Without a warrant, I'm not sure we have the right to-" "Actually, we do," Bradley told her. "It's an old town law, dates back from Reconstruction, from when folks ran a little wild. The Hatboro Creek peacekeeping officers have the right to gain possession of any individual's personal weapons until that individual crosses back over the town line. We never did get around to amending that law. It was brought up at a meeting a few years back, but then Hurricane Rosie came through, knocked it off the town agenda." “I’ll ask him if he has any weapons—" "You'll search the son of a bitch," the chief told her. "Or you'll bring him down here so that we can search him, if you're not up to it."

Lucy lifted her chin. "I'm up to it. But you should know that the gun Hurley saw him with was just a plastic toy." "Either way, I won't have him running around my town with an Uzi or the likes," Bradley said. "Whatever he's got, I want it locked up in my safe by noon, is that clear?" Lucy nodded. "Yes, sir." "And get a move on with this investigation," Bradley added, heading back down the hallway. "I want Blue McCoy locked up, too, before sundown tomorrow." *** Lucy pulled her truck into her driveway, unable to shake the feeling of dread in her stomach, dread that had started with the chief's news that someone had allegedly seen Blue arguing with Gerry near the murder site. Matt Parker. He was an upstanding citizen. He'd recently had his share of bad luck, though. He'd even been the cause of one of An-nabella's 415 dispatches earlier in the summer when he and his wife got to fighting about his recent unemployment just a little too loudly. But other than that, he wasn't one of the town troublemakers or one of Leroy Hurley's wild friends. Parker stayed mostly to himself, kept up his house and yard and showed up at church every Sunday without fail. Why would Parker lie about what he'd seen the night of Gerry's murder?" And if he wasn't lying, did that mean Blue was? No. Blue had looked her in the eye and told her that he wasn't the one who had killed his stepbrother. Lucy believed him. He wasn't lying. The air of calm that seemed to surround him, his definite tone of voice, his steady eye contact all reinforced her belief. Lucy got out of the truck and walked up the path to the house. It was only 9:30 in the morning, and already she felt as if she couldn't wait for the day to end. She had to search Blue McCoy for concealed weapons. That was going to be fun. Lucy rolled her eyes. She couldn't get within three feet of the man without risking third-degree burns. How on earth was she supposed to search him? She was going to have to make him assume the classic bodysearch position, arms stretched out in front of him, legs spread, hands against the wall. Because God help her, if he simply held out his arms while she patted him down and she happened to glance up and into his eyes... What was it that Blue had said last night? Spontaneous combustion. It was an accurate description of the way she'd felt at the country club when he'd held her in his arms and she'd kissed him. What a kiss that had been. God, maybe she should take Blue down to the station, let Frank Redfield or Tom Harper search him. But that would be admitting that she wasn't "up to it," as Chief Bradley had said. Lucy unlocked the kitchen door. She'd picked up a bag of doughnuts and two cups of coffee at the bakery in town, and she put them on the table. The house was quiet. Was it possible Blue was still asleep? Then she saw it. There was a note on the kitchen table. Blue had written a message to her on a paper napkin. He'd taken care to write neatly, printing in clear block letters: "Seven a.m. Went to scout out woods off Gate's Hill Road. CM." CM.? It took Lucy a moment to realize that C.M. were Blue's initials. His real, given name was Carter McCoy. Why hadn't he signed the note Blue? Did he think of himself as Carter? Or was he just so used to initialing navy paperwork that the C.M. had come out automatically? Either way, he was already up and out, doing her job. Lucy grabbed the doughnuts and coffee, locked the kitchen door behind her and went back to her truck.

Chapter 8 Lucy didn't find Blue up in the woods by Gate's Hill Road. Blue found Lucy. He just sort of appeared next to her. One minute she was alone at the edge of the clearing where Gerry's body had been discovered, and the next Blue was standing right beside her. She'd been expecting him to do something like that, so she didn't jump. At least not too high. She handed him a paper cup of coffee, instead. "Hope you like it black," she said. He nodded,sunlight glinting off his golden hair. "Thanks." The day was promising to be another hot, muggy one. Blue was still wearing his army fatigue shirt with the sleeves cut off, but he had it unbuttoned most of the way, allowing Lucy tantalizing glimpses of his rock-solid, tanned chest. She handed him the doughnut bag. "I also hope you like jelly doughnuts," she said, wishing that it were winter and thirty degrees so he'd have to wear a parka zipped up to his chin. "I ate all the honey glazed. That's what you get for coming out here without me." Blue smiled. "Serves me right. What's the latest news down at the station?" "The autopsy report is in." Lucy took a sip of her own coffee, leaning back against a tree as she gazed at him. His blue eyes were clear, his face unmarked by fatigue. He'd probably gotten eight hours of dreamless, perfect sleep, damn him. He didn't look as if he'd tossed and turned for one moment last night, distracted not a whit by the thought of her sleeping several rooms away. Lucy had tossed and turned enough for both of them. "The cause of Gerry's death was definitely a broken neck," she continued, "but we already knew that. It was a clean break, though, and the medical examiner found some slight bruising on his head and neck, indicating some kind of stranglehold. Whoever killed him knew what he was doing. It wasn't accidental, and apparently the bruising wasn't severe enough to indicate a long, passionate struggle. The killer knew exactly what he intended to do before he even got his hands on Gerry." Blue looked away, swearing softly. "The good news is that Gerry didn't feel it," Lucy said quietly. "He probably didn't even know." "Yeah, I know that." His mouth was tight as he looked up at Lucy again. "What else was in the report?" She shook her head. "I just skimmed the first few paragraphs. I'll read it more thoroughly later. You can look at it, too, if you want." She sighed, knowing that she had to tell him about what Matt Parker allegedly saw. "You've got more bad news," Blue said, reading her face. "What is it?" "A couple of witnesses have surfaced," Lucy said. "One of them places you up here, arguing with Gerry, about twenty minutes before his established time of death." Blue didn't say a word. His lips just got tighter. "Either this witness is lying," Lucy continued, "or he saw someone or something up here that could give us a lead to finding out what really happened." "Someone was up here, all right," Blue said. He set his coffee cup and the bag of doughnuts down on a rock and headed out into the center of the clearing, motioning for Lucy to follow. "Gerry's body was found right about here," he told her, pointing at an area where the weeds were trampled flat. "I didn't expect to find anything new. Too many people, both police and paramedics, added their footprints before a proper investigation could be made." He straightened up. "What I did this morning was search the clearing and the woods, moving out in circles away from the place where Gerry was found." He headed into the woods, and Lucy followed him through the thick underbrush. "I don't think the police searched out this far from the murder site," Blue said over his shoulder as they walked for what seemed like half a mile. "But I didn't have anything better to do this morning, so I just kept going." He stopped at a trail that was cut through the dense growth. It was little more than two tire paths, ruts worn into the side of the hill for a truck or Jeep to get through. Blue crouched, pointing at the damp earth. "Tire tracks," he said. "Big tires. Wider than your average truck tires by a good four inches. And whatever it was those great big tires were attached to, it was big and heavy, too." Sure enough, the tracks sank deeply into the dark soil. The mud was starting to dry. Whatever had left this track had been here directly after the last rain—probably around the time of Gerry's death. "Was it some kind of monster truck?" Lucy mused, crouching next to him. "That or an all-terrain vehicle," Blue said. "The tires look new," Lucy remarked. "The tread is barely worn. God, we can take a print of this and make an easy match, find out who else was up

here that night—if they're still in town." "And look over here," Blue said, standing up and pointing farther down the trail. "Whoever drove this thing left in one hell of a big hurry." Lucy straightened too, wiping her hands on her pants. "This is great! Let's go back to my truck and radio for as sistance. I'll have the crime team take some photos and make a mold of these tire tracks." She grinned. "McCoy, I think you may have just saved your own neck." Blue smiled at her enthusiasm as he followed her toward the main road, where she'd parked her truck. "Careful, or folks are going to say that this isn't an unbiased investigation." "Yeah, well, it's not," Lucy admitted. When she glanced over her shoulder at him, he could see a healthy dose of that simmering heat that could turn his blood boiling hot in less than a blink. But he could also see admiration shining in her eyes. He could see admiration and respect and something akin to hero worship. And in that instant, Blue realized that Lucy still had that old schoolgirl crush on him—no, not on him, but on some larger-than-life heroic image of him. He was a superhero who'd saved the day, chasing away her attackers twelve years ago. He was a member of the elite Navy SEALs—and he knew from the shelf of books about the navy and the SEALs that he'd found in Lucy's living room that she'd read all about the legendary heroism and patriotism and loyalty of the SEAL units. To Lucy, he was a living legend. And that made him attractive to her—probably more attractive than any normal, mortal man she'd ever known. The truth was, Lucy didn't really know Blue at all. Because he was mortal. But all her powerful attraction, all her respect and admiration, was based on some idea of how he should be. It was based on an image of the way she thought he was. Still, what did he expect? Since he'd arrived, he'd done nothing to straighten her out. He'd told her none of his secrets, shared none of his feelings. As a matter of fact, Blue could count the people he'd shared his feelings and secrets with on the fingers of one hand. Frisco was one. But it had been years since Blue had really talked to the injured SEAL. He'd gone to see him in the Veterans' Hospital and the rehab center a few times right after he'd been wounded. But Frisco didn't want to talk. And Blue finally stopped going to see him. It was hard to visit. It was hard to handle the guilt of knowing that he, Blue, could stand up and walk out of the hospital, while Frisco never would. It was hard to smile and offer hope in the face of Frisco's pain. And now it had been so long since Blue had visited Frisco, he wouldn't know what to say to the man. But Blue could still talk to Joe Catalanotto, the commander of Alpha Squad. And Daryl "Harvard" Becker, Alpha Squad's chief. But that was it. Hell, forget his fingers. These days, Blue could count the people he let in to his life on his thumbs. He watched the sunlight play in Lucy's long, brown hair as she opened the door to her truck and took out the microphone attached to her CB radio. She smiled at him—a flash of white teeth and sparkling brown eyes. What did he care that she wanted to sleep with him because of some overblown heroic image she'd been carrying around in her head for a dozen years? The key part of that sentence was that she wanted to sleep with him. Everyone had motives. Jenny Lee's motive back in high school had been to hang around Gerry's house to catch the attention of Blue's elder brother. The women he'd had relationships with since then had had their motives, too. They wanted to break away from the boredom of their lives, live on the edge for a while, go the distance with a good-looking stranger who was going to slip out of their lives in a day or two. So what if Lucy's motive was that she wanted to sleep with Superman? Of course, she wasn't entirely convinced that she should sleep with anybody. She had a solid streak of good girl running through her that had been overpowered by emotions and lust and the pull of the full moon the other night at the country club. Blue watched Lucy radio in the information about the tire tracks he'd found. She was so alive, so animated. Even though she was speaking to the dispatcher over the radio, she talked with her hands, gesturing, shrugging, moving, smiling. He was struck again by just how beautiful she was. It wasn't the kind of beauty that would draw stares or whistles when she walked down the street. In fact, dressed as she was right now in her police uniform, most men wouldn't give her a second glance. But Blue knew better. He knew the encompassing warmth of her smile; the powerful draw of her fresh, funny, upbeat personality; the dazzling sparkle of her eyes. And he knew the seductive taste of her kisses and the unforgettable feel of her incredible body against his. As he watched, her body language changed, subtly, slightly. He tuned himself in to her words. She glanced at her watch. "I realize the time," she said. "I know it's almost eleven, but this is more important than-" "The chief says he'll send someone out right away," a woman's scratchy voice said over the radio, "but you better get your rear end back here to the station before noon with whatever weapons McCoy is hiding, or there'll be hell to pay." Whatever weapons McCoy is hiding? It wasn't really that much of a surprise. Blue had figured it was going to come sooner or later. They'd search him, hoping to find and take away whatever gun he had on him, hoping to make him less dangerous. Lucy was doing her best to postpone the inevitable. "Annabella-"

"The chief is yelling for me, Lucy. I can't stay on and argue with you right now," the dispatcher said. "Do your job. This transmission is over." "No, Annabella..." Lucy swore sharply, leaning into the truck to adjust the radio. "She turned it off." She hooked the microphone back into its slot and looked at Blue. "She actually turned off the police station's citizens-band radio." "You know, Yankee, if there's something you have to do back at the station, I can hang here and wait for the crime team to show up," Blue volunteered. Lucy shook her head. "That won't work," she said. "Because you're what I have to do." Blue smiled. "While I truly like the way that sounds," he drawled, "I've got a feeling that's not exactly what you meant." Lucy felt her face flush. Still, she forced herself to look into his eyes. "I have to confiscate your weapons, McCoy," she told him. "I need to search you. And then we have to go down to the station so you can fill out the paperwork to get your property back when this is over." Blue nodded slowly. 'This is easy," he said. "You're not going to find any weapons on me. We don't have to go anywhere. You can just radio that information in." He hadn't said he didn't have any weapons. He'd said she wouldn't find them. Lucy held his gaze. "Look me in the eye and tell me you're not carrying," she said softly. "I'm not carrying," he said, his eyes steady. The rush of disappointment that went through her almost knocked her down. "Well, damn," she said. "I guess now we've established that you will lie to me." Blue didn't say anything. He just watched her. Her eyes blazed fire as she looked up at him again. "You want to try that one more time?" she asked. He didn't bat an eyelash. "I'm not carrying." Blue thought for a moment that Lucy was going to haul back and punch him in the stomach. Instead, she crossed her arms. "Hands against the truck, and spread 'em, mister." "Lucy, it's not going to do any good—" "Because I won't find anything?" she finished for him. "You want to make a bet on that?" She gestured to the truck. "Come on, move it, McCoy. Assume the position." "This isn't necessary." Lucy exploded. "You're a SEAL, dammit," she said, slapping the side of her truck with one opened hand. The sound echoed in the stillness. "/ know you didn't come into town unarmed, and Chief Bradley knows you didn't come into town unarmed, either. He's not stupid and I'm not stupid, and—" "And I'm not stupid, either." Blue caught her chin in one hand, pulling her head around so that she was forced to look into his eyes. In one swift movement he was standing close to her, penning her in against the side of her truck. His thigh was pressed against hers, the sensation nearly making him forget everything but his enormous need to feel her lips against his again. Nearly. Somehow he centered his focus and returned to the task at hand. "You're right," he whispered. "I'm a SEAL. And I can't forget that somebody out there killed Gerry. I'm not walking around unarmed—virtually naked —with a killer on the loose. And if that means I have to lie to you, Yankee, then I'm gonna have to lie to you. It's not personal. Don't think that it is. There's not a SEAL alive who wouldn't lie to Mother Teresa herself to stay armed in a potentially dangerous situation like this one." Lucy tried to pull away from him, but he held her tightly. "You look me in the eye," Blue continued, "and you tell me that if I admitted to you that I was armed you wouldn't insist on confiscating those weapons." His eyes were like blue steel, hard and unrelenting. "You tell me that you'd simply say, ‘Well, thank you very much, Blue. Thank you for telling me the truth. I know how much having that side-arm and that knife on your person means to you, so I won't include that information in my report to Chief Bradley.'" Lucy was silent. "Can't tell me that, huh?" Blue nodded. "In that case, I'll say it again. I'm not carrying." Lucy lifted her chin even higher. "And I said, hands against the truck and spread your legs, mister." Blue had to laugh. She was so clearly overpowered, so obviously in a position of being dominated, yet she wouldn't give in. She refused to back down. As annoying as that was, he had to like her for it. And he did. Mercy, he did like her. "Are you going to let go of me and do as I say, or do I have to haul you to jail first?" Her brown eyes were flashing again, her mouth trembling slightly in anger. It was all that Blue could do not to kiss her. Dear, sweet Lord, he wanted to kiss her something fierce. He wanted to, and dammit, he was going to.

"Come on, Yankee," he said softly. "Let's not fight. We're on the same side here, aren't we?" She glared at him. "I'm not so sure of that anymore." "Yes,” he said definitely. "We are on the same side. So let's just kiss and make up." Lucy's eyes widened as he leaned forward, lowering his mouth to hers. His lips grazed the softness of her sweet lips and he was milliseconds from sheer, total paradise when she spoke. "Don't," she breathed. "Please, Blue--don't." He didn't. He didn't kiss her. He pulled back. Out of all the tough things he'd done in his life, it was quite possibly the toughest. "I can't do this," Lucy whispered. "Remember? Until I'm through investigating Gerry's murder, you're a suspect, and I cannot do this." "It's just a kiss." His voice sounded raspy and strained in his own ears. Lucy shook her head. "No," she said. "It most definitely is not just a kiss." Somehow he'd lost his ability to hold her, and she broke free from his arms, pushing herself away from the truck and moving a safe distance away from him. She turned to face him. "It's not just a kiss, and you know that as well as I do." Her hand shook slightly as she pushed her hair back behind her ear, and she folded her arms tightly across her chest as if she had to hold herself steady. Her eyes looked big and almost bruised, and she clasped her lower lip between her front teeth. But still she gazed directly at him, her chin held high. "Either way, it's totally inappropriate," she added. She took a deep breath, exhaling it quickly in a loud burst of air. "So let's just get on with it, then, okay?" Was she talking about... ? Son of a bitch, she still intended to frisk him. Blue swore under his breath. Lucy tried to slow her hammering heart, waiting and watching as Blue slowly turned back to the truck. The muscles in his powerful arms flexed as he used them to support most of his weight, his feet planted and his long legs spread. He turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. The heat in his eyes was unmistakable. Not quite a minute ago, he'd been about to kiss her, and now she was supposed to frisk him, patting him down all over his body to make sure he had no weapons concealed underneath his clothing. Or concealed in his clothing, she realized, looking at the big, metal buckle of his belt. Still, this was weird. Too weird. "Well, come on," he said. "Don't keep a man waiting." Lucy stepped forward, uncertain exactly where to begin. Blue was watching her with one of those slow, lazy half smiles on his handsome face, though, so she started with his back. It seemed a whole hell of a lot less dangerous than the long, sturdy lengths of his legs or, Lord help her, his perfect, athletic rear end. Or was it less dangerous? As she ran her hands down the soft, worn cotton of his shirt, she could feel the ridges and bulges of his muscles. It was only his back. How could he have so many muscles in his back? But she wasn't supposed to be looking for muscles. She was looking for any kind of concealable weapon. A handgun. A knife. Who knows, maybe even some kind of grenade. He was carrying something, and despite what he said, she was going to find it. Lucy could feel a bead of sweat dripping down her own back as she slid her hands around to his sides. Jackpot. He was wearing a shoulder holster under his left arm. Triumphantly, she slipped her hands up underneath his shirt, only to find the holster was.. .empty? "Where's the gun, McCoy?" she asked. "I told you," he said. "I'm not carrying." "Yeah, right," she said. She was standing there with her hands inside his shirt, the back of her fingers resting against the smooth warmth of his skin. She moved her hands quickly away. "I'm supposed to believe you wear the holster empty because you're so used to wearing it you'd feel off balance if you didn't have it on, gun or no gun. Right?" "Exactly," Blue said with a smile. "I couldn't have said it better myself." Lucy humphed, searching through the contents of his shirt pockets, trying hard not to touch his satiny-smooth skin again. In his right-hand shirt pocket she came up with a Swiss Army knife. It was Blue's turn to humph. "That's no weapon," he scoffed. "I use the knife on that thing to spread peanut butter on my sandwiches." "From what I've read about Navy SEALs," Lucy said, "a shoe could be a weapon."

"I'm not wearing shoes," Blue drawled. "Although if I were, you'd want to be sure to check for the secret SEAL submachine gun that's hidden in the soles." "Just be quiet and let me get this over with," Lucy muttered, bending to pat his right ankle, her hands moving slowly up his leg. He had disgustingly nice legs. "Get this over with?" Blue murmured. "Shoot, I thought you were enjoying this. I sure as hell am. I figure if you want to touch me all over, and I mean all over, well, that's more than fine with me. I'd sure prefer it if we'd do it back in the privacy of your bedroom, though, instead of out in the open like this. But... whatever turns you on." Lucy tried to move her hands over the hard muscles of his legs quickly and impersonally, until she realized what he was doing. He was purposely trying to fluster her, to keep her from taking her time. There was something here that he was trying to hide. Her hands moved up one strong thigh, all the way to the juncture of his legs. But then she hesitated. Dear Lord, how exactly did a woman search a man thoroughly without embarrassing them both? And then there was the question of his belt— "Don't stop there, honey," Blue drawled. And Lucy suddenly knew that he only said that because he wanted her to stop there. He was trying to freak her out, make her back away. Well, fine. She'd play it his way—but only for a while. She went back to his left ankle, working her way up, again, to the top of his thigh. Again she stopped short. She patted his rear end and hips rather gingerly—to make him think he was winning the game. "Nice belt," she said, continuing with the ineffective patting around his waist. Then she dropped her bomb. "A big, metal buckle like that must set off all the bells and whistles at the airport, huh? I bet airport security makes you take that belt off and walk back through the metal detector without it on all the time." Blue shrugged "It's happened once or twice," he said. "You don't mind if I take this off and have a look at it," Lucy said, unfastening the buckle. "A much closer look?" She had to hand it to him. He didn't react as she pulled his belt free from the belt loops on his pants. He didn't show his surprise. He didn't sigh, didn't groan, didn't even clear his throat in acceptance of his defeat. And he had to know it was coming. He just said, very matter-of-factly, "That belt holds up my pants." "Looks like it does more than that," Lucy said, examining the inside of the buckle. Sure enough, hidden inside the buckle, and extending down through part of the thick leather of the belt, was a short but very deadly looking switchblade knife. Blue glanced at both her and the knife over his shoulder, but still said nothing. "What you use this one for?" Lucy asked, putting the knife back into the belt buckle. "And don't tell me it's the grape-jelly knife." He met her eyes steadily. She could see no remorse on his face. "I guess I underestimated you," he said, starting to straighten. Lucy stopped him. "We're not done," she said, smiling sweetly. "As long as you've got your belt off, maybe you want to unfasten your pants and give me that gun I know you're hiding in your shorts." He smiled. Then he laughed. And then he called her bluff. "You think I'm hiding something there," he said. "But you're wrong. 'Course, feel free to check and see for yourself." He knew she wouldn't do it. No, he thought he knew— but he was wrong again. The worst that would happen was that Lucy was mistaken and she'd end up briefly handling a man she'd daydreamed about since she was fifteen. Of course, if she was mistaken, he'd probably never let her live it down. But she wasn't mistaken. She couldn't be. God only knows where the gun from his shoulder holster had gone. Still, Blue had surely had a second gun tucked into the small of his back. It wouldn't have taken too much to push it down into his shorts and then wriggle it to a place where most women wouldn't search very carefully—if at all. Praying that she was right, she reached for him and her fingers found... Metal. "Ouch," Blue said. "Careful. Please." "Sorry," Lucy said sweetly. "You want to get that thing out of there, or should I? Of course, God forbid that it's loaded and I accidentally knock the safety off and—" Blue scowled at her, reaching into his pants. He pulled the tiny handgun out.

And aimed it at her, dropping into a firing stance. "Hands up," he shouted, and she raised her hands in alarm. Stepping away from him, Lucy tripped over a tree root and went down in the dirt right on her rear end. Blue popped the safety back on and helped her up with one hand while handing her the gun with the other. “Dammit, Lucy," he said. "You ID'd a weapon on my person, and you had me get it out myself? That's damned stupid. If I were the bad guy, I would've come out shooting and you'd be dead right now. Next time you're in a similar situation, you aim your own firearm at the guy's head and order him to drop his pants and his shorts, and let his weapon fall on the ground. Whereupon you pick it up. Do you understand?" Lucy nodded. Her heart was still pounding, adrenaline surging through her veins. This was one lesson she was never going to forget. But she had one to give him, too. "If you ever," she said coolly, "ever aim a gun at me again in the course of this investigation, I will arrest you and hold you on charges of threatening a police officer. Do you understand?" Down the road she could spot a police cruiser heading in their direction. It was Frank Redfield and Tom Harper. They'd come out to take photos and a plaster casting of the tire tracks. Blue looked from the cruiser to Lucy and nodded. "Sounds fair to me," he said. Then he smiled. "Provided you can catch me and contain me after I do it." Lucy didn't smile. She just stared coldly at him. She'd triumphed by finding two weapons he hadn't thought her capable of finding, but he'd kept the upper hand by making her look a fool. "Stick my gun and my belt in your lockbox," Blue told her. "We just have time to take these guys out to see the tire prints before we have to head into the station and surrender my gear." Lucy picked Blue's belt with the knife hidden inside it up off the ground, praying that she wasn't about to become an even bigger fool. Instead of holding on to the belt, she handed it back to him. "You said you needed this to hold up your pants," she told him. She pulled her keys out of her pocket and unlocked the heavy steel box that was attached to the bed of her truck. She stashed Blue's gun and the Swiss Army knife inside and locked it back up. "I know you said never to assume," she added, turning to look at him, "but in this case, I'm assuming that the occupant of your shoulder holster isn't too far away. Otherwise I'd give you the gun back, too. Too bad I can't complete the scenario by thanking you for telling me the truth." Blue hadn't moved. He stood staring at her, just holding his belt. There was an odd mixture of surprise on his face-surprise and something else that she couldn't quite pinpoint. Whatever it was, it was clear he hadn't expected her to break any rules on his account. Lucy walked past him, heading toward where Frank had parked the patrol car. She glanced over her shoulder at Blue. "I guess you did underestimate me," she said. Blue didn't say a word, but the expression in his eyes spoke volumes. Lucy helped Tom and Frank lug the heavy equipment and supplies they needed to make a plaster casting of the tire tracks up through the woods. The three of them huffed and puffed and sounded like an entire army crashing through the thick growth. Only Blue managed to move silently despite the fact that he carried at least as much—and maybe even more—gear. They were halfway up the hill, when Blue held up a hand, stopping them. There was a sound in the distance. It was little more than an odd buzzing, a midrange-pitched whine. It wasn't until Blue turned and began to run toward the tire tracks that Lucy realized what that sound was. Dirt bikes. It was the sound of a group of dirt bikes. With very little effort, the dirt bikes could obscure the tire tracks on the trail, bringing the investigation back to square one. Lucy dropped the bucket of dried plaster she was carrying and ran after Blue. She shouted over her shoulder for Frank and Tom to follow. Blue was moving so quickly through the trees it was nearly impossible to keep up with him. Still Lucy tried, leaping over rocks and roots as leaffilled branches slapped her in the face and arms. The sound of the dirt bikes grew louder and then more distant, and when Lucy saw Blue just standing up ahead, she feared that the worst had happened. She slowed, and he surely heard her approaching, but he didn't turn around. He just stood, looking down at the trail. The imprint of the big tires had been totally flattened and erased. There was nothing worth saving, nothing they could use to get a match on the vehicle that had been here the night of Gerry's murder. Blue's face was tight, expressionless, and when he glanced at her, his eyes were cold. "I should have stayed up here,” he said softly. "I should have guarded the tracks until the casting was done. This was my mistake."

"Mine, too," Lucy whispered. "Oh, Blue, I'm sorry." Blue was silent as they drove back to her house. He was silent as she did a cursory search of his duffel bag, silent as they drove down to the police station and turned in one of his guns to Chief Bradley. It wasn't until they'd left the station that he spoke. "Sheldon Bradley is involved," Blue said. Lucy turned to look at him in surprise. "Involved in what?" "This setup," he said. "This frame. And probably in Gerry's murder." "You think the chief of police," Lucy repeated skeptically, "murdered Gerry and is trying to pin it on you?" "I didn't say that," Blue said. "I said I think Bradley is somehow involved. Bradley or someone else on the police force." "Look, I know you're upset about this," Lucy said. "It was bad timing that those dirt bikes were up on that trail-" "I thought the timing was pretty damn perfect myself," Blue interrupted. "You radio in to the station, tell Bradley about the tire tracks, and not forty minutes later dirt bikers ride on that very same trail, erasing the evidence?" Lucy sighed. "You're right," she admitted. "It does seem a little too coincidental. But it doesn't mean that the chief is involved. Anyone listening in on channel nine could have heard that we found those tracks." She pulled her truck up in front of the Grill. "What do you say we get some lunch?" Blue took a five-dollar bill from his wallet. "Better get mine to go," he said, handing it to her. Lucy nodded. "I'll be right out." The Grill was crowded, as usual, but Lucy caught Iris's eye and quickly gave her an order for a couple of sand wiches. Sarah waved at her from a table in the corner, and Lucy walked over. "Hey," she said, sitting down across from Sarah. Sarah made an obvious point of looking out the window, out at Lucy's truck, where Blue was sitting. "Can't he come in and order his own lunch?" she asked. "Or does he have too many Y chromosomes to do that?" Lucy sighed. "Last time he was in here, we almost had a riot," she said. "Most of the town has already found Blue guilty of murder." "Not you, though," Sarah said, watching her friend. "No, not me," Lucy agreed. "Are you sure you're not getting in too deep with this guy?" Lucy forced a smile. "Can we talk about something else?" she asked. Sarah hesitated. She clearly had more to say on the subject. "Please?" "Okay," Sarah said evenly. "Here's something new-some good news. Remember that demo tape I sent to the Charleston Music Society? They want me to be part of their winter concert series as a featured artist. They've asked me to do a program of French art songs." Lucy smiled at her friend, her eyes alight with pleasure. "That's great! Did they give you a date?" "Sometime in December," Sarah said. She made a face. "That's assuming I've had the baby by then." Lucy had to laugh. "That's six months away. No one has ever been pregnant for fifteen months." "Not yet, anyway." "Lucy," Iris called out. "Your order is up." Lucy stood. "Congratulations," she said. "Thanks," Sarah said. "Call me later, okay?" She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Lucy, I've got to ask you if it's true what I've heard—that the superhunk is staying at your place? With you?" Lucy closed her eyes, swearing silently. She sat back down at Sarah's table. "You heard that?" she asked. Sarah nodded. "People are talking," she said, "and what they're saying isn't very nice." "Jedd Southeby wouldn't give Blue a room at the motel," Lucy said. "What was I supposed to do, make him sleep in the jail?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes," she said. "It's a shame, but... yes." Lucy shook her head, standing up again. "I can't do that," she said. "Thanks for telling me, but..." She shrugged. "I guess people are just going to have to talk." "Lucy, he could have done it, you know." Worry showed in Sarah's hazel eyes. "You're opening your house to a man who could very well be a killer. I know you probably don't see it that way—he's a man you've always respected and admired. Don't let that cloud your good judgment." "I appreciate your concern," Lucy said. "I really do." "But..." "I'll talk to you later." Lucy could feel Sarah's eyes on her as she paid Iris for the lunch and carried the paper bag of food with her onto the sidewalk. She started for her truck and stopped. Blue was gone. This time she didn't swear silently. She turned around, did a complete three-sixty, searching for any sign of where he might have gone. Tom Harper's police cruiser went past, moving faster than usual, and on a hunch, Lucy climbed into her truck, tossed the bag with the sandwiches onto the passenger seat and followed. Tom's patrol car pulled up in front of the vacant lot next to the gas station, several blocks down Main Street. Sure enough, there was Blue. He was facing off with three men, looking as if he was intending to fight them all simultaneously. One of the men had a chain and another had a length of two-by-four, but Blue was the one advancing. A small crowd had gathered to watch. As she jumped out of her truck and ran toward them, Lucy could see that one of the men was Merle Groggin. Another was Matt Parker. And the third was Leroy Hurley. Matt's nose was bleeding, Merle had what appeared to be the start of a black eye and Leroy was hot and sweaty. Blue didn't even look ruffled. Just mad as hell. "All right, break it up," Lucy called out, Tom Harper just a step behind her. "You call him off," Merle said, gesturing to Blue. "He's the one threatened to tear us limb from limb." "You jumped me," Blue drawled. "Remember?" "McCoy, back off," Lucy said sharply. He glanced at her, and she could see anger in his eyes. Real, hot, molten, deadly anger. "These boys just came back from a joy ride on some dirt bikes," he told her. "Shiny, brand-new dirt bikes. Who do you suppose gave them those bikes? They tell me they found 'em, that they fell off a truck that went past on the state highway. I figured they needed a little encouragement to tell me the real story—like who called them and told them to take that ride on that trail over by Gate's Hill Road—so I asked them to think a little harder. That's when they jumped me." "He's crazy," Leroy said. "It's the truth that we found those bikes. The packing crates are still up there on Route 17. We'll show you where, if you want. We didn't think it would do 'em any harm to take 'em for a test drive." Blue's voice was low, dangerous. "You are so full of garbage. You and your 'buddy' Merle just happened to be out for a stroll along the state highway? Or maybe you were the one who found 'em and you thought, 'Gee, maybe I should give Merle a call, see if he wants to take a ride.' Never mind the fact that two days ago you were threatening to kill him." Leroy brandished the two-by-four he was holding. "Are you calling me a liar?" "Hell, yes." Blue's eyes were shooting fire. "You're a liar and a drunk and a son of a bitch, and I aim to get the truth out of you if it's the last thing you do." Leroy bristled. "Call me a liar again, and I'll—" "You want to hit me with that stick, go on and do it, you lying sack of—" Leroy sprang, the two-by-four slicing down through the air. But Blue had moved. He was no longer where he had been standing. He spun, kicking as he turned, his foot connecting solidly with Leroy's arm. The piece of wood went flying, and there was a loud crack that had to be the sound of breaking bone. Leroy screamed. Lucy threw herself in front of Blue, grabbing his arms, trying to hold him back. "Stop it," she hissed. "Right now!"

Leroy was curled up on the ground, moaning and holding his arm. "Tell me who gave you those bikes," Blue demanded. Leroy spit on the dirt. Blue looked at Lucy. His eyes were wild and he was still breathing hard. "I can make him tell me," he said. She shook her head. "No, you can't," she said. "Radio for medical assistance," Tom told her. "We better bring 'em all in." Lucy was angry at Blue. Her anger was a palpable thing that filled the inside of her truck, surrounding them both. She was angry as she pulled out of the police-station parking lot, angry as she drove down Main Street. She was still angry as she took the right-hand turn onto Fox Run Road and skidded to a stop in her gravel driveway. She climbed angrily down from the truck cab and stalked up the front walk and onto the porch. She unlocked the kitchen door and pushed it open. "I want you to go inside," she said tightly, "and I want you to stay there until I get back." Blue's own temper sparked. "Since when did you start telling me what to do?" "Since you started acting like an idiot," Lucy said. "God Almighty, McCoy, what were you thinking? Did you honestly figure you could beat up Leroy Hurley, make him tell you what you wanted to know and not risk imprisonment? I had to talk rings around Chief Bradley to keep him from locking you up." She pushed her hair off her face in frustration as she stalked into the kitchen and paced back and forth across the floor. "I don't know how it works in the SEALs, but in this part of America, you just can't go around terrorizing people because you're mad. Lord, I expected more from you." / expected more from you. Her words pushed Blue over the edge, sending him down into a spiral of emotion and anger that he couldn't pull out of. He tried, but it enveloped him completely, and he lost his temper. "If you expected more from me," Blue exploded, "that's your problem, Yankee, not mine. Because guess what? I'm not perfect. I never have been." The force of his words pushed Lucy back against the kitchen counter. He could see shock in her eyes, alarm on her face, but once he'd started, he couldn't stop. "You see me as some kind of damned hero, but I'm not. I'm flesh and blood, and just as capable of screwing up as the next guy. "Guess what else?" he continued. "I yell sometimes. I like to yell. I like to fight. But I don't always win, because I'm not a hero. I'm not always right. I'm not always in control. I make mistakes, sometimes stupid mistakes. I get angry. I get hurt. I get scared. And right now I'm all three of those things." His voice got softer, and he looked away from her, out the kitchen window. "Only I can't tell you that, can I? Because... you expect more from me." The silence that surrounded them seemed almost unnatural, artificial. Blue could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the almost inaudible ticking of the clock. Outside, a breeze blew and a tree branch bumped the house. He heard Lucy take a step toward him and then another step, and then he felt her hand on his back. It was a touch meant to give comfort. Blue didn't know what he wanted from her, but he was almost certain it wasn't comfort. Still, when he turned and saw the sheen of tears in her eyes, he knew without a doubt that he was going to take whatever she had to offer. And maybe even then some. She went into his arms, holding him as tightly as he held her, and the longing that welled up inside him was sharp and painful as hell. This wasn't comfort; it was torture. "I'm so sorry," she murmured. He felt her hands on his back, in his hair, meant to soothe and calm. It wasn't working. "Lucy, I want you," he whispered, "and I don't think I can stand it anymore." He felt her stiffen at his words. She lifted her head and he gazed directly into her eyes. "Blue—" He touched her lips with one finger, silencing her. “I’m not what you think I am," he said. "You think I'm some kind of gentleman. You think all you have to do is tell me 'no,' and 'don't,' even though you damn well want it as much as I do. You think that because I'm some kind of hero I'll keep both of us from going too far. You think you can look at me with these big, brown eyes, not bothering to hide how much you want me, too. You think you can put me upstairs in some guest room, while you sleep one flight away, with your bedroom door unlocked and open, as if I'm strong enough to keep us apart. But guess what? You leave that door open and unlocked tonight, and I'm going to take it as the invitation that it is—because I'm not strong enough. I don't want to be strong enough

"No," Melody said. "Like a camping tent Like..." Jones pushed his way out of the tent and into the yard. The sun glistened off his bare chest and shoulders. He wore only faded jeans, a pair of wornout cowboy boots and a beat-up baseball cap. His hair was down loose around his tanned shoulders. "Like an army tent," she finished weakly. Melody knew that the Dockers and polo shirt Jones had worn the day he'd arrived in Appleton had been similar to his gleaming white dress uniform. He'd worn both outfits in an attempt to be more formal, more conservative. But these clothes he was wearing now—this was the real Jones. His message was clear. He was done playing games. As Melody watched, he bent and made an adjustment to the tent, and the muscles in his back and arms stood out in sharp relief. He looked dangerous and hard and incredibly, mind-blowingly sexy. Despite his long hair, he looked much more like the man she'd first come face-to-face with in the middle of a terrorist-controlled embassy all those months ago. "A tent?" Brittany was saying. "In our yard?" "Brittany, look, I have to go. He's definitely here." As she watched, Jones straightened up and said something. Said something to whom? But then, Andy Marshall scrambled out from inside the tent, laughing—apparently at whatever Jones had said. "Sweetie, don't be too quick to—" "Goodbye, Britt!" Melody cut the connection, and taking a deep breath she headed downstairs. She went out the kitchen door and stood on the back porch, just watching until Jones looked up. He glanced at Andy but didn't have to say a word. The kid disappeared. Jones wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans as he came toward her. He was smiling, but his eyes were guarded—as if he wasn't quite certain of his welcome. He was correct to be uncertain. "What do you think you're doing?" Melody asked. He turned to glance back at the tent as if double-checking exactly what he'd erected there. "The inn's a bit pricey," he told her. "I figured since I'm going to stay awhile, it'd be more economical to—" "How long, exactly, are you planning to stay?" Melody couldn't keep her voice from shaking. How dare he just set up camp in her backyard where she would be forced to look at him, to notice him, to talk to him if she wanted to tend to her gardening? Jones propped a foot up on one of the back steps and rested his arms on his knees as he gave her his best smile. "As long as it takes for you to agree to marry me." She sat down on the top step. "Gonna get pretty cold in a couple of months, living in a tent. But after a few years, you'll probably get used to it." He laughed. "Honey, there's no way you and I could live this close to each other for even a few weeks, let alone a few years, without one or both of us spontaneously combusting." Melody snorted. "Get real, Jones. Have you looked at me lately? Unless you have a fetish involving beach balls, I'm not likely to set your world on fire any time soon." "Are you kidding? You're gorgeous. It's very sexy...." Melody closed her eyes. "Jones, please don't do this." She never should have closed her eyes. She didn't see him settle on the step next to her, and by the time she felt him put his arms around her, it was too late. She was trapped. She hadn't forgotten how strong his arms felt, how safe she felt inside his embrace. And when she looked up at him, she found she hadn't forgotten the little flecks of brown and gold floating in the always changing green ocean of his eyes either. And she hadn't forgotten the way the mysterious darkness of his pupils widened, seemingly enough to swallow her whole, right before he bent to kiss her. He tasted like coffee, two sugars, no cream. He tasted like Paris in the moonlight, like the rough feel of bricks as he covered her mouth with his and pressed her up against a house that had been built four hundred years before Columbus had sailed west to reach the Far East and discovered America instead. He tasted like chocolate, like expensive wine, like a second helping of dessert. He tasted like everything she'd ever wanted but had taught herself to refuse for her own sake. He kissed her so gently, so sweetly, almost reverently as if he had missed her as much as she'd pretended not to miss him. And, God, she had

missed him. There was a place in her chest that had felt hollow and cold for all these months—until now. Now she felt infused by warmth, both inside and out. She felt him touch her, the warmth of his palm lightly pressing against her extended belly. "My God," he breathed. "It's really all you, isn't it?" Melody saw it then. Jones made an effort to smile as she looked up at him, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was thoroughly unnerved. She was having his baby, and as long as he was with her, there was no way he was going to forget that. She could see from his eyes how disconcerted he was, how unsettled he felt And just like that, the hollowness was back, making her feel emptier than ever. She knew with a dead certainty that if Jones were granted only one wish, it would be that he'd had a condom on that flight to Paris. She knew that being tied down with a wife and a child was the last thing on earth that this man wanted. She knew that the last place in the world that he wanted to be was here, sitting on her porch, talking her into doing something he himself didn't want to do. And yet here he was. She had to admire him for that. She could see the determination in his eyes as he leaned toward her one more time. His lips were so soft as he kissed her again. She was reminded just how very astute he was when it came to reading her needs. He somehow knew that these gentle, almost delicate kisses would get him much further than the intensely passionate, soul-sucking inhalations of desire they'd shared time and again in Paris. Of course, it was entirely possible that he was kissing her without that explosion of passion because he no longer felt passion for her. And why should he? She was a constant reminder of his obligations and responsibilities. And on top of that, she was about as sexy as a doublewide trailer. Still, he kissed her so sweetly, she felt like melting. Melody was in deep trouble here. Lt. Cowboy Jones was a warrior and a psych expert. While other men might well have been put off by her constant rejections, he was unswervable. And it was more than obvious that he had a battle plan as far as she was concerned. He'd figured out that she wasn't immune to him. He'd realized that he was still firmly entrenched under her skin and he'd dug in to wait her out. Time and her traitorous hormones were on his side. She was going to have to be even stronger. She was going to have to start by pulling away from this de licious kiss that was making her knees feel even more rubbery than usual. She was going to have to unlock her fingers from the thick softness of his hair. She was going to have to be tougher than this. Melody stood up, slipping free from his embrace. "Excuse me," she said. It was amazing how she could sound so calm when inside she was experiencing an emotional tornado. "I have to go inside." He stood up, too. "Alone," she added. He tried to hide his frustration by taking a deep breath and smiling. "Mel, honey, what do I have to do to convince you—" "I think the presence of your tent on my property constitutes trespassing. I'll thank you very much to remove it." He laughed at that. "I figured this way it was hidden behind the house. I thought the fewer people who knew about it, the better. But if you insist, I'll move the tent over into the Roma-nellas' yard. Vince said that would be okay. Of course, then everyone in town will be able to see it from the street." "I don't care," Melody said. "Odds are everyone in town knows it's there already." He took a step toward her and she took a step back. "Mel." He held out his hands, palms facing down as if he were calming a wild animal. "Think about this for a minute. We're both on the same side here. We're both trying to find the best solution for this situation." "Jones, I know you don't really want to marry me," she said. "What I don't know is how you'd be able to make yourself say those wedding vows. It would all be a lie. 'Til death us do part. Yeah, right. Until divorce us do part is more like it. You know it as well as I do." He leaned back against the porch rail, folding his arms across his chest. "You're right about the fact that I don't want to get married," he admitted. "But if I've got to marry someone, I'd just as soon have it be you." "And I'd just as soon have it be someone normal—" She cut herself off. "God, haven't we had this conversation already?" "Yes," he said. "And I'm going to say it again. I'm no different from any other man." "Except for the fact that when you get in a knife fight with four-to-one odds against you, you win." Melody shook her head. "Jones, don't you see how incredibly out of place you are here?" "I'm a SEAL," he said. "I've been trained to adapt to any environment or culture. Appleton, Massachusetts, shouldn't be that big a deal." He straightened up. "Where's the edge trimmer? In the garage?" She blinked. "What? Why?" He adjusted his baseball cap as he went down the steps and started walking backward along the path toward the garage as he talked. "You said you couldn't picture me using an edge trimmer. I'm going to help you out by actually letting you watch me use one." Melody's laughter was on the verge of being hysterical. "You're not going to leave, are you? You're just going to stay here forever and torment me."

He stopped walking. With the sun shining down on him, glistening off his tanned skin, gleaming off his gold-streaked hair, he looked invincible. "That depends on your definition of 'torment.'" Melody sat down on the steps, fighting the urge to burst into tears. She was so tired. She had all that she could handle working three-quarters time during these past few months of a difficult pregnancy. There was no way she could do that and go one-on-one in a battle of wills with a man who didn't know what it meant to quit Jones came back toward the porch, his eyes darkening with concern. "Honey, you look a little tuckered out." His voice was soft. "Maybe we should skip the lawn-care demonstration so you can go on upstairs and catch a nap before dinner, huh?" She knew what he was doing. He was trying to show her that he knew the words and music to the middle-class, suburban song. He was trying to be normal. His words sounded as if they'd been married for years. But all he'd proved was that he'd watched a few dozen reruns of The Cosby Show, or Family Ties. It was one thing to mimic and play pretend games. It was another thing entirely to keep up die pretense of being happily married for the rest of his life. Melody hauled herself to her feet. "You are not normal," she told him. "You'll never be normal. And don't kiss me," she added. "Ever again." Another of his smiles slipped out as he reached for her again, but she escaped into the house, locking the screen door behind her. "Thank you for hanging the curtains in the nursery," she told him stiffly through the protection of the screen. "But the next time you come into my house uninvited, I will have you arrested." If Jones's smile faltered at all, she didn't see it.

Chapter 8 "You did what?" "I gave him a key," Brittany repeated calmly as she checked the rice and turned on the burner underneath the wok, bending over to adjust the gas flame. Melody's knees were so weak she had to sit down. "To the house?" "Of course to the house." Brittany added some oil to the pan and went back to cutting up the vegetables for the stir-fry. "What good would an open invitation to use the bathroom and the shower be without a key to the house?" Melody put her head in her hands. "Brittany, what are you doing to me?" "Sweetie, your SEAL'S been living in the backyard for almost a week now—" "Thanks to your first asinine invitation!" Melody proceeded to give a ridiculously unflattering imitation of her sister's voice: "No, Lieutenant, of course we don't mind your tent in our backyard. Of course, Lieutenant, you're welcome to stay as long as you like.' I was waiting for you to offer to do his laundry and lay a chocolate out on his pillow each night. Jeez Louise, Britt, didn't you even consider the fact that I might not want him underfoot twenty-four hours a day?" Her sister was not fazed. "I'm not convinced you know what you want." "Whereas you do?" The oil was hot enough, and Brittany tossed thin slices of celery into the wok. "No." "Yet you insist on encouraging him to stay." "My encouragement hardly makes up for your discouragement. But since he hasn't gone away yet," Brittany said, "I think it's a pretty strong indication that he intends to stay until you give in." "I'm not going to give in." Brittany turned to face her, knife in hand. "That's right. You're not going to give in—if you keep doing what you're doing. When you leave for work in the morning, you make a beeline for your car. When you come home, you make a beeline for your room. You haven't let the poor man say more than three sentences to you in the past four days." Melody lifted her head. "The 'poor man'?" Brittany returned some of her attention to her cooking, adding broccoli and thinly cut strips of zucchini squash to the wok. "I'm with Estelle and Peggy on this one, Mel. I know that's hard to believe—those two seeing eye to eye with me—but it's true. We think you should stop thinking only of yourself and marry the man." Melody sat up even straighter. "You swore when I first told you that I was pregnant that you wouldn't lecture me. You said you'd support me whatever I decided to do." "What I just told you wasn't a lecture," Brittany said firmly, stirring the vegetables. "It was an opinion. And I am supporting you, the best way I know how." "By giving Jones a key to the house and an open invitation to just walk hi whenever the mood strikes him?" "The man is a gem, Mel. This yard has never looked so good!" Of course the yard looked good. Every time Melody turned around, Jones was outside her window, raking the leaves or tinkering under the hood of Brittany's car or lifting enormous amounts of weights. Every time she turned around, she caught a flash of sunlight reflecting off smooth, deeply tanned muscles. Whether it was sunny and sixty degrees or drizzling and barely fifty, Jones went outside without a shirt on. Whether he was working in the yard or sitting and reading a book, he was naked from the waist up. You'd think that after a while she'd get used to the sight of all those muscles rippling enticingly in the sunshine or gleaming wet from the rain. Yeah, right. Maybe in her next lifetime... "And I don't know what your lieutenant's done to my car, but it hasn't run this well in years," Brittany added. "You really should let him look at yours." "He's not my lieutenant. And if a smoothly running car is what you're after," Melody said hotly, "maybe I should marry Joe Hewlitt from the Sunoco station instead." "You're impossibly stubborn," Brittany complained. "Can we talk about something else?" Melody pleaded. "Isn't there something going on in the world that's more interesting than my nonrelationship with Harlan Jones?"

Brittany made room at the bottom of the sizzling wok for the cubes of tofu she'd cut. "Well, there's always the latest installment in the Andy Marshall adventure." Melody braced herself. "Oh, no. What did he do this time?" The stove timer buzzed, and Brittany turned off both it and the heat beneath the rice. "Tom Beatrice caught him outside the liquor store on Summer Street. He'd just given Kevin Thorpe ten bucks to buy him a six-pack of beer and a pack of cigarettes." "Oh, Andy, you didn't..." Melody sighed, resting her chin in the palm of one hand. "Damn, I thought he was finally adjusting to Appleton." She'd seen Andy out in the yard, hanging around Jones while he worked. Jones always had time to talk. Sometimes he even stopped to toss a ball around with the kid. She'd been secretly impressed with his patience and hoped that Andy had finally latched on to a man who was, indeed, a worthy role model. There was no doubt about it. The boy was starved for affection and attention. Melody had ran into him a few times downtown over the past week. The first time they talked, he'd hesitantly reached out to touch her belly again, smiling almost shyly when the baby kicked. The second time, she'd bumped into him—literally. His cheek was scraped and his lip was swollen, and although he'd insisted he'd fallen off his bicycle, she knew Alex Parks and his friends had been giving the younger boy trouble again. The third time, he'd actually greeted Melody with a hug. He'd said hello to the baby by pressing his face against Mel's stomach—and got kicked in the nose for his trouble. That sent him rolling on the ground with giddy laughter. He was a good kid. Melody was convinced that deep inside he had a sweet, caring soul. He shouldn't be trying to grow up so fast, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. "He's only twelve. He probably doesn't even like the taste of beer." "He's twelve going on thirty," Brittany said grimly, "which, at the rate he's going, is how old he'll be when he finally gets out of jail. It's a wonder Tom didn't lock the little jerk up." "Who's Tom and which little jerk didn't he lock up?" Melody's shoulders tensed. Just like that, merely at the sound of Jones's voice, she was an instant bundle of screaming nerves. He was standing on the other side of the screen door, looking into the kitchen. "Tom Beatrice is the Appleton chief of police. And the little jerk is the kid who's running for Troublemaker of the Year— Andy Marshall. Come on in," Brittany called from the stove. "Dinner's almost ready." Melody stood up, crossing to stand next to her sister. "You invited him to dinner?" she whispered through clenched teeth. "Yes, I invited him to dinner," Brittany said evenly. "There's beer in the fridge," she told Jones. "Help yourself. And if you don't mind, would you grab one for me and pour a glass of milk for Mel?" "It'd be my pleasure. Hey, Mel." Jones had dressed for the occasion. He was actually wearing a T-shirt with his jeans, and his hair was pulled back from his face in a single neat braid. "How're you feeling?" Betrayed. Melody sat down at the kitchen table and forced a smile. "Fine, thanks." “Really?" He sat down directly across from her, of course, where she wouldn't be able to keep from looking at him while they ate. Why did he have to be so utterly good-looking? And why did he have to smile at her that way all the time, as if they were constantly sharing a secret or a very personal private joke? "Mel's been having trouble with backaches again," Brittany announced as she set the wok on a hot pad in the middle of the table. Jones took a sip of his beer directly from the bottle as he gazed at Melody. "I'm available any time you want a back rub." She remembered his back rubs. She remembered them too well. She looked everywhere but into his eyes. "Thanks, but a soak in the tub'll take care of it" Jones took the serving bowl filled with steaming rice that Brittany handed to him. "Thanks. This looks delicious. What's up with Andy Marshall?" "The little fool was caught trying to get his hands on beer and cigarettes," Melody told him. Jones paused as he dished out the rice onto his plate, stopping to look up at her. "Shoplifting?" She shook her head. "No. He paid Kevin Thorpe to buy them for him." Jones nodded, passing her the heavy bowl. "At least he wasn't stealing." Their fingers touched, and Melody knew damn well it wasn't an accident. Still, she ignored it. Her heart could not leap when he touched her. She simply would not let it. Still, she had to work to keep her voice even. "He shouldn't be drinking or smoking. Whether or not he stole the beer and cigarettes is a moot point."

"No, it's not. It's—" The phone rang, interrupting him. Brittany excused herself and stood up to answer it "Hello?" Jones lowered his voice. "I think the fact that Andy didn't simply go into the store and walk out with a stolen can of beer in his pocket says a lot about him." "Yeah, it says that he wanted more than one can of beer. He wanted an entire six-pack." "It says he's not a thief." “I’m sorry," Brittany interrupted. "That was Edie Myerson up at the hospital. Both Brenda and Sharon called in sick with the flu. I'm going to have to go over and cover for at least two hours—until Betty McCreedy can come in." Melody looked up at her sister in shock. She was leaving her alone with Jones? "But—" "I'm sorry. I've got to run." Brittany grabbed her bag and was already out the door. "Where's Andy now? Do you know?" Jones asked, barely missing a beat in their conversation, as if the situation hadn't just moved from embarrassingly awkward to downright impossible to deal with. He took a mouthful of the stir-fry. "Man, this is good. After a week of Burger King and KFC, my body is craving vegetables." Melody set down her fork. "Did you and Brittany plan this?" He washed down his mouthful of food with a sip directly from his bottle of beer. "You really think I'd stoop to lying and subterfuge just for a chance to talk to you?" "Yes." Jones grinned. "Yeah, you're right. I would. But that's not what this is. I swear. Your sister invited me for dinner. That's all." The stupid thing was, she believed him. Brittany, on the other hand, had probably planned to leave right from the start. Melody picked up her fork but couldn't seem to do more than push the food around on her plate as Jones had a second helping. Her appetite had vanished, replaced by a nervous flock of butterflies that took up every available inch of space in her rolling stomach. "So how's work?" he asked. "Are you always this busy?" "It's going to get frantic as the election gets closer." "Are you going to be able to keep up?" He gazed at her steadily. "I got some books about pregnancy and prenatal care out of the library, and they all seem to agree that you should take care not to push yourself too hard these last few months. You know, you look tired." Melody took a sip of her milk, wishing he would stop looking at her so closely, feeling as if she were under a microscope. She knew she looked tired. She was tired and bedraggled, and this dress she had on made her resemble a circus tent. How had Andy described her? Fat and funnylooking. "I'll be fine." "Maybe I could come to work with you—act as your assistant or gofer." Melody nearly sprayed him with milk. Come to work with her? God, wouldn't that be perfect? "That's really not a very good idea." It was the understatement of the century. "Maybe we should compromise," he suggested. "I won't come to work with you, if you stop ignoring me." He was smiling, but there was a certain something in his eyes that told her he wasn't quite kidding. "I haven't been ignoring you," she protested. "I've been practicing self-restraint." He leaned forward, eyebrows rising. "Self-restraint?" She backed off, aware that she'd already slipped and told him too much. She had to get out of here before she did something really stupid—like throw herself into his arms. "Excuse me." She pushed her chair back from the table and stood up, then carried her plate to the kitchen sink. Cowboy took another long sip of his beer, hiding the relief that was streaming through him. He could do this. He could actually succeed in this mission. He'd been starting to doubt his ability to get through to her, starting to think she just plain disliked him, but in fact the opposite was true. Selfrestraint, she'd said. Hell, she liked him so much she couldn't stand to be in the same room with him, for fear she wouldn't be able to resist his attempts to seduce her. Yes, he could win this war. He could—and he would—convince her to marry him before his leave was up.

His relief was edged with something else. Something sharp and pointed. Something an awful lot like fear. Yeah, he could take his tune and make her see that marrying him was the only option. But then where would he be? Saddled with a wife and a baby. Shackled with a ball and chain. Tied down, tied up, out of circulation, out of the action. A husband and a father. Two roles he'd never thought he would ever be ready to play. But he had no choice. Not if he wanted to live with himself for the rest of his life. Cowboy took a deep breath. "Mel, wait." She turned to look warily back at him. Cowboy didn't stand up, knowing that if he so much as moved, she'd run for the stairs. Damn, she was that afraid of him—and that afraid of the spark that was always ready to ignite between them. Still, he'd made her trust him before, under even more difficult circumstances. He could do it again. He had to do it again, no matter how hard, no matter how much fear of his own he felt. This was too important to him. He took a deep breath. "What if I promised...?" What? That he wouldn't pull her into his arms? Wouldn't try to kiss her? He needed to do both of those things as much as he needed to keep breathing. Keeping his distance from this woman was going to be hard to do. Nevertheless, he had no choice. It was gonna hurt, but he'd done hard and painful things before. "What if I swore I wouldn't touch you? You pick a distance. Two feet, three feet, six feet, whatever, and I promise I won't cross that line." She wasn't convinced He could see her about to turn him down, but he didn't give her a chance to speak. "I also promise that I won't say a single word tonight about weddings or obligations or responsibilities or anything heavy. We'll talk about something entirely different. We'll talk about—" he was grasping at straws here, but she hadn't left the room yet "—Andy Marshall, all right? We'll figure out what we're going to do about him." She turned to face him. "What can we do?" Cowboy already knew the best way to deal with Andy—directly, ruthlessly and mercilessly. He'd been intending to call on Vince Romanella later tonight and ask his permission to spend part of tomorrow with the kid. But why not teach Andy his lesson tonight? "There's a place in the woods, up by the old quarry," he told Melody, willing her to sit back down at the table, "that's always littered with beer bottles and cigarette butts. My guess is that's where Andy was going to go with his six-pack." Melody actually sat down, and Cowboy used all of his self-control to keep from reacting. He had to play it really cool or she'd run. "I know the place you mean," she said. "It was a popular hangout spot back when I was in high school, too. But Andy's only twelve. He wouldn't exactly be welcome there." "He would if he showed up with a six-pack of brew under his arm." "Why on earth would Andy want to make friends with high school seniors?" Melody wondered. "That kid he's always fighting with," Cowboy said. "What's his name? Parks?" "Alex Parks." "He's only a freshman or a sophomore, right?" Melody nodded. She was actually looking into his eyes. She was actually sitting there and talking to him. He knew it was only a small victory, but he'd take 'em where he found 'em. "Well, there you go," he concluded. "It seems like a pretty sound strategy to me. Make friends with people who can crush— or at least control—your enemy. Andy's not stupid." "Then the six-pack was really just an offering to the gods, so to speak. Andy wasn't really going to drink it." Her eyes begged him to tell her she was right. He wished he could agree so that she would smile at him, but he couldn't. "I'd bet he wasn't planning to drink all of it," he told her, "but he was certainly intending to drink some. Probably enough to give him a good buzz. And to come out of it thinking the entire evening was a positive experience. Which would leave him wanting to go back and do it again." Melody nodded, her face so serious, her eyes still glued to his as if he held all the wisdom and knowledge in the universe. "So what we've got to do," Cowboy continued, "is make sure his first experience with a six-pack of beer is a nightmare." She blinked. And then she leaned forward. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Remember Crash?" Cowboy asked. "William Hawk? My swim buddy?" "Of course." "To this day, he doesn't drink. At least I assume he still doesn't. He didn't during the time we were going through BUDI S training. Anyway, he told me he wasn't much older than Andy when his uncle caught him sneaking a beer from the downstairs refrigerator." It was one of the few stories about his childhood that Crash had told Cowboy. And he'd told it only to convince Cowboy that no, he didn't want a beer, thank you very much. "Crash's uncle taught him a thing or two that day, and we, in turn, are going to run the same drill with Andy." He smiled ruefully. "It's a lesson I could've used myself, but the admiral wasn't around enough to know what kind of trouble I was getting myself into." She was watching him. "I thought you told me your father was really strict." "He was—when he was home. But after we moved to Texas, he was hardly ever home. There were a few years he even missed Christmas." He had her full attention and he kept going. She claimed they didn't know each other. And as hard as it was to talk about his less-than-perfect childhood, it was important that she understood where he came from—and why walking away from her and this baby was not an option for him. "You know, I used to be like Andy," he continued, "always making excuses for my old man. He had to go where he was needed. He was very important. He had to be where the action was. Even though—during the Vietnam conflict—he'd more than earned the chance to sit back and relax, he wouldn't ask to be assigned to a cushy post like Hawaii. Hawaii wasn't exactly what my mother wanted, but she would have settled for it. But old Harlan wanted to keep moving forward in his career. "I always used to think he had such a tough job—going out to sea for all those months, being in charge of all those men, knowing that if an aggressive action started, he'd be right in the middle of it. But the fact is, that stuff was easy for him. We were the hard stuff. A wife who honestly didn't understand why he didn't retire from the Navy and take a job selling cars with her Uncle Harold. A kid who needed more than constantly being told that B's and B pluses weren't good enough. You know, I could work my butt off, cleaning my room for him, making it shipshape, and he would focus on the one spot of dust I'd missed. Yeah," he repeated softly, "we were the hard stuff, and he ran away from us." She didn't say anything, but he knew she read his message loud and clear. He wasn't going to run away. Cowboy pushed back his chair, still careful to move slowly. "Mind if I use your phone?" She shook her head, distracted, as if she were still absorbing all that he'd told her. But then she looked up. "Wait. You haven't told me exactly what Crash's uncle did that day." "Do you have Vince Romanella's number—?" Cowboy scanned the list of neighbors' and friends' numbers posted on a corkboard near the kitchen phone. "Here it is. And as for Crash's uncle..." He smiled at her. "You're just going to have to wait and see." He dialed Vince's number. She laughed in disbelief. "Jones. Just tell me." "Hey, Vince," he said into the phone, "it's Jones—you know, from the Evanses next door? I heard about the trouble Andy got into this evening. Is he there?" "He's probably in his room, grounded for a week and writing a twenty-page paper on why he shouldn't drink beer," Melody said, rolling her eyes. "Vince's heart is in the right place, but something tells me all the essay writing in the world isn't going to have any impact on a kid like Andy Marshall." Across the room, Jones smiled again. "You're right," he mouthed to her, shaking his head as he listened to Vince recount the evening's excitement —and the subsequent ineffective punishment. "Yeah," Jones said into the phone, "I know he's grounded, Vince, but I think I know a way to make sure he doesn't drink again—at least not until he's old enough to handle it." He laughed. "You heard of that method, too? Well, a friend of mine told me that when he was a kid... Yeah, I can understand that. As his official foster parents, the state might not approve of... But I'm not his foster parent, so..." He laughed again. The way he was standing, leaning against the kitchen counter, phone receiver held easily under his chin, reminded Melody of Paris. He'd stood the same way in the hotel lobby, leaning back against the concierge's desk as he took a call. Except back then, he'd been wearing a U.S. Navy uniform, he'd been speaking flawless French and he'd been looking at her with heat simmering in his eyes. There was still heat there now, but it was tempered by a great deal of reserve and caution. In Paris, the idea of an unwanted, unplanned pregnancy had been the furthest thing from either of their minds. But here in Appleton, the fact that they'd made an error in judgment was kind of hard to avoid. She carried an extremely obvious and constant reminder with her everywhere she went. And as much as he was pretending otherwise, Melody knew that Jones didn't really want to marry her. "Okay," he said into the telephone now. His slightly twangy Western drawl still had the power to send chills down her spine. "That'd be great. There's no time like the present, so send him over." He hung up the phone. "Andy's on his way." Melody forced the chills away. "What are you planning to do?" Jones smiled. "I'm going to wait and tell you at the same time I tell Andy. That way, we can get a good-cop, bad-cop thing going that'll sound really sincere." "Jones, for crying out loud..."

His smile turned to a grin. "I thought pregnant women were supposed to be really patient." "Oh yeah? Guess again. With all these extra hormones flying around in my system, I sometimes feel like Lizzie Borden's crazier sister." "One of the books I was reading said that during pregnancy most women feel infused with a sense of calm." "Someone forgot to give me my infusion," Melody told him. Jones opened the door to the pantry. "I’m ready with a back rub at any time. Just say the word." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Hey, you promised—" "I did, and I'm sorry. Please accept my apology." He pulled the string and the pantry light went on. "Do you have any beer that's not in the fridge?" "Brittany keeps it in there, on the bottom shelf," Melody directed him. "Why?" "Yup, here it is." He emerged from the pantry with a six-pack of tallboys. "Nice and warm, so the flavor is...especially enhanced. Tell your sister I'll replace these. But right now, Andy needs it more than she does." "Andy needs...? Jones, what are you—" "We better go out on the patio." He flipped the light switches next to the kitchen door until he found the one that lit the old-fashioned stone patio out back. "This will get messy. It's better to be outside." "Please just tell me—" Melody broke off as she saw Andy standing defiantly at the bottom of the porch stairs. "Vince said you want to see me." "Yes, we certainly do." Jones held open the back door for Melody. "He said to give you this." The boy spoke in a near monotone as he held out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. "He said they're from three months ago, when his brother came to visit. He said to tell you that they're probably stale but that he didn't think you'd mind." Andy tossed the pack into the air, and Jones caught it effort lessly in his left hand. "Thanks. Heard you were hoping to do some partying tonight." Melody grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door and slipped it on as she went out into the cool evening air. "Hello, Andy." The boy wouldn't meet her gaze. He wouldn't even glance up at her. "So what? It's not that big a deal," Andy sullenly told Jones. "Yeah, that's what I figured you'd say." Jones set the beer down on the picnic table that sat in the center of the patio. He brushed a few stray leaves from one of the chairs for Melody. "You just wanted to have some fun. And it was only beer. What's the fuss, right?" There was a flash of surprise in Andy's eyes before he caught himself and settled back into sullen mode. "Well, yeah," he said. "Right. It's only beer." Melody didn't sit. "Jones, what are you doing?" she whispered. "Are you actually agreeing with him?" "All I'm saying is that people get uptight about the littlest things. Sit down, Andy," Jones commanded. "So you're a beer drinker, huh?" Andy slouched into a chair, a picture of feigned nonchalance. His nervousness was betrayed by the way he kept fiddling with the wide leather band of his beloved wristwatch. "It's all right. I've had it a few times. Like I said, it's no big deal." Jones took one of the cans off the plastic loop that held the six-pack together. "Drinking some brew and having a few smokes. Just a regular old, no-big-deal Saturday night. You were planning to go up to the quarry, huh?" Andy gave Jones a perfect poker face. "Up where?" "To the quarry." Jones exaggerated his enunciation. Andy shrugged. "Never heard of it." "Don't try to con a con artist. I know you know where the quarry is. You've been up there while I was doing laps. You don't really think I didn't notice you—sneaking up on me like a herd of stampeding elephants." "I was quiet!" Andy was insulted. "You were thunderous." "I was not!" "Well, okay, so you were relatively quiet," Jones conceded, "but not quiet enough. There's no SEAL on earth who would've missed hearing you."

Melody couldn't stay silent a moment longer. "You swim laps in the quarry?" "First he runs five miles," Andy told her. "I know, because I clocked it on my bike. Then he swims—sometimes for half an hour without stopping, sometimes with all of his clothes on." It was Jones's turn to shrug. "Every so often in the units, you take an unplanned swim and end up in the water, weighed down with all your clothes and gear. It's good to stay in practice for any situation." "But the water up there's cold in August," Melody argued. "It's October, and lately we've had frost at night. It must be freezing." Jones grinned. "Yeah, well, lately I've been swimming a little faster." "And then after you swim, you run another five miles back here," Andy said, "where you work out with your weights." Melody knew about the weights. She'd been getting dressed each morning for the past week to the sound of clinking as Jones bench-pressed and lifted enormous-looking weights. But she'd had no idea that he ran and swam before that. He must've been up every morning at the very first light of dawn. "Even though I'm on vacation, it's important to me that I stay in shape," he explained. She nearly laughed out loud. This was the man who was going to prove to her how average and normal he truly was? "But we're getting sidetracked here," Jones continued. "We were talking about beer, right?" He held one of the cans out to Andy. "You want one?" Andy sat straight up in surprise. Melody nearly fell over. "Jones! You can't offer him that— he's twelve years old." "He's clearly been around the block a few times," Jones answered, his eyes never leaving Andy. "Do you want it, Andy? It's not particularly a great brand, but it's not bad, either—at least as far as American beers go. But you probably already know that, right? Being a beer drinker." "Well, yeah. Sure." Andy reached for the can, but Jones wouldn't let go. "There's a catch," the SEAL told the boy. "You can't have just one. You have to drink the entire six-pack right now. In the next hour." Melody couldn't believe what she was hearing. "There's no way Andy could possibly drink an entire six-pack by himself in an hour." Andy bristled. "Could, too." Cowboy leaned forward. "Is that a yes?" "Damn straight!" the boy replied. Cowboy popped the top open and handed him the can. "Then chug it on down, my friend." "Jones," Melody hissed, "there's no way Andy could drink that much without getting..." She stopped herself, and Cowboy knew that she'd finally caught on. She was right. There was no way this kid could drink two cans of warm beer, let alone an entire six-pack, in an hour without getting totally, miserably, horrifically sick. And that was the point. Cowboy was going to make damn sure that Andy would associate the overpoweringly bitter taste of beer with one of the most unpleasant side effects of drunkenness. He watched as Andy took a tentative sip from the can, then as the kid wrinkled his nose at the strong beer taste. "Gross. It's warm!" "That's how they serve beer in England," Cowboy told him. "Chilling it hides the taste. Only sissies drink beer cold." He glanced at Mel. She was giving him an "Oh yeah?" look, complete with raised eyebrow. He'd had a chilled beer with dinner tonight himself. He shot her a quick wink. "Come on, Andrew. Bottoms up. Time's a-wasting, and you've got five more cans to drink." Andy looked a little less certain as he took a deep breath and a long slug of beer, and then another, and another. The kid was tougher than Cowboy had thought—he was actively fighting his urge to gag and spit out the harsh-tasting, room-temperature, totally unappealing beverage. But Andy wasn't tough enough. He set the empty can on the table, burping loudly, looking as if he was about to protest as Cowboy opened another can and pushed it in front of him. "You don't have time to talk," Cowboy said. "You only have time to drink."

Andy looked even more uncertain, but he picked up the can and started to drink. "Are you sure this is going to work?" Melody asked softly, sliding into the seat next to him. It was already working far better than he'd hoped. Melody was sitting beside him, talking to him, watching him, interacting with him. He was aware of her presence, aware of the heavenly blue of her eyes, aware of her sweet perfume—and more than well aware that he still had a hell of a long way to go before he gained her total trust. But that wasn't what she'd meant. She'd been talking about Andy. "Yes," he told her with complete confidence. It would work. Especially with the cigarette factor. Taking a lighter from the pocket of his jeans, he picked up the half-empty pack Vince had sent over. They were old and stale, Andy had said. Yes, this was definitely going to work. Cowboy held out the pack to Andy, shaking it slightly so that one cigarette appeared invitingly. Andy thankfully set down the can of beer and reached for the smoke. He may or may not have wanted it—but Cowboy knew what he was thinking. Anything, anything to take a break from having to drink that god-awful beer. Cowboy could hear Melody's disbelieving laughter as he leaned across the table to give Andy a light. "Good Lord," she said, "I can't believe I'm sitting here giving beer and cigarettes to a child." Andy couldn't argue with her use of the word child. He'd taken a drag of tobacco smoke and was now coughing as if he was on the verge of asphyxiation. Cowboy handed him his can of beer. "Here, maybe this'll help." He knew damn well it wouldn't. It only served to turn Andy a darker shade of green. "I can't...drink any more," he gasped when he finally found some air. "Are you kidding?" Cowboy said. "You've got to finish that one and drink four more. We had a deal, remember?" "Four more?" Now Andy looked as if he was on the verge of tears. Cowboy opened another can. "Four more." Melody put her hand on his arm. "Jones, he's just a kid...." "That's the whole point." He lowered his voice, leaning closer to her so Andy couldn't hear. "He's a kid—who wants to hang out with high school seniors who are too young to drink themselves. It's dangerous in those woods, the way that quarry's flooded. If those kids are going to be walking around up there in the dark, they should be doing it sober, not drunk." He turned to Andy. "You're not even a third done. Get busy, Marshall." Melody's grip on his arm tightened. "But he's—" "On the verge of learning an important lesson," Cowboy interrupted. "I don't want him to stop until he's got to stop. Believe me, it won't be long now." She was about to protest and he covered her hand with his. "Honey, I know this seems harsh to you, but the alternative is far harsher. Imagine how awful you'll feel if some Sunday morning we've got to go and drag that quarry because the boy genius over there was out staggering around drunk and stupid the night before and fell in and drowned." She hadn't considered such dire possibilities, and he could see the shock in her eyes. She was close enough for him to count the freckles on her nose, close enough to kiss.... Her thoughts must've been moving in the same direction because she quickly straightened up, pulling her hand out from underneath his. She'd touched him. He saw her realize that as a flush of pink tinged her cheeks. All that talk about keeping his distance—and she was the one who couldn't keep her hands off him. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I know that wasn't about you and me," he quickly reassured her. "That was about your concern for Andy. I didn't read it the wrong way, so don't worry, all right?" But before she could reply, Andy bolted from the table and lunged for the bushes. Cowboy stood up. "Go on inside, Mel. I'll take care of him from here on in. I think it's probably best not to have an audience—you know, save the last shreds of his manly pride." The sound of Andy throwing up a second time seemed to echo in the stillness of the night. Melody winced as she got up and moved toward the kitchen door. "I guess I should go in before I join him in sympathy." "Oh, hell, I'm sorry—I didn't even think of that possibility."

"I was making a joke. Granted it was a bad one, but..." She smiled at him. It was just a little smile, but it was a smile just the same. His heart leaped crazily at the sight of it. "Are you sure I can't get you anything? A towel or maybe some wet washcloths?" "No. Thanks. I've got a spare towel in my tent. No sense making you do extra laundry." A joke. She made a joke. He managed to make her feel comfortable enough to make a joke. "Go on, Andy'll be fine. I'll see you later." Still, she hesitated, looking down at him from the back porch of the house. Cowboy would've liked to believe it was because she was loathe to leave his sparkling good company. But he knew better, and when he looked again, she was gone. "Hey, Andy," he said as he gently picked the boy up from the dirt under the shrubbery. "Are we having fun yet, kid?" Andy turned his head and, with a groan, emptied the rest of his stomach down the front of Cowboy's shut and jeans. It was the perfect topper to a week that had already gone outrageously wrong. But Cowboy didn't care. He didn't give a damn. All he could think about was Melody's smile.

Chapter 9 The baby was working hard on his tap-dancing routine. Melody looked at the clock for the four millionth time that night. It read 1:24. Her back was aching, her breasts were tender, she had to pee again, and every now and then the baby would twist a certain way and trigger sciatic nerve pain that would shoot a lightning bolt all the way down her right leg from her buttocks to her calf. Melody swung her legs out of bed. The only way she was going to get some sleep was if she got up and walked around. With any luck, the rocking movement would lull the baby to sleep. She shrugged her arms into her robe and slipped her feet into her slippers and, after a brief stop in the bathroom, headed downstairs. She actually had a craving for a corned beef sandwich and she knew there was half a pound of sliced corned beef in the fridge. If she was really lucky, she'd manage to make herself a sandwich and eat half of it before the craving disappeared. But the light was already on in the kitchen, and she stopped in the doorway, squinting against the brightness. “Brittany?" "No, it's me." Jones. He was sitting at the kitchen table, shirt less, of course. "I'm sorry, I was trying to be quiet—did I wake you?" “No, I was just...I couldn't sleep and..." Melody tried to close her robe to hide the revealingly thin cotton of her nightgown, but it was useless. The robe barely even met in the front. Her urge to flee was tempered by the fact that she no longer was merely hungry—she was starving. Her craving for that sandwich had grown out of control. She eyed the refrigerator and gauged the distance between it and Jones. It was too close for comfort. Heck, anything that put her within a mile of this man was too close for comfort. She turned to go back upstairs, aware of the irony of the situation. The baby had been quieted simply by her walk down the stairs, but now she wouldn't be able to sleep because she was restless. But Jones stood up. "I can clear out if you want. I was just waiting for my laundry to dry." She realized that he was wearing only a towel. It was fastened loosely around his lean hips, and as she watched nearly hypnotized, it began to slip free. "Andy did the psychedelic yawn on my last clean pair of jeans," Jones continued, catching the towel at the last split second and attaching it again around his waist. Melody had to laugh, both relieved and oddly, stupidly disappointed that he wasn't now standing naked in front of her. "I've never heard it called that before. As far as euphemisms go, it sounds almost pleasant." He smiled as if he could read her mind. "Believe me, it wasn't even close to pleasant. In fact, it was about four hundred yards beneath unpleasant, way down in the category of awful. But it was necessary." She was lingering in the doorway. She knew she was, but she couldn't seem to walk away. The towel was slipping again, and he finally gave up and just held it on with one hand. "How is Andy?" she asked. "Feeling pretty bad, but finally asleep. He had the added bonus of the dry heaves after Vince and I got him cleaned off and into bed." His hair was still wet from his own shower. If she moved closer, she knew exactly how he would smell. Deliciously clean and dangerously sweet. Jones had the power to make even the everyday smell of cheap soap seem exotic and mysterious. "Why don't you come sit down?" he said quietly. "If you're hungry, I could make you something to eat. Same rules apply as during dinner. We talk, that's all." Melody could remember staying up far later into the night with this man, feeding each other room-service food and talking about anything that popped into their heads. Books, movies, music. She knew he liked Stephen King, Harrison Ford action flicks and the country sounds of Diamond Rio. But she didn't know why. Their conversations had never been that serious. He'd often interrupted himself midsentence to kiss her until the room spun and to bury himself deeply inside her so that all talk was soon forgotten. He'd told her more about himself this evening than he'd had the entire time they'd been in Paris. She could picture him as a boy, looking a lot like Andy Marshall, desperate for his father's approval. She could imagine him, too, getting into the kind of trouble that Andy attracted like a highpowered magnet. She was dying to find out how he'd turned himself around. How had he gone from near juvenile delinquent to this confident, welladjusted man? Melody stepped into the room. "Why don't you sit down?" she told him. "I'm just going to make myself a sandwich." "Are you sure I can't help?" "I'd rather you sat down. That way, I know your towel won't fall off."

He laughed. "I'm sorry about this. I honestly didn't have anything clean to put on." "Just sit, Jones," she ordered him. She could feel him watching her as she got the cold cuts and mustard from the refrigerator. She set them on the table. "What I really want is a Reuben— you know, a grilled sandwich with corned beef, sauerkraut and Swiss cheese on rye? Thousand Island dressing dripping out the sides. Except we don't have any Swiss cheese or Thousand Island dressing." "Salt," he said. "What you crave is salt. But I read that you're not supposed to have a lot of salt while you're pregnant." "Every now and then, you've just got to break the rules," Melody told him as she took two plates from the cabinet. "If you want, I'll run out to the store," he volunteered. "There's got to be a supermarket around here that's open twenty-four hours." She glanced at him as she got the bread from the cupboard. "I can picture you at the Stop and Shop wearing only your towel." He stood up. "I'll put my jeans on wet. It doesn't bother me. Believe me, I've worn far worse." "No," Melody said. "Thanks, but no. By the time you got back, the craving would be gone." "Are you sure?" "Yeah. It's weird. I get these cravings, and then as soon as I'm face-to-face with the food, I get queasy—particularly if it's something that takes me awhile to prepare. Suddenly, the food I was craving becomes absolutely the last thing I want to get anywhere near my mouth. I stand a better chance if I can make it and start eating it quickly." She sat across from him at the table to do just that. "Help yourself." "Thanks." Jones sat back down. He pulled one of the plates in his direction and took several slices of bread from the bag. "So what happens next with Andy?" Melody asked. "I'm going to get him up early," Jones told her, reaching for the mustard. "Let him experience the joys of a hangover. And then we're going to go over to the library and get some statistics on the correlation between starting to drink at age twelve and alcoholism." He glanced up at her, licking his fingers. "I think it would be a really good idea if you came along." "What possible good can I do for Andy by coming with you?" "Oh, it's not for Andy. It's for me. I want you to come because I enjoy your company." He smiled as he took a bite of his sandwich. Melody tried not to feel pleased. She knew his words were just part of his effort to charm her. "I don't know," she said. "Saturday's really the only morning I have to sleep late." "Andy and I'll be at the library for a while," he told her. "You could meet us over there." "I don't know..." "You don't have to tell me now. Just think about it. See how you feel in the morning." He watched as she took a tentative bite of her own sandwich. "How is it?" It tasted...delicious. "It's good," she admitted. "At least that bite was good." "It must be so bizarre to be pregnant," Jones mused. "I can't even imagine what it would feel like to have another person inside me." "It was really strange at first, back when I first felt the baby move," Melody said between bites. "I wasn't even really showing that much, but I could feel this fluttering inside me—kind of as if the grilled cheese sandwich I had for lunch had come alive and was doing a little dance." Jones laughed. "I've felt that. It's called indigestion." "No, this is different. This doesn't hurt. It just feels really strange—and kind of miraculous." She couldn't keep from smiling as she rested her hand on her belly—on the baby. "Definitely miraculous." "The entire concept is pretty damn amazing," Jones agreed. "And terrifying. I mean, you've still got a month and a half to go before that baby decides he wants to get shaken loose. But by then, he's going to be three inches taller than you. I swear, I look at you, Melody, and I get scared to death. You're so tiny and that baby's so huge. How exactly is this going to work?" "It's natural, Jones. Women have been having babies since the beginning of time." He was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "I promised we wouldn't talk about this. It's just...I don't like it when things are out of my control." Melody put her half-eaten sandwich back down on her plate. Her appetite was gone. "I know how hard this must be for you," she told him. "I know it must seem as if—in just one split second—your entire life's been derailed." "But it happened," Jones pointed out, "and now there's no turning back. There's only moving ahead."

"That's right," Melody agreed. "And what lies ahead for you and what lies ahead for me are two entirely different paths." He laughed, breaking the somber mood they'd somehow fallen into. "Yeah, yeah, different paths, yada, yada, yada. We've talked about this before, honey. What I want to know is, who's going to be your labor coach? You are planning to use Lamaze, aren't you?" Melody blinked. "You know so much about this...." "I've been reading up. I'd like to be considered for position of coach. That is, if you're still accepting applications." "Brittany's already agreed to do it," she told him, adding a silent thank God. She could just imagine having Cowboy Jones present in the delivery room when she was giving birth. Talking about double torture. "Yeah, I figured. I was just hoping..." He looked down at her unfinished food. "I guess you hit the wall with your sandwich, huh?" Melody nodded as she stood up. "I better get to bed." "You go on up. I'll take care of the mess." Jones smiled. "This was nice. Let's do it again sometime—like every night for the rest of our lives." He smacked himself on the top of his head. "Damn, there I go again. Of course, as you pointed out yourself—every now and then you've got to break the rules." "Good night, Jones." She let her voice drip with exaggerated exasperation. He chuckled. "Good night, honey." As Melody went up the stairs, she didn't look back. She knew if she looked, she'd see Jones smiling at her, watching as she walked away. But she knew that his smile would be a mask, covering his frustration and despair. This was hard enough for him, considering that marrying her was not truly what he wanted to do. It would've been hard enough to set the wheels in motion and sim ply follow through. But for him to sit there night after night, day after day, and try to convince her that marriage was for the best when he didn't quite believe it himself... She felt sorry for him. Almost as sorry as she felt for herself. "Hey, guys. Find out anything good?" Cowboy glanced up from the library computer to see Brittany Evans standing behind Andy's chair. He turned, looking past her, making a quick sweep of the library, searching for her sister. But if Melody was there, she was out of sight, hiding among the stacks. "She's outside," Brittany answered his unspoken question. "She was feeling a little faint, so she's taking a minute, sitting on one of the benches out front." "You left her alone?" "Only for a minute. But I figured, instead of me sitting with her... Well, I thought you might want to switch baby-sitting jobs." "Yeah," Cowboy said as he stood up. "Thanks." Andy glared. "Hey. I don't need no baby-sitter." "That's right," Brittany said tartly to him as she slid into the seat Cowboy had left empty. "You don't. You need a warden. And a grammar instructor, apparently. So what are you researching here? The statistics of alcohol overdoses among minors, resulting in fatalities? Kids who've died from drinking too much. Fascinating subject, huh? How's your stomach feeling this morning, by the way?" Cowboy didn't wait to hear Andy's retort as he crossed the library foyer, pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped outside. Mel was sitting on a bench, just as Brittany had said. The sight of her still had the power to make him pause. She was beautiful. Her golden hair cascaded down around her shoulders, reflecting the bright autumn sun. And although the air was cool, she'd taken off her sweater and wore only a sleeveless dress. Her arms were lightly tanned and as slender as they'd ever been. In fact, he was certain he could encircle both of her wrists with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. That is, if she would let him get close enough to touch her. As he moved toward the bench, he was surprised that she didn't leap up and back away—until he realized that behind her sunglasses, her eyes were closed. Her face was pale, too. "Honey, are you all right?" He sat down beside her. She didn't open her eyes. "I get so dizzy," she admitted. "Even just the walk from the car..." She opened her eyes and looked at him. "It's totally not fair. My mother was one of those ridiculously healthy people who played tennis the day before I was born. Two kids, and she didn't throw up once." "But you have more than just your mother's genes," Cowboy pointed out. "You're half your father, too." She smiled wanly. "Yeah, well, he never had morning sickness, either."

The breeze ruffled her hair, blowing a strand across her cheek. He wanted to touch her hair, to brush it back and run his fingers through its silk. "You don't talk about him much." Cowboy reached down and picked up a perfect red maple leaf that the wind had brought right to their feet. "I remember when we were in Paris, you told me about your mother getting remarried and moving to Florida, but you never even mentioned your father." "He died the summer I was sixteen." Melody paused. "I never really knew him. I mean, I lived in the same house with him for sixteen years, but we weren't very close. He worked seven days a week, eighteen hours a day. He was an investment broker. If you want to know the awful truth, I don't know what my mother saw in him." "Maybe he was dynamite in bed." Melody nearly choked. "God, what a thought!" "Hey, you and Brittany came from somewhere, right? Parents are people, too." He smiled. "Although I have to admit that the idea of my mom and the admiral together is one very scary concept." Melody was chewing on her lower lip speculatively as she gazed at him. "How come we always end up talking about sex?" "Maybe because it's been more than seven months now since I've had some," he admitted. "It's kind of on my mind a lot." "You can't be serious." She was shocked. Cowboy shrugged. He hadn't meant for it to be such a big deal. "You want me to get you a soda or something to help settle your stomach?" Melody wouldn't let herself be distracted. "You're telling me honestly that since we were together in Paris, you haven't...? Not even once?" "No." He was starting to get embarrassed. He stood up. "Why don't I run down the street and get us a couple ginger ales?" "Jones, why?" Her eyes were wide. "I can't believe you didn't have plenty of opportunities to... I mean..." She laughed nervously. "Well, I've seen the way women look at you." Cowboy sighed as he sat down again. He should have known she wouldn't simply let this go. "Yeah, you're right. Over the past months, I've been in bars where I've known for a fact that I could've gone home with some girl." He held her gaze. "But I didn't want just some girl. I wanted you." He twisted his mouth into a crooked smile, aware that he'd revealed far more than he'd intended. "Pretty powerful for a feeling based only on lust and relief, don't you think?" He saw the confusion in her eyes as she tried to process all that he'd just told her. He willed her to reach for him, to surrender to the truth, to admit that he was right—that there was more between them than pure physical attraction. He wanted her to whisper that she, too, hadn't taken another lover since they'd last been together. He couldn't believe that she had, but he didn't know for certain, and he wanted to hear her say it. But most of all, he wanted her to kiss him. She didn't. So Cowboy did the next best thing. He leaned forward and kissed her. She didn't pull away, so he kissed her again, coaxing her mouth open, pulling her closer, pressing the palm of his hand against the sensual fullness of her belly. She was so sweet, her lips so soft. He felt himself melt inside, felt his muscles turn liquid with desire, felt his soul became infused with new hope. He was going to have another chance to make love to her. Maybe soon. Maybe even—please, God—today. "I've dreamed about kissing you like this." He lifted his head to whisper, hoping to see a mirror image of his own breathless passion in her eyes. She was breathless all right, but when he lowered his head to kiss her again, she stopped him. "God, you're good, aren't you?" "I'm what...?" But he understood what she meant the moment the words left his lips. Melody thought that everything he'd said, everything he'd done, was all just part of his elaborate plan to seduce her. In a way, she was right. But she was wrong, too. It was more than that. It was much more. But before he could open his mouth to argue, he felt it Beneath his hand, Melody's baby—his baby—moved. "Oh, my God," he said, his mouth dropping open as he gazed into Mel's eyes, all other thoughts leaving his head. "Mel, I felt him move." She laughed at his expression of amazement, her accusations forgotten, too. She slid his hand around to the side of her belly. "Here, feel this," she told him. "That's one of his knees." It was amazing. There was a hard little knob protruding slightly out from the otherwise round smoothness of her abdomen. It was his knee. It was their baby's knee. "He's got a knee," Cowboy breathed. "Oh, my God."

He hadn't thought about this baby in terms of knees and elbows and arms and legs. But this kid definitely had a knee. "Here." Melody brought his other hand up to press against her other side. "This is his head, over here." But just like that, the baby shifted, and Cowboy felt a flurry of motion beneath his hands. That was not Melody doing that. That was...someone else. Someone who hadn't existed before he and Melody had made love on that plane to Paris. He felt out of breath and tremendously off balance as the enormity of the situation once again nearly knocked him over. "Scary, huh?" Melody whispered. He met her eyes and nodded. "Yeah." "Finally," she said, smiling slightly, sadly. "Real honesty." "I've never even really seen a baby before, you know, except in pictures," Cowboy admitted. He wet his suddenly dry lips. "And you're right, the idea of there being one that belongs to me scares me to death." But the baby moved again and he couldn't keep from smiling. "But God, that is so cool." He laughed with amazement. "He's swimming around in there, isn't he?" She nodded. He was still touching her, but she didn't seem to mind. He wished they were alone in the privacy of her kitchen rather than here on a bench outside the very public library. She closed her eyes again, and he knew she liked the sensation of his hands on her body. "I know you think you're winning, but you're not," she said suddenly, opening her eyes and looking at him. "I'm as stubborn as you are, Jones." He smiled. "Yeah, well, as a rule, I don't quit and I don't lose. So that leaves really only one other option. And that's winning." "Maybe there's a way we can both win." He tightened his grip on her, leaning closer to nuzzle the softness of her neck. "I know there is. And it involves going back to your house and locking ourselves in your bedroom for another six days straight." Melody pulled away from him. "I'm serious." "I am, too." She shook her head impatiently. "Jones, what if I acknowledge you as the father and grant you visitation rights?" "Visits?" he said in disbelief. "You're going to give me permission to visit the kid two or three times a year, and I'm supposed to think that means I've won?" "It's a compromise," she told him, her eyes a very earnest shade of blue. "It wouldn't be a whole lot of fun for me, either. So much for the clean end to our relationship I'd hoped for. And imagine how awful it's going to be for the man I finally do marry—you showing up, flashing all your big muscles around two or three times each year." Cowboy shook his head. "No deal. I’m the baby's father. And a baby's father should be married to that baby's mother." Melody's eyes sparked. "Too bad you weren't feeling quite so moral on that flight to Paris. If I remember correctly, there was no talk of marriage then. If I remember, just about all that you had to say concerned how and where I should touch you, and the most efficient way to rid ourselves of our clothing in that tiny bathroom." He couldn't hide a laugh. "Don't forget our three point five seconds discussion about our lack of condoms." She frowned at him. "This isn't funny." "I'm sorry. And you're right. I've picked a hell of a time to join the moral majority." He picked up her hand and gently laced their fingers together. "But, honey, I can't help the way I feel. And I feel—particularly after spending the morning with Andy— that it's our responsibility, for the sake of that baby, at least to give marriage a try." "Why?" She turned slightly to face him as she gently pulled her hand free from his grasp. "Why is this so important to you?" "I don't want this kid to grow up like Andy," Cowboy told her soberly. "Or me. Honey, I don't want him growing up the way I did, thinking my old man simply didn't give a damn." He gave in to the urge to touch her hair, pulling a strand free from where it had caught on her eyelashes and wrapping it around one finger. "You know, I honestly think this morning is the first time Andy's ever been inside a library. He didn't know what a library card was —I’m not sure he can read half of what we pulled up on that computer screen. And I know for a fact that boy has never held a book in his hands outside of school. Tom Sawyer, Mel. The kid's never read it, never even heard of it. 'Mark Twain, who's he?' Andy said. Damn. And I'm not saying that if his father was around, it'd be any different, but fact is, it's hard to like yourself when one of the two most important people in your life deserts you. And it's hard as hell to get ahead when you don't like yourself very much." Cowboy took a deep breath and continued. "I want that baby you're carrying to like himself. I want him to know without a shadow of a doubt that his

daddy likes him, too—enough to insist upon marrying his mom and giving him a legitimate name." Melody met his gaze as she pulled herself to her feet, and he hoped his plea had made an impact. "Think about it," he told her. "Please." She nodded. And changed the subject as he followed her into the library. "We better go rescue Andy. Britt's not one of his all-time favorite people." But as Cowboy looked, he saw Andy and Mel's sister sitting where he'd left them, in front of the computer, heads close together. The two of them barely glanced up as Cowboy and Melody approached. They were playing some kind of bloodthirsty-looking computer game they'd no doubt found while surfing the Net. "This would be so much better on my computer at home," Britt was telling Andy as she skillfully used the computer keyboard to engage a pack of trolls in mortal combat. "The graphics would be much clearer. You should drop by some time—I'll show it to you if you want." "Can your computer do an Internet search like this one did?" Andy asked. Brittany snorted. "Yeah, in about one-sixteenth the time, too. Wait'll you see the difference. I swear, this library computer is from the Stone Age." Melody looked at Cowboy, her eyebrows slightly raised. He had to smile. If Brittany and Andy could form a tentative alliance, there was definite hope that he and Melody could do the same. As Melody moved off to glance at a shelf filled with new books, Cowboy watched her. She had no idea how beautiful she was. She had no idea how badly he wanted her. She also had no idea how patient he could be. He'd once gone on a sneak and peek—an information-gathering expedition—with Blue McCoy, Alpha Squad's XO. They'd been assigned to scope out a vacation Haus in Germany's I Schwarzwald that was, according to FinCOM sources, to be inhabited at the end of the week by a terrorist wanted in connection with a number of fatal bombings in London. The Fink sources had been wrong—the tango showed up five days early, leaving McCoy and Cowboy pinned down in the bushes next to the front door and directly beneath the living-room window. They'd been trapped between the house and the brightly lit driveway, hidden by the shadow of the foliage but unable to move without immediate detection from the teams of security guards and professional soldiers that constantly patrolled the premises. They'd lain on their bellies for three and a half days, counting soldiers and guards and listening to conversations auf deutsch and in various Arabic dialects from the living room. They'd relayed all the information to Joe Cat over their radio headsets and they'd waited—and waited and waited—for Alpha Squad to be given permission to apprehend the terrorists and to liberate McCoy's and Cowboy's butts. He'd come away from that little exercise smelling really bad and hungry beyond belief, but knowing that he could outwait damn near anything. Melody Evans didn't know it, but she didn't stand a chance.

Chapter 10 Melody woke up, aware that her afternoon nap had stretched on far past the late afternoon. It was dark in her room and dark outside, as well. Her alarm clock read 11:14 p.m. Someone had come into her room while she was asleep and covered her with a blanket. But that someone couldn't have been her sister, who had been called away to the hospital before Melody had gone up for a nap, and who, from the obvious emptiness of Britt's room and the quietness of the house, had not yet returned home. Melody glanced out the window at the tent in the backyard. It was dark. No doubt Jones had gone to sleep himself after he'd tucked her in. Either that, or it had been Andy. The boy had been spending a great deal of time over at their house, working—or playing— with Britt on her computer. In the week since Jones had done his "tough love" Intro to Drinking 101 session, Andy had been acting less like a twenty-three-year-old ex-con and more like a twelve-year-old boy. He and Brittany had really hit it off—which was good for both of them. Ever since Britt's divorce, she'd been more likely to focus on the negative instead of the positive. But when Andy was around, Melody heard far more of her sister's musical laughter. Oh, Britt complained about him. Crumbs around the computer. Dishes left out on the kitchen table. But she gave the kid his own screen name on her computer account and let him use it even while she was doing the evening or night shift at work. He was a nice kid, despite his bad reputation. He had a natural charm and a genuine sense of humor. But there was no way he would’ve left Britt's computer long enough to come upstairs and throw a blanket over her. It had to have been Jones who'd done that. In the past week, he'd been up every morning, sitting in the kitchen while she'd had her breakfast before going to work. After watching her halfheartedly eat dry toast for several days in a row, he'd actually cooked her bacon, eggs, pancakes and oatmeal in the hopes that one of those foods would be something that she would want. He'd been waiting when she'd returned home from work, as well. She'd gotten into the habit of sitting on the front porch with him, talking quietly and watching the setting sun turn the brilliant autumn leaves even more vivid shades of red and orange. Jones was always around for dinner, too. Just like Andy, he'd managed to totally charm Brittany. And as for Melody, well, she was getting used to him smiling at her from across the kitchen table. She was waiting for him to kiss her again—the way he'd done out in front of the library. But as if he sensed her trepidation, he was keeping his distance, giving her plenty of space. But more often than not, when their eyes met, there was a heart-stoppingly hot spark, and Jones's gaze would linger on her mouth. His message was very clear. He wanted to kiss her again and he wanted to make sure that she knew it. The thought of Jones up in her room, covering her with a blanket and watching her as she slept was a disconcerting one, and she tried to push it far away. She didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to think about Jones at all. She focused instead on her hunger as she went downstairs to the kitchen. She was, as they said in Boston, wicked hungry. Melody nibbled on a soda cracker as she searched the refrigerator, then the pantry, for something, anything to eat. With the flu still running rampant through the nursing staff at the hospital, Brittany hadn't had time to pick up groceries. There was nothing in the house to eat. Correction—nothing Melody wanted to eat. She would've gone shopping herself, but Britt had made her promise under pain of death that she wouldn't try to wrestle both the shopping cart and the crowds at the Stop and Shop until after the baby was born. Of course, if Britt had her way, Melody would spend the next few months in bed. And from the way he'd been talking last week outside the library, Jones was of the same mind-set. But he wanted her to stay in bed for an entirely different reason. Melody couldn't quite believe that his motive was pure passion. She wasn't exactly looking her sexiest these days—unless, of course, one was turned on by a pumpkin. Andy's words, "fat and funny-looking," sprang immediately and quite accurately to mind. No, she had to believe that Jones wanted her in bed only because he knew that once he got her there, he'd be that much closer to his goal of marrying her. For the baby's sake. With a sigh, she took her jacket from the hook by the door, checking to make sure her car keys and her wallet were in the pockets. Brittany may have made the supermarket off-limits, but the convenience store up by the highway was fair game. Maybe if Melody wandered through the aisles she'd see something she actually wanted to eat—something besides an entire sleeve of chocolate chip cookies, that is. She unlocked the door and stepped out onto the porch, nearly colliding with Jones. He caught her with both arms, holding her tightly against him to keep them both from falling down the stairs. His body was warm and his hair was disheveled as if he, too, had just woken up. She'd seen him look exactly like this in Paris. She couldn't remember how many times she'd slowly awakened underneath warm covers, opening her eyes to see his lazy smile and sleepy green eyes.

Time had lost all meaning back then. They'd slept when they were tired, eaten when they were hungry and made love the rest of the time. Sometimes when they woke, it was in the dark hours of the early morning. Sometimes the warm light of the afternoon sun slipped in beneath the curtains. But it never mattered. The rest of the world had ceased to exist. What was important was right there, in that room, in that bed. "I saw the light go on," he said, his voice still husky from sleep, his drawl more pronounced. "I thought I'd come over, make sure you were okay." "I'm okay." Melody stepped back, and he let her go. The night air had a crisp chill to it, and she missed his warmth almost immediately. "I'm hungry, though. I'm making a run to the criminal." He blinked. "You're...what?" She started down the steps. "Going to the Honey Farms—the convenience store on Connecticut Road." Jones followed her. "Yeah. But...what did you call it?" "The criminal. You know, because the prices they charge are criminal." He laughed, genuine amusement in his voice. “Cool. I like that The criminal." Melody couldn't help but smile. "Boy, it doesn't take much to make you happy, does it, Jones?" "No, ma'am. And right now it would make me downright ecstatic to go to the criminal for you. Just hand me the keys to your car, tell me what you want and I'll have it back here for you inside ten minutes." Melody looked around. "Where's your car?" "It was, um, getting costly to keep a rental car for all this time." He fished a pony tail holder out of the front pocket of his jeans. Raking his hair into some semblance of order with his fingers, he tied it back at the nape of his neck. "I returned it about a week and a half ago." "God, and I didn't even notice." Jones held out his hand. "Come on. Give me the keys and your dinner order." She stepped past him, heading toward her car. "Thanks, but no thanks. I don't know what I want. I was intending to go and browse." "Do you mind if I come along?" "No," Melody said, surprised that it was true. "I don't mind." She opened the front door of her car, but he moved to block her way. "How about I drive?" "Do you know how to drive a stick shift?" Jones just looked at her. "Right," she said, handing him the keys. "Navy SEAL. God, can you believe I almost forgot? If you can fly a plane, you can certainly handle my car, as particular as it is." It was much easier getting in the passenger side without the steering wheel in her way. Jones waited to start the engine until after she closed the door behind her and fastened her seat belt. "The clutch can be really temperamental," she started to say, but stopped when he gave her another pointed look. But he smiled then, and she found herself smiling, too. She always found herself smiling when he was around. Jones managed to get the car down the driveway and onto the main road without stalling, without even hiccuping. He drove easily, comfortably, with one hand on the wheel and the other resting lightly on the gearshift. He had nice hands. They were strong and capable-looking, just like the man himself. "I was thinking," he said, finally breaking the silence as they approached the store, "that tomorrow might be a good day to put your garden to bed for the winter. It's supposed to be in the high fifties and sunny." He glanced at her. "I could help you do it after church, if you want." Melody didn't know what to say. "I'm afraid I've never been much of a gardener. I'm not really sure what needs to be done." He cleared his throat. "I figure the best way to do the job is for me to act as your hands and back. You tell me what to do, what to lift, what to carry, and I'll do it for you." There was only one other car in the convenience-store parking lot and it was idling over by the telephones. Jones slid Melody's car neatly into one of the spots near the doors and turned off the engine. But he shifted slightly to face her rather than climb out. "What do you think?" he asked.

Melody looked into his eyes and smiled. "I think you heard about the charity apple picking that's going on up at Hetterman's Orchards tomorrow after church, and you want to make sure you have a really good reason not to go." Jones laughed. "No, I haven't heard anything about anything. What's the deal? Apple picking?" "Hetterman's has always had a problem hiring temporary help to pick the last of the apples. It's a self-service farm, and people come out from the city all season long to pick their own apples, but there's always a lot left over. About seven years ago, they made a deal with one of the local Girl Scout troops. If the girls could get twenty people to come out and pick apples for a day, Hetterman's promised to award one of the high school kids a five-hundred-dollar scholarship. Well, the girls outdid themselves. They got a hundred people to come and got the job done in about three hours instead of an entire day. And in the seven years since then, it's become a town tradition. Last year, four hundred people turned out for the event, and they finished in less than two hours. And the five hundred dollars from Hettennan's has been matched by Glenzen Brothers Hardware, the Congregational Church, The First City Bank and a handful of private benefactors, making the scholarship a full five thousand dollars." She laughed at herself. "Listen to me. I sound like such a Pollyanna. I can't help it, though. The thought of all those people working together like that for such a good cause just makes me all goose bumpy and shivery. I know, I know, I'm a sap." "No, you're not." Jones was smiling at her very slightly. "I think it's cool, too. It's real teamwork in action." He was watching her closely, paying careful attention, as if what she had told him was the most important piece of news in the universe. Being the center of the tight focus of all his intensity was somewhat overwhelming, though. The yellowish parking-lot lamps shone dimly through the car windows, creating intricate patterns of shadow and light on the dashboard. It was quiet and far too intimate. She should get out of the car. She knew she should. "This year, they're trying to get six hundred people to participate and do the whole thing in under an hour. They want to try to set a record." He reached forward to play with one of her curls. Touching but not touching. "Then we better plan to show up, huh?" Melody laughed, gently pulling her hair free from his grasp, trying to break the mood, knowing that she had to. She had no choice. If she didn't do something, it wasn't going to be long before he leaned over and kissed her. "Somehow I just can't see you spending even half an hour picking apples." She unfastened her seat belt, but Jones still made no move to get out of the car. "Why not?" "Get serious, Jones." "I am serious. It sounds like fun. Serious fun." "Apple picking isn't exactly your speed." "Yeah, well, maybe I don't know anything about that," he drawled, "but I do know all about working in a team, and it sounds as if this is one team I'd be proud to be a part of." Melody got out of the car, fast. She had to, or else she was going to do something really stupid—like kiss him. But he must've been able to read her mind because he followed and caught her hand before she even reached the convenience-store door. "Come on," he said, his eyes daring her to take a chance. "Let's make this a plan. We'll do the apple-picking thing, have lunch, then come home and tackle the garden." He smiled. "And then in the evening, if you're feeling really adventurous, we can take a walk down at the Audubon Bird Refuge." Melody laughed, and Jones leaned forward and kissed her. She knew exactly what he was doing, what he had been doing over the past week. He was wearing her down little by little, piece by piece. He was actively trying to make her fall in love with him. He was taking everything really slowly. He was making a point to be extraordinarily gentle. Except this was no languorous, gentle kiss. This time, he took her by storm, claiming her mouth with a hunger that stole her breath away. She could taste his passion along with the sweet mint toothpaste he must've used right before he came out of his tent to meet her. She could feel his hands in her hair, on her back, sliding down to cup the soft fullness of her rear end. He'd held her that way in Paris, pressing her tightly against him so that she would be sure to feel the evidence of his arousal, nestled tightly between them. But the only thing nestled between them now was her watermelon-sized stomach. She heard him half growl, half laugh with frustration. "Making love to you is going to be really interesting. We're going to have to get kind of creative, aren't we?" Melody could feel her heart pounding. She was breathing hard as she looked up into his eyes, but she couldn't seem to pull away. She didn't want to pull away. She actually wanted him to take her home and kiss her that way again. She wanted to make love to him. God, she was weak. He'd broken down her defenses in just a little over fourteen days. But maybe she had been crazy ever to think she could resist this man. But instead of pulling her back toward the car, Jones reached for the criminal door. "Let's get what we came for." He stood back to let her go through first.

Melody reached up to touch her lips as she went into the store. That kiss had been so scalding it should, by all rights, have marked her. But as far as she could tell, her lips were still attached. The overhead lights were glaring compared to the dim parking lot, and she squinted slightly as she looked around the depress-ingly bleak little store. Isaac Forte was clerking tonight. He always handled the night shift—which seemed appropriate. With his pale, gaunt face and painfully thin, almost skeletal frame, he reminded her of a vam pire. If daylight ever actually came in contact with him, no doubt he would crumble into dust. But she, too, had become a creature of the night over the past few months. And her odd cravings had made her a frequent customer of the Honey Farms, so she'd come to know Isaac rather well. He had his problems, but having to drink human blood to stay alive wasn't one of them, thank goodness. "Hi, Isaac," she said. Two men in black jackets were at the checkout counter. Isaac was waiting on them and— Jones moved so fast he was almost a total blur. He kicked, and something went flying to the other side of the room. A gun. One of these men had had a gun, and Jones had disarmed him, knocking it out of reach before Melody had barely even noticed it. "Get out of here!" he shouted as he slammed one of the men down onto the floor, forcing the one to trip up the other. The first man was dazed, but the second scrambled away, trying to reach the fallen gun. Melody could see it, gleaming and deadly, on the floor in front of the popcorn and corn chips. "Melody, dammit, go!" Jones bellowed even as he grabbed for the second man, his hand closing around the leather of the thug's jacket. He was talking to her. He wanted her to get to safety. A rack of paperback books crashed to the floor as the man furiously fought to get free, to reach the gun. Melody watched, hypnotized with icy fear, as Jones fought just as hard to hang on, not even stopping for a second as he placed a well-aimed kick behind him that dropped the first man, die dazed man, to the floor with a final-sounding thud. There was nothing even remotely fair about this wrestling match. No rules were being followed, no courtesies allowed, no time-outs granted. Jones slammed the gunman's head against the floor even as the man continued his own barrage of blows. Elbows, knees, hands, feet—it was meant to drive Jones back, but the SEAL was unstoppable. He just kept on coming. The look on Jones's face transformed him, and his eyes sparked with an unholy light. He looked more like beast than man, his lips pulled back in a terrifying snarl of rage. He kicked the gun even farther away as he flung the man violently in the opposite direction. Cheerios boxes exploded everywhere as he followed, pounding the man, hitting him hard again and again until there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the robber wasn't going to get up. At least not right away. Outside in the parking lot, the car that had been idling sped away with a squeal of tires. Even though both men were down and still, Jones moved quickly, going for the gun. Melody nearly collapsed with relief as his hands closed around it. He was safe. She wasn't going to have to stand there and watch him get pumped full of bullets. She could hear police sirens in the distance. Isaac, no doubt, had triggered the alarm when the fight had started. He now peered warily over the top of the counter, his eyes wide as he gazed at Jones. Jones checked the gun, removing the clip and releasing the chambered round. And then he looked at her, his eyes still lit from within with the devil's own anger. "The next time I give you an order, dammit, you do it!" He was breathing hard, his chest still heaving as he fought to suck in enough air. His nose was bleeding and the front of his T-shirt was stained bright red with blood, but he didn't even notice. “An order? But—" "No buts." He slammed the empty gun down on the checkout counter. Melody had never seen him like this. Not even during the hostage rescue. He was furious. With her. "These scumbags had a weapon, Melody. If that dirtwad over there—" he gestured toward the man who'd put up a fight "— had managed to get his hands on it, he damn well would've used it! And these days, honey, you aren't exactly the tiniest of targets!" Stung, Melody turned and walked out of the criminal. "Now you leave," he said, pulling the door open to follow her. "Perfect." She spun back to face him. "I don't take orders from you. I'm not one of your SEAL buddies—I don't know how to take orders!" "You managed just fine in the Middle East."

"Yeah, well, look around you, Lieutenant. This isn't the Middle East. This is Appleton, Massachusetts. And I haven't trained myself to react instantly when I walk into the middle of a convenience-store stickup." Her voice caught on something that was half laughter, half sob. "God, and I was just starting to think that maybe you were just a normal guy. Yeah, you're normal—and I stand a shot at winning the Miss America swimsuit competition. What a joke!" The night was getting downright frosty. Or maybe it wasn't the chill in the air that was making her start to shake. "I'd like my car keys," she said, lifting her chin, determined to keep from crumbling in front of him. "I want to go home now." He ran his hands back through his rumpled hair, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands against his temples, visibly trying to bring himself out of combat mode. And when he spoke, his voice was more even. "I don't think I can just leave. They're going to want a statement—" "I'm not asking you to leave. I'm sure one of the police officers can give you a lift when you're done." Jones reached for her. "Melody..." She stiffened, closing her eyes and refusing to feel anything as he put his arms around her. "I don't want you to touch me," she told him through clenched teeth. He backed off, but only a little. He took a deep breath, forcing even more of his anger to dissipate. "Honey, you gotta understand. I saw that revolver and—" "You did what you had to do," she finished for him. "What you've been trained to do. You attacked. You're very good at that, I'll give you that much." She stepped out of his embrace. "Please tell Chief Beatrice that I'll stop by the station tomorrow to give my statement. But right now, I have to go home." He held the car keys in his hand. "Why don't you let me drive you?" He glanced up as the first of the police cars pulled into the lot, and he raised his voice to be heard over the wailing siren. “I’ll just tell these guys that I'll be back in a second." The siren cut off, leaving him shouting in the stillness, "I don't want you to have to drive." She took the keys from him. "I'm fine. I can drive myself." Isaac Forte came out to meet the policemen and all three men approached Jones. Melody used the opportunity to get into her car. But she should have known Jones wasn't going to let her just drive away. He came to the side of the car and waited until she opened her window. "I won't be too long," he told her. He looked down as if noticing the blood on his shirt for the first time. He had an angry-looking scratch on his arm, as well, and he was gingerly touching the inside of his lips with his tongue as if he'd cut himself on his own teeth. "Can we talk when I get back?" She looked out the windshield, afraid to meet his eyes. "I don't think that's a good idea." "Mel, please? I know I had no right to speak to you that way, but I was scared to death you were gonna get hurt—" “I’m tired, Jones," she lied. "I'm going to grab a bowl of soup and go back to sleep." He was leaning with both hands braced on the top of her car, so she couldn't just drive away. She did put the car into gear, though. She knew he could see that the reverse lights had come on. But when he still didn't step back, she finally looked up at him. "I want to go now," she said, fighting to keep her voice from shaking. All of his earlier anger was gone, and he looked worn-out and beaten—as if he'd lost the fight instead of won. "I'm sorry," he told her, straightening up. If she didn't know better, she might’ve thought those were tears in his eyes. "Mel, I'm deeply sorry." "I am, too," she whispered. Melody released the clutch and backed out of the parking lot. She only stalled once as she pulled onto the road that took her home. "What's up?" Cowboy glanced up from his book to smile at Andy. "Hey, kid. I'm getting Mel's garden ready for winter." "No, you're not," Andy scoffed. "You're sitting there reading a book." Andy had a swollen lip and a nasty-looking scrape on his jaw-line. He'd been in another fight, probably with that older kid— Alex Parks—who took such pleasure in tormenting him. Andy's brown eyes dared him to comment on his injuries. "Well, yeah, I'm reading a book," Cowboy said, purposely saying nothing. "That's the first step. See, first I have to learn how to do it—you know, figure out what kind of tools and supplies I need." "That book tells you all that?" "It does. Believe it or not, all the information I need to do damn near anything is two miles down that road in the town library. Need your refrigerator fixed? Piece a cake. Just get me a book. I can learn another language, build a house from the foundation up, shoe a horse—you name it, the knowledge I need to get the job done is in the library, guaranteed. Especially now that they're plugged into the Internet."

Andy looked at the garden bed, at the plants that had shriveled and turned brown in the cool night air, then at the last of the beans that were still clinging stubbornly to life. He looked back at Cowboy, clearly unimpressed. "So what's there to do? Everything's dead. You can't plant anything new until spring anyway." "Ever hear of mulching?" Cowboy asked. "No." "Me, neither. At least not more than really vaguely before I picked up this book. But apparently, it's good to do. I haven't quite reached the part that tells me why, but I'm getting there." Andy rolled his eyes. "You know, there's a much easier way to do all this." "Oh yeah?" "Yeah. Just ask Melody what she wants done." Ask Melody. That was a damned fine idea. But unfortunately, Cowboy couldn't ask Melody anything until she stopped hiding from him again. It had been nearly three days since the incident at the Honey Farms convenience store. The criminal, she'd called the place. And the name fit. They'd certainly run into some criminal activity, that was for sure. God, he'd never known fear like that hot-and-cold streak of terror that had shot through him when he'd seen that revolver. He'd had about one-tenth of a second to decide what to do, and in that fraction of a moment, for the first time in his life, he'd actually considered backing down. He'd actually thought about surrendering. But he couldn't tell in that heartbeat of time if the men were using or not. He didn't know for sure from that one quick glance if they were out of their minds, high on some chemical substance, or strung out, desperate and ready to eliminate anyone who so much as looked at them crooked. All he knew was that in his experience, when he carried a weapon, he was always prepared to use it. He had to assume the same was true for these clowns. So he'd attacked in that one split second when the revolver was pointing away from the clerk, catching the assailants off guard. The entire fight had lasted all of eighty-five seconds. But it had been eighty-five seconds of sheer hell. Melody had just stood there, staring at him. She hadn't even ducked for cover. She just stood there, a target, ready to be knocked over or shot full of lead if that bastard had gotten hold of his revolver. It had taken Cowboy twice as long as it should have to subdue the enemy and gain control of the weapon. His fear that Melody would be hurt or killed had gotten in the way. And he'd lashed out at her afterward because of it. He'd shouted at her when all he really wanted to do was drag her into his arms and hold her until the end of time. But she'd been less than thrilled with his performance—in more ways than one. And she'd run away again. Before they'd gone into that store, Melody had been ready to invite him up to her bedroom to spend the night—he'd been al most certain of that. He'd been so close to relief from this hellish frustration. Of course, now the frustration was ten times as bad. He hadn't even seen her in three days. The hell with the lack of sex. Just not seeing her was driving him damn near crazy. "You want me to ask Melody for you?" Andy asked. "I'm going inside—Britt said it was okay if I used her computer to do an Internet search." "What are you searching for?" Andy shrugged. "Just some stuff about the Army." "Oh yeah? What kind of stuff?" Another shrug. "I dunno." Cowboy gazed at the boy. "You thinking about enlisting?" "Maybe." "Only way to become a SEAL is to join the U.S. Navy, not the Army." "Yeah," Andy said, "I know. You running again tonight?" Cowboy had taken to working out both in the evening as well as the early morning in an attempt to run some of his frustration into the ground. "Why? You want to try again?" Andy had run along with him yesterday evening. The kid had only made it about two miles before he'd dropped out. "Yeah, I do."

"You know, if you start getting in shape now, you'll be a monster by the time you graduate high school." Andy kicked at a clump of grass. "I wish I could be a monster now." Cowboy acknowledged the boy's scraped face. "Alex Parks again, huh?" "He's such a jerk." "If you want, I can help you out with your PT," Cowboy volunteered. "You know, physical training. And, if you want, I can also help you learn to fight." Andy nodded slowly. "Maybe," he said. "What's the catch?" Cowboy grinned. This boy was a fast learner. "You're right. There is a condition." The kid groaned. "I'm going to hate this, aren't I?" "You have to promise that after I teach you to beat the crap out of Alex Parks, you use what you've learned only to defend yourself. And after he figures out that you're ready and able to kick his butt, you turn and walk away." Andy looked incredulous. "What good is that?" "That's my deal. Take it or leave it." "How do you know I'll even keep my promise?" "Because if you don't, I'll break you in half," Cowboy said with a smile. “Oh, and there is one other catch. You need to learn a little self-discipline. You need to learn to follow orders. My orders. When I say jump, you jump. When I say chill, you cool it. You give me any attitude, any garbage, any whining, any moaning of any kind, and the deal's off." "Gee, you're making this sound too good to pass up," Andy said, rolling his eyes. "Oh yeah. One other thing. If I ask you a question, you answer me straight. You say, 'Yes, sir,' or 'No, sir.'" "You want me to call you sir?" "Yes, I do." God knows Andy could learn a thing or two about showing respect. Andy was silent. "So do we have a deal?" Cowboy asked. Andy swore. "Yeah, all right." "Yes, sir," Cowboy corrected him. "Yes, sir. Jeez." Andy turned toward the house. "I'll tell Melody you could use her help with the garden." "Thanks, kid, but that's not going to get her out here. She's been hiding from me for days." "I'll tell her you're sorry, too. Sir. God." "Sir is good enough, Marshall. You don't have to call me God, too," Cowboy teased. "Sheesh." Andy rolled his eyes again as he headed toward the kitchen door. In truth, Cowboy was sorry. He was sorry about a lot of things. He was sorry that he hadn't gone into the house and hammered on Melody's bedroom door after he'd gotten home that night. He was sorry he still hadn't found a way to force the issue, to make her sit down and talk to him. He wasn't quite sure what he would tell her, though. Cowboy wasn't sure he was ready to share the fact that after she'd left the Honey Farms, right as he was giving his statement to Tom Beatrice, the Appleton chief of police, he'd had to excuse himself. He'd gone into the men's room and gotten horribly, violently sick. At first, he'd thought it might've been the flu—people all over town were falling victim to a virulent strain of the bug. But as the night wore on and he didn't get sick again, he'd been forced to confront the truth. It was the residual of his fear that had made him bow to the porcelain god. His fear for Melody's safety had squeezed him tight and hadn't let go, making his gut churn and his blood pressure rise until he'd forcefully emptied his stomach. It was weird. His career as a SEAL involved a huge amount of risk taking. And he was fine about that. He knew he would survive damn near anything if surviving entailed fighting. But if his survival depended on something outside his control—like the intrinsic danger they all faced every time they jumped out of a plane, knowing that if their chute failed, if the lines got tangled or the cells didn't open right, they would end up as a mostly unrecognizable stain on the ground—if his survival depended on a twist of fate like that, Cowboy knew he would either live or die as the gods saw fit. No amount of fear or worry would change that, so he rarely bothered with either.

But he found he couldn't be quite so blase when it came to Melody's safety. Whenever he thought about that revolver aimed in her direction, even now, three days later, he still felt sick to his stomach. It was similar to the sensation he felt when he thought about her having to give birth to that baby she was carrying. As was his usual method of operation when forced to deal with something he knew nothing about, he'd taken a pile of books about pregnancy out of the library. He'd read nearly every one from cover to cover, and frankly, the list of possible life threatening complications resulting from pregnancy or childbirth made his blood run cold. Women went into shock from pregnancy-related diabetes. Or they had strokes caused by the strain on their system. Some women simply bled to death. The mortality rates reported in the books shocked Cowboy. It seemed impossible that even in this day and age of enlightened, modern medicine, women died simply as a result of bearing children. He'd wanted to go into the hospital and donate blood to be set aside and used specifically for Melody in case she needed it. He was a universal donor, but he knew that all of the inoculations he'd had as he'd traveled around the world would make him ineligible. He'd just approached Brittany to find out if her blood type matched her sister's—to see if she might be willing to donate blood and help soothe some of his fear. She'd looked at him as if he was crazy, but she'd agreed to do it. Cowboy looked toward the house, up at the window he knew was Melody's room. He willed the curtain to shift. He hoped to see a shadowy form backing away or a hint of moving light, but he saw nothing. Melody was staying far from the window. And his patience was running out.

Chapter 11 Melody heard the doorbell ring from up in her bedroom. She focused all of her attention on her book, determined to keep reading. It was Jones. It had to be Jones. It had been five days since she'd driven away from him at the Honey Farms, and she'd been bracing herself, waiting for him to run out of patience and come confront her. Andy was downstairs, using Drift's computer. Melody had told him she was going to take a nap. She closed her eyes for a moment, praying that he would send Jones away. But then she heard voices—a deep voice that didn't sound very much like Jones, and then Andy's, higher-pitched and loud. She couldn't hear the words, but he sounded as if he was angry or upset. The lower voice rumbled again, and she heard what sounded like a chair being knocked over. No, that was definitely not Jones down there with Andy. Melody unlocked her bedroom door and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen. “It wasn't me," Andy was shouting. "I didn't do nothin'." Tom Beatrice, the police chief, stood between Andy and the door, ready to catch the boy if he ran. "It'll go easier on you, son, if you just tell the truth." Andy was shaking with anger. "I am telling the truth." "You're going to have to come with me, son." "Stop calling me that! I'm not your son!" Neither of them had noticed that Melody stood in the doorway. She raised her voice to be heard. "What's going on here?" "That's what I was wondering, too." Jones opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. The police chief glanced at them both apologetically. "Vince Romanella said I'd find the boy over here. I'm afraid I need to bring him down to the station for questioning." "What?" Melody looked at Andy, but he was silent and stony-faced. She tried not to look at Jones at all, but she could feel his eyes on her from across the room. "Why?" "House up on Looking Glass Road was broken into and vandalized several nights ago," Tom explained. "Andy here was seen up in that area at about 9:00—about the time the break-in occurred." "That's pretty circumstantial, don't you think, Chief?" Jones voiced Melody's own disbelief. "Oh, there's other evidence, too, that points in his direction." Tom shook his head. "The place is trashed. It's a real mess. Windows and mirrors broken. Spray paint everywhere." Jones briefly met Melody's gaze, then he turned to the boy. "Marshall, did you do it?" His voice was soft, almost matter-of-fact. Andy straightened his shoulders. "No, sir." Jones turned back to Tom. "Chief, he didn't do it." Tom scratched the back of his head. "Well, Lieutenant, I appreciate your faith in the boy, but his fingerprints are all over the place. He's going to have to come down to the station with me." "Fingerprints?" Jones echoed. "Inside and out." Jones's eyes pinned the boy in place. This time when he spoke, his voice was harder, more demanding. "Marshall, I'm going to ask you that question again. Did you have anything to do with vandalizing that house?" Andy's eyes had filled with tears. "I should've known you wouldn't believe me," he whispered. "You're really no different from the rest of them." "Answer my question." Andy answered with a blisteringly foul suggestion. Like an afterthought, he added, "sir." He turned to Tom Beatrice. "Let's get this over with." "Andy, I'm on your side..." Jones started to say, but Andy just pushed past him, Tom's hand on his arm. Melody stepped forward. "Go with him," she urged Jones. "He's going to need you."

Jones nodded, taking in her tentlike dress, her unbrushed hair, the blue nail polish on her toes, before looking in her eyes. "I was scared I'd lose you, Mel," he said. "That night—I shouted at you because I was more scared than I've ever been in my life. It was wrong, but so's not letting me apologize." He turned and went out the door. "Jones." Cowboy sat up in his tent, suddenly wide-awake, wondering if his mind was finally starting to snap. He could've sworn he'd heard Melody's voice calling his name. Of course, he had been dreaming a particularly satisfying and sinfully erotic dream about her.... "Jones?" It was her. He could see her unmistakable silhouette outside of the tent. He reached up to unzip the flap. "Mel, are you all right?" "I'm fine." She was wearing only a nightgown and a robe and she shivered slightly in the chill night air. "But we just got a phone call from Vince Romanella." She peered into the darkness of his tent. He was glad for the darkness, and glad for the sleeping bag that still covered most of him— including an extremely healthy arousal, the direct by-product of that dream. "Jones, Andy's not in here with you, is he?" "No." He opened the flap a little wider. "Honey, it's freezing outside. Come on in." "It feels like it's freezing in there, too," she pointed out, not moving any closer. He couldn't quite see her eyes in the darkness. "I don't know how you stand it." "It's not that bad." His sleeping bag was nice and warm. And the dream he'd been having about Melody had been hot enough to heat the entire state of Massachusetts. "Jones, Andy's missing. Vince said he heard a noise, and when he got up to check it out, he looked in on Andy, and his bed was empty." Cowboy reached for his jeans, swiftly slipping them on, wrestling with the zipper, willing his arousal away. "What time is it?" "Nearly 4:00. Vince thinks Andy's been gone since around midnight, when he and Kirsty went to bed. Tom Beatrice is organizing a search party." He pulled on his boots and grabbed a T-shirt and a jacket. "Can I use your phone?" "Of course." She moved aside to let him come out of the tent. "Do you know where he might've gone?" He sealed the flap to keep any stray animals out, then straightened up, pulling on his T-shirt as they walked toward the house. "No. He wouldn't talk to me down at the police station. And all he said to the chief was that he'd been set up and framed." With impatient fingers, he tried to untangle a knot that was in his hair. "I might've believed it if his fingerprints had only been found on, you know, something like a single can of soda, or a few things here and there." He gave up on his hair as he opened the door for Melody, then followed her into the brightly lit warmth of the kitchen. Brittany was awake, too, and talking on the phone. “But according to the police report, his prints were on the furniture, on the walls, in every single room. He was in that house, there's no denying it." "But he is denying it," Melody said, her blue eyes wide. "And rather vehemently, I've heard." She lowered herself into one of the kitchen chairs, shifting uncomfortably, as if her back was hurting again. What else was new? Never mind the fact that he knew how to give a killer back rub—she wouldn't let him near enough to give her one. But despite her obvious discomfort, she looked particularly lovely tonight. She'd put her hair in a single braid down her back, but while she'd slept, several tendrils had escaped. They floated gracefully, delicately, around her face. Without any makeup on at all, she looked fresh and sweet— barely old enough to babysit, let alone have a baby of her own. As he watched, she chewed on her lower lip. She had gorgeous lips—so full and red even without the help of cosmetics. In his dream, she'd smiled at him almost wickedly before she'd lowered her head and... Don't go there, Cowboy admonished himself. As much as he would've liked to, he couldn't let his thoughts continue in that direction right now. He had to think about Andy Marshall instead Damn fool kid. What the hell was he trying to prove? "Running away like this is a pretty strong admission of guilt," Cowboy pointed out. "Sometimes people run because they're afraid." Melody was talking about more than Andy—he knew because she suddenly wouldn't meet his gaze. "Sometimes people don't realize that everyone in the world is afraid of something," he countered. "Best thing to do is face your fear. Learn all you can about it. Then learn to live with it Knowledge goes a long way when it comes to declawing even the scariest monsters." "Is that what you've been doing here with me?" she asked, no longer even pretending to talk about Andy. "Learning to live with your fear? Facing the terrors of a lifetime commitment? And don't try to pretend that the thought of marrying me doesn't scare you to death—I know it does." He went for the truth. Why not? He had nothing to lose. "You're right," he said. "It does frighten me. But I've done frightening things before and come out a better man because of them." Before Melody could respond, Brittany grimly hung up the phone. "They're starting the search up by the quarry," she announced. "Alex Parks just

told his father that Andy had called him and told him to meet him in the woods up there just after midnight. Alex is claiming he never went, but my gut feeling is that we haven't gotten the full story from this kid yet. Anyone who's willing and able is supposed to meet out at the end of Quarry Road." Melody stood up. "I'm going to go change." "Willing and able, sweetie," Brittany said. "Not willing and seven and a half months pregnant." "But I want to help!" "Help by giving the lieutenant your car keys and waving goodbye," Brittany told her sister. "You don't really think Cowboy'll be able to give the search for Andy his full attention if you're there for him to worry about, do you?" Melody looked directly at him. "So...just don't worry about me." Cowboy smiled ruefully. "Honey, that's kind of like telling me don't breathe." She looked as if she was going to cry. "My keys are by the door," she told him. "Take my car. But call as soon as you hear anything." By 7:45, Melody had gotten tired of waiting. Jones hadn't called. He still hadn't called. Fortunately, Brittany had gotten tired of waiting, too. By 8:00, Britt was driving her down to the end of Quarry Road. The narrow road was lined on both sides with parked cars for about a good half mile. "You get out here," Britt told her. "I'll park and walk back." "Are you sure?" Melody asked. Brittany raised her eyebrows. "Do you honestly believe that I would bring you up here in the cold, and then make you walk an extra half mile? I should have my head examined for driving you over here in the first place—and all for the sake of some stupid kid." "He's not stupid." Melody opened the door. "He's incredibly stupid," Britt argued. "He didn't call me before he ran away. I know he didn't vandalize that house." Melody stared at her sister. "You do?" "Yeah, and I realized as we were driving here that I can prove it, too. The kid's been on-line, using my computer every night this week, right? I was working the night of the break-in, and you were probably already in bed, but Andy was at our house, at my computer. I just realized I got E-mail from him at work that night. Unless he scheduled a flash session, I can give him a solid alibi. And whether or not there was a flash session scheduled should be easy enough to prove. I just have to access my account information. It'll prove he was logged on and actively using the Net that night." "You seriously believe Andy's innocent—?" Brittany shrugged. "Well, yeah. He said he didn't do it. The kid may be a royal pain the butt, but I've gotten to know him pretty well over the past few weeks, and he's not a liar." "But all those fingerprints..." "I know. I haven't figured that out yet, but if Andy says he didn't do it, he didn't do it." "I think you should tell this to Tom Beatrice right now," Melody said. She had to smile. "Of all people, I wouldn't have thought you'd be Andy's champion." "Yeah, well, I was wrong about him. He's an okay kid." Worry flickered across her face. "I hope he's okay." "Jones'll find him," Melody told her sister as she hauled herself out of the car. She had total faith in the SEAL. This was what he was good at. Rescuing hostages and disarming gunmen and finding missing little boys would all fall under the category labeled "piece a cake." "Don't go any farther than the quarry," Brittany said threateningly, leaning across the seat to look up at her. "If I get back here and find out that you've done something insane, like join a search party, I swear I'll never let you leave the house again." "I won't join a search party. I promise." It was then that Melody saw them. "Oh, God!" "You all right?" "Boats, Britt." There were two trucks parked at haphazard angles, both of which had boat trailers behind them. They were empty, which meant the boats were in use. "They're dragging the quarry." Brittany put the car in park and shut off the engine. She opened the door, then stood looking across the roof of the car at the telltale trailers. Her face was pale, but she shook her head in denial. "It doesn't mean that. Not necessarily." Melody blinked back tears. "Yes, it does. You know it." Brittany slammed the car door, leaving the vehicle right there, blocking in at least four other cars. "No, it doesn't." Her voice rang with determination.

Mel followed her sister down the trail that led to the flooded quarry. A crowd had gathered. She could see Estelle Warner and Peggy Rogers, surrounded by other members of the Ladies' Club decked out in their hiking boots and jeans. Tom Beatrice and nearly all of Appleton's police force were talking to several state troopers as Vince and Kirsty Romanella hovered nearby. Even Alex Parks was there, sitting on a rock, looking as if he'd been crying. And standing off to the sides were all the people who had volunteered to help search the woods for Andy. The turnout was nearly bigger than last weekend's apple picking at Hetterman's. They were talking in hushed voices, somberly watching the boats. "They're not dragging the water." Brittany shielded her eyes with her hand, trying to see past the glare of the early-morning sun. "What are they doing?" Jones was out on one of the boats. Although he was too far away to see clearly, Melody recognized him from his easygoing posture. That, the baseball cap he wore on his head and the fact that, even though it was only forty chilly degrees out, he wore his jacket unbuttoned more than tipped her off. The man was totally immune to the cold. "The water's too deep to drag in many places." Melody turned to see Estelle Warner standing behind them. "They're using some kind of sonar contraption to try to get a reading on anything that might be a body down at the bottom of the pit," the elderly woman said. "This old quarry's three hundred feet deep in some places. Maybe even deeper in others." "They can't be sure he's in there." Melody's heart was in her throat. "Aren't they searching anywhere else?" "Considering the fact that an eyewitness saw the boy go into the water, and that the searchers found his clothes exactly where that witness said they'd be..." "Oh, no..." Brittany reached for Melody's hand. Estelle looked even more dour than usual. "I'm afraid so. It seems the Parks boy met Andy Marshall up here late last night. From what he says, Andy was always trying to pick a fight, and this time was no different. Andy dared the Parks boy to swim across the quarry, and when the Parks boy backed down, Andy took of his own clothes and dove into the water. Had to have been close to freezing, but that wild kid just dove right in." Both boats were heading to shore. Jones took off his baseball cap and raked his hair back out of his face, refastening his po-nytail. As Melody watched, he put his hat back on, making sure it was securely on his head. As he got closer, she could see that his face was decidedly grim. "Apparently, the Parks boy didn't see young Andy come back up," Estelle told them. "He says he searched for a while, calling to Andy, but there was no reply. Of course, it was dark and hard to see much of anything. It's likely the boy dove in the wrong spot, hit his head on a rock. Or maybe the cold just got to him." Brittany was squeezing Melody's fingers. "Please don't let them have found something," she whispered. "That lieutenant of yours," Estelle told Melody. "He took one look at Andy's clothes—left right where the Parks boy had said they were—and he made a few phone calls to Boston. And this other man, the tall black fellow, he was out here within a few hours with this sonar whatever. Brought diving gear with him, too." Harvard. Harvard was on that boat with Jones. Melody could see him now, towering over everyone—even Jones. His shaved head gleamed exotically in the sunlight. His expression, like Jones's, was less than pleased. Melody saw Jones spot her as he climbed out of the boat. She saw him hesitate, glancing quickly back at Harvard, and she knew. He hadn't told his friend that she was pregnant. It would have been funny if the situation weren't so deadly serious. Still, he came toward her, and Melody knew when she looked into his eyes that Harvard's reaction to her pregnancy was the least of his worries. He didn't say hello, didn't mince his words. "Honey, we think he's down there." Brittany sank to the ground. Estelle knelt next to her, holding her tightly—two mortal enemies allied once again, this time through the death of a child. "No," Melody whispered. But she could see the truth written clearly in the stormy green of Jones's eyes. He was stony-faced, sternly angry. "It's my fault." His voice was raspy and as dry as his eyes. "I thought he was ready to learn some discipline. I'd been taking him out, running him through some PT. I told him that SEALs had to condition themselves against cold water. I told him about Hell Week—about having to sit in that freezing surf and just hang on. He wanted to try it—try swimming in the quarry, so I let him do it. We just jumped in and jumped out. I thought I'd let him get a taste of what cold really was." He stopped, taking a deep breath before he continued. "That was my mistake. I didn't let him stay in. I just pulled him back out. I didn't let him cramp up or find out how hard it is to swim when every muscle in your body is cold and stiff. I think I must've given him the false confidence to try it again." "That still doesn't make this your fault." Melody wanted to reach for him, to put her arms around him, but he seemed so distant, so unanimated and still, so grim and hard and unreach-able. Harvard had come to stand beside them, and she could feel his curious eyes on her, but she didn't look away from Jones. She couldn't look away.

He truly blamed himself for this tragedy. "It is my fault. I told him about swim buddies—about how SEALs never swim or dive without another team member, but I know he saw me breaking the rules by swimming alone in the quarry." "Junior, we should probably make that dive," Harvard said quietly. "If we've got to go down to 175 feet, it's going to take awhile." When Melody finally glanced at him, he nodded. "How are you, Melody? You're looking very...healthy." "Will you tell him, please, that this is not his fault?" "The lady says it's not your fault, Jones." Jones's expression didn't change as he turned away. "Yeah, right. Let's get this over with." Melody couldn't stand it a second longer. She reached for him, catching his hand in hers. "Harlan—" There was a flash of surprise in his eyes, surprise that she'd actually used his given name, surprise that she'd actually touched him, but that emotion was quickly turned into stone, along with everything else he was feeling. Even his fingers felt cold. She knew this stony anger was his defense against having to go down into that water and possibly—probably—bring up the lifeless body of the boy they'd all come to love over the past few weeks. But she knew just as well that everything he felt—all the blame and the fear and the awful, paralyzing grief—was there inside him. His anger didn't cancel his feelings out; it merely covered them. She knew him quite well, she realized. Over the past few weeks, despite her attempts to keep her distance, she'd come to know this man's vast repertoire of minutely different smiles— what they meant, how they broadcast exactly how and what he was feeling. She'd come to know his silences, too. And she'd had a firsthand look at his method of dealing with fear. He hid it behind icy cold anger. "Be careful," she whispered. A local diving club had frequented the quarry several years ago—until someone had gotten killed and it had been deemed too dangerous a place to dive. His eyes told her nothing—nothing but the fact that underneath all that chill, he was hurting. He nodded and even tried to force a smile. "Piece a cake." "We'll be down for a while," Harvard told her. "Diving at this depth requires regular stops both on the way down and coming back up. It's timeconsuming, and for you, waiting up here on the surface, it'll seem as if it takes forever. You might want to go home and wait for a phone call." "Jones has forgotten how to use the phone," Melody said, still gazing into his eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't call you," he said quietly, "but all I kept getting was bad news." Emotion shifted across his face, and for a heartbeat, Melody thought he was about to give in to all of his pain and crumple to the ground just as Brittany had. But he didn't. "It seemed senseless to make you worry until I knew for sure Andy was dead." He said the word flatly, bluntly, using it to bring back his anger and put his other emotions in check. "We still don't know that for sure." Melody squeezed his hand. But her words were pure bravado. She could see Jones's certainty in his eyes. "Go home," he told her. "No," she said. If he did find Andy down there, he was going to need her to be here—as badly as she was going to need him. "I'll wait for you to come back up. We can go home together." She couldn't believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. Go home together... His expression didn't change. For a moment, he didn't even move. But then, in one swift movement, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. She clung to him, kissing him back just as ferociously, wanting him, needing him—and needing him to know it. He pulled away, breathing hard. He didn't say a word about that incredible kiss. He just took off his jacket and handed it to her. "Spread this on the ground so you'll have something dry to sit on." His voice was harsh, and his eyes were still so angry, but he gently touched the side of her face with one finger. "I don't want you catching cold." It was almost as if he loved her. It was almost as if they were lovers who had been together for years. "Be careful," Melody said again. As he gazed at her, his eyes suddenly looked bleak. "It's too late," he told her quietly. "When it came to dealing with Andy, I wasn't careful enough, and now it's too damn late." Melody tried not to cry as he turned and walked away.

Chapter 12 Cowboy usually loved to dive, but this was sheer hell. He and H. were heading nearly straight down, using a marked rope to gauge their distance, stopping at regular intervals to let their bodies adjust to the increasing pressure of the water. The time spent stopping and waiting dragged on interminably. It was necessary, though. If they moved too quickly from the surface to a depth below a hundred feet, and then back, they could—and would—get the bends. Cowboy had seen a guy who hadn't believed how crippling the bends could actually be. The stupid SOB had gotten brain damage from bubbles of nitrogen expanding in his system. He still couldn't walk to this day. Despite the fact that SEALs were known for breaking the rules, this was one rule they never even bent. Even when they were in as big a hurry as he was. Contrary to what he'd told Melody, this dive was anything but a piece of cake. At this depth, he and Harvard had to breathe from special tanks of mixed gas to prevent nitrogen narcosis— also known as the rapture of the deep. As if that wasn't dangerous enough, there was a definite time limit to how long they could remain at that depth. And the number and lengths of decompression stops they would have to make on the way back to the surface were intensely complicated. With the scuba gear on, he and Harvard couldn't talk. And at this depth beneath the surface, it was very, very cold and very, very dark. He couldn't even see Harvard next to him. He could only sense his presence. Out of all the men in Alpha Squad, Cowboy was glad it was the senior chief who'd been just a short drive away, visiting his family in his hometown just outside Boston. Unlike some of the guys, Harvard knew when not to talk. As they'd pulled on their cold-water diving suits, Harvard had had only a brief comment to make about Melody's pregnancy. He'd said, "When you told me you had a situation to deal with, you weren't kidding. You don't do anything halfway, do you, Junior?" "No," Cowboy had replied. "I assume you're going to do right by the girl?" "Yeah," Cowboy had answered automatically. For so long now, his single-most goal had been to marry Melody and be a real father to their baby. But that was before he'd failed so utterly with Andy. Who was he trying to fool here anyway? He knew less than nothing about parenting. The fact that he was diving in this quarry in hopes of recovering Andy's drowned body was proof of that. Cowboy floated in the darkness, uncertain of what to wish for. He hoped they weren't going to find Andy's body, but at the same time, if the kid had drowned in this quarry, he hoped that they'd find him right away. It would end the waiting and wondering. And it would be far better than never finding him, never quite knowing for sure. He shone his flashlight straight down, knowing that the light couldn't possibly cut through the murky depths to that place where the sonar camera had found an object the approximate size and density of a human body. back into the deprivation-tank-like darkness. They had to save their flashlight batteries for when they were really needed. He closed his eyes. He knew he could do anything if he had to. But watching the beam from his light reflect off Andy Marshall's pale, water-swollen face was going to be one of the hardest things he would ever have to do. It was going to be almost as hard as admitting that maybe Melody had been right all along, almost as hard as it would be to walk away from her sweet smile. Cowboy was going to do right by her. Only now that he knew better, he was going to do it by leaving her alone. “It was only a bundle of trash," Melody heard Jones report to Tom Beatrice as she inched closer to the group of men. "There was an outcropping of rocks. We searched that area as extensively as possible, given our time limit at that depth." His mouth was still a grim, straight line. "However, that was only one part of the quarry." She had nearly fainted with relief when she'd seen Jones's and Harvard's heads break the surface of the water. Jones must've known she'd be watching, worried out of her mind, because he'd turned to search for her, picking her out in the crowd on the shore. As he'd treaded the icy quarry water, he'd looked at her, touching the top of his head with the tips of his fingers, giving her the diver's signal for okay. He was okay, thank God. And the blip they'd picked up on the sonar wasn't Andy's body. It was only a bag of trash. "How long do you have to wait before you can make another dive?" Tom Beatrice asked. "The earliest we could do it would be late tonight," Jones told the police chief. "But it would be smarter and safer to wait until morning," Harvard added. He met the other SEAL'S eyes. "You know as well as I do, Jones—a fouror five-hour delay isn't going to matter one bit to that boy if he's down there."

Jones glanced around the somber crowd, at the Romanellas, at Estelle Warner and Brittany. His gaze lingered on Melody before he turned back to the police chief. "I'm sorry, Tom," he said. "Senior Chief Becker's right. We'd better wait and continue the search in the morning." "That's fine, son," Tom told him. "It's risky enough diving down there in daylight." He looked around at the men who'd brought the boats. "We'll meet back here at 8:00 a.m. Let's get those boats up and out of the water!" Brittany touched Melody's arm, pulling her aside. "I'm leaving." "I'm waiting for Jones," Mel told her sister. "I know," Brittany said. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but she managed a watery smile. "It's nice to know that something good will come of this." Melody shook her head. "Britt, don't get the wrong idea here. Just because I care about Jones doesn't mean I intend to marry him. Because I don't. This isn't about that. We're friends." She wasn't certain herself what it was about. Friendship, maybe. Or comfort. Comfort and friendship with a healthy dose of attraction. Yeah, when it came to Cowboy Jones, her intense attraction to him was always a part of the equation. Brittany was looking at her with one eyebrow elevated skeptically. "Friends?" Melody blushed, remembering how he'd kissed her, right there in front of everyone, remembering the way she'd clung to him— returning all of his passion and then some. But whatever she'd been thinking, whatever she'd been feeling, the moment had passed. Her sanity has returned. She hoped. "I'd like Jones to be my friend. Of course, based on our history, it's bound to be a little confusing as we iron things out..." Brittany didn't look convinced. "Whatever. I'm going in to work—try to keep my mind off Andy. I have the afternoon shift You and your 'friend' will have the house to yourselves." Melody sighed. "Britt, I'm not going to..." But her sister was already gone. The crowd had moved off, too, leaving Jones and Harvard to stow their diving gear and strip out of their bulky dry suits. For the first time since Melody had met him, Jones actually looked cold. The water had been icy, and he'd been submerged in it an endlessly long time. He was shivering despite a blanket someone had put around him. His fingers fumbled on the zipper, and she moved toward him. "Do you want me to get that?" He smiled tightly. "The irony here is incredible. It's only after I screw up beyond belief that you want to undress me." "I was...I thought..." She blushed. The truth was that she'd wanted to undress him from the moment she saw him again. But God help her if he ever realized that. His smile faded with the last of his anger, and he looked dreadfully tired and impossibly unhappy. "I'm not sure exactly what's happening here between us, honey, but I've got to tell you—I sure as hell don't deserve any kind of consolation prize today." "I didn't hear any of that," Harvard singsonged, peeling his own dry suit off his well-muscled body and nearly jumping into his jeans, pulling them on directly over the long woolen underwear he'd worn underneath. "I am so not listening. Got water in my ears, can't hear a damn thing." In his haste, he didn't bother with his shirt. He just yanked his winter coat over his undershirt. "In fact, I'm so outta here, I've already been gone for ten minutes. I've got all the gear except for your suit, Junior. You get that dried out, and I'll get the tanks filled for tomorrow." "Thanks, H." "Melody, girl, you don't need my admonishment to be careful around this man. Clearly, you two have already taken the concept of being careful, packed it in a box and tied a big red ribbon around it." Harvard took one look at Jones's face and backed away. "Like I said, though, I'm gone. I'll be back in the morning." And then he was gone, leaving Jones and Melody alone. "Jones, I didn't mean to imply..." she started lamely. She took a deep breath. "When I said that about us going home, I'm not sure I really meant to make it sound as if—" "Okay," he said. "That's okay. I misinterpreted. I'm sorry. That kiss was my mistake." No, it wasn't. And he hadn't misinterpreted. At the time, Melody had meant what she'd said. She was just too cowardly to admit it now. Obviously, she'd been swept along by the rush of high emotions. Now that she was thinking clearly again, the thought of taking him home and bringing him up to her room scared her to death. She could not let herself fall in love with him. She absolutely couldn't. "One step forward, two steps back," Jones added softly, almost as if he was talking to himself, almost as if he was able to read her mind. "This is your game, honey. You make up the rules and I'll follow them."

He had managed to unzip his diving suit and he pushed it off his body. Like Harvard, he had long underwear on underneath. He pulled that off, too, covering himself rather halfheartedly with the blanket, uncaring of who might be watching. Melody quickly turned away and picked up his jeans from the rock he'd left them on. But when she started to hold them out to him, still carefully averting her eyes, she realized that they were at least six sizes too small. She knew what must have happened even before Jones spoke. She was holding Andy's jeans. "Someone must've put those over here by mistake," he said. Andy's jeans and Andy's sweatshirt. The clothes Andy had been wearing before he'd jumped into the quarry. The clothes he had taken off just moments before he'd drowned. Jones found his own jeans and pulled them on as Melody slowly sat down on the rock. The woods around the quarry had been searched for quite some distance. If Andy had managed somehow to crawl out of the quarry and collapse in the bushes, he would have been found. And if he'd crawled out of the quarry and hadn't collapsed— well, it was hard to imagine him running around the woods in only his underwear. Andy had drowned. He'd gone into the water and he hadn't come back out. As she sat holding his clothes, the reality hit her hard. Andy Marshall was dead. Melody had been hanging pretty tough all day, but now the realization hit her, and she couldn't hold back her tears. Try as she might, she couldn't keep them from escaping. One after another, they rolled down her face. Jones sat down next to her, close but not quite touching. He'd put on his T-shirt and pulled on his cowboy boots. He still had that blanket wrapped around his shoulders for warmth, and without a word, he drew it around her shoulders, too. They sat for a moment, watching the noonday sun reflecting off the surface of the flooded quarry. "I feel like I’m never going to be warm again," he admitted Melody wiped ineffectively at her tears. She couldn't stop them—they just kept on coming. "We should go home, get you something warm to drink." It was as if he hadn't heard her. "Melody, I'm so sorry." He turned to her, and she saw that he had tears in his eyes, too. "If I hadn't come to town, this never would've happened." She took his hand underneath the blanket. His fingers were icy. "You don't know that for certain." "I thought I could help him," Jones told her. His eyes were luminous as he held her hand tightly. "I thought all he really needed was someone who cared enough to help get him in line. Someone to set some limits, and at the same time, make some demands that were above and beyond what he'd been asked to do in the past." He stared back out at the water, his jaw muscles jumping. "I remembered what joining the Navy—joining the SEALs—had done for me, and I thought I could give him a taste of that I thought..." He trailed off, and Melody finished for him. "Piece of cake?" Jones looked at her and laughed, half in disbelief, half in despair. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his free hand. "Sweet Lord, was I ever wrong about that." He shook his head. "I can't believe he lied to me about breaking into that house on Looking Glass Road." "He wasn't lying," Melody told him. "At least Britt doesn't think so. She thinks she can prove that he was using her computer that night. She claims he was at our house, surfing the Net on the night the vandalism took place." "If he didn't do it, how did his fingerprints get all over the place?" Melody shook her head. "I don't know. But I do know that he stuck to his story. He insisted he didn't do it. What I'd like to know is why he called Alex Parks. And why would Alex agree to meet Andy out here after midnight?" "I should've believed the kid. Why didn't I?" The muscles in Jones's jaw were clenching again. "He said he didn't do it. I asked, and he answered me. I should've stuck by him. I should have trusted him unconditionally." Now it was Melody's turn to gaze out at the water. "It's hard to trust someone unconditionally," she told him. "Even the most powerful trust has its limits. I should know." She forced herself to look at him, to meet his eyes. "I would—and I did—trust you with my life. But I found myself unable to trust you with my heart. I expected you to hurt me and I couldn't get past that." His eyes were so green in the early-afternoon light. "You really expected me to hurt you?" Melody nodded. "Not intentionally, but yeah." "That's why you didn't want to see me again. That's why you didn't give what we had going a chance." "Yes," she admitted. "I probably would've," he admitted, too. "Hurt you, I mean. Like you said, not intentionally, but..."

She didn't want to talk about this. Nodding again, she pushed on, hoping he would follow. "In the same way, you expected Andy to mess up. So when it seemed as if he was lying, you went with your expectations." "God, I really blew it." The tears were back in Jones's eyes. "I thought I knew what I was doing, but the truth is, I was really unprepared to deal with this kid. I did everything wrong." "That's just not true." But he wasn't listening. "When we hit 175 feet, we weren't quite on target and had to search for the object that the sonar picked up." He was talking about the dive he'd made in the quarry with Harvard. "It took us so long to get down there with all the stopping and waiting, but once we were there, I was scared to death. I just wanted to close my eyes and sink to the bottom myself. I didn't want to look, I didn't want to know. And then my light hit something, and it reflected back at me, and for one split second, Mel, I saw him. My eyes played a nasty trick on me, and I saw Andy's face down there." Melody didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. She just kept holding his hand. "Tomorrow, I'm going to have to go back down there," he continued. "And tomorrow, I probably am going to find him." He was shaking. Whether it was from the wintery chill of the air or the darkness of his thoughts, Melody wasn't sure. She did know it was time to bring him home, though. She stood up, tugging him gently to his feet, escaping from the confines of his blanket. "Let's go, Jones." She paused. "Do you still have my car keys?" "Yeah." He gathered up his diving suit. "They're in my pocket." Melody folded Andy's jeans, putting them back on the rock. "I wonder if we should try to contact Andy's father. Andy was running some searches on the Internet—he told me he thought he might've located his father at an Army base up in New Hampshire and—" She realized what she was saying at the exact same moment Jones did. "What did you just say?" he asked, turning to face her. "He was looking for his father on the Net." "And he thought he found him in New Hampshire." Transfixed, Melody stared into the sudden glaring intensity of Jones's eyes. "Do you think...?" she breathed. Jones grabbed Andy's jeans, searching quickly through the pockets. "Honey, did you see his watch? Was his watch here with the rest of his clothes?" "No." Melody was afraid to get too excited. Although Andy never went anywhere without that watch, he certainly wouldn't have worn it into the water. So why wasn't it here? "It's possible Alex Parks took it. I wouldn't trust that kid any farther than I could throw him." "Yeah, you're right. It's possible Alex has it. But..." Jones ran his hands through his damp hair. "Last week at the library, I talked Andy into checking out a copy of Tom Sawyer. He told me that he liked it—so he must've been reading it." "Oh, my God." Melody turned to look at the quarry. "He might've set this whole thing up to make it look as if he'd drowned." Jones grabbed her hand. "Come on." "Where are we going?" "You're going home. I'm going to New Hampshire." Melody's back was killing her. Cowboy shook his head in disgust, amazed that he'd let her talk him into coming along with him. It was an hour-and-a-half drive up to New Hampshire—each way. She was careful not to mention her discomfort. Of course not This was the woman who had walked for eight hours across the desert, the back of her heels raw from blisters, without complaining even once. No, she didn't say a word, but her constant shifting in her seat gave her away. "We're almost there," she said, looking up from the map into the midafternoon glare. The town was small, clearly built as an afterthought to the neighboring U.S. Army base. There were a series of bars and pool halls along the main strip, along with a tired-looking supermarket, a cheap motel, a tattoo parlor, a liquor store and a bus station with a sputtering neon sign. Cowboy did a U-turn, right there in the middle of town. "What are you doing? The base is in the other direction." "Just following a hunch."

“But—" "This whole thing—driving all the way up here without even being able to talk to Private Marshall on the phone—is a long shot, right?" He'd used a contact he had at the Pentagon to locate Andy's father, Pvt. David Marshall, here at the Plainfield, New Hampshire, Army Base. Plainfield wasn't any kind of cushy silver-bullet assignment. In fact, it was the opposite. Men were assigned to Plainfield as a punishment just short of a jail sentence. And according to Cowboy's Pentagon friend, David Marshall had had plenty of reasons to be reprimanded. He had a rap sheet a mile long, filled with unsavory charges including sexual harassment and use of excessive violence in dealing with civilians. When Cowboy had called Plainfield, he was told that Private Marshall was not available. He couldn't even get the unfriendly voice on the other end of the line to verify if the man was still stationed at the base. From the tone of the phone call, though, he suspected the elder Marshall was currently in the middle of a severe dressing-down—or maybe even in the lockup. If Private Marshall was at Plainfield, assuming Andy had even been able to see him, it wasn't too hard to imagine his reaction as he came face-toface with the son he'd abandoned twelve years earlier. There weren't going to be many kisses and hugs, that much was for sure. Cowboy pulled into the potholed parking lot next to the bus station. "You think Andy's father won't want anything to do with him," Melody guessed correctly. "But do you really think Andy would have enough money to buy a bus ticket out of here? He probably spent everything he had getting here from Appleton." "I think he probably doesn't even have enough to buy himself dinner, but the bus station's warm and dry. He can stay here all night if he needs to. He can even sleep on one of the benches if he pretends he's waiting for an arriving bus." She was watching him closely in the shadowy dusk as he pulled up the parking brake and turned off the engine. "You sound as if you're speaking from experience." Cowboy gazed into her eyes. It felt as if it had been a million years since they shared a smile. The trip from Massachusetts had been a quiet one. In fact, this entire day had been the furthest thing from a laughfest he'd ever known. "I think maybe you know me a little too well." "How many times exactly did you run away when you were a kid?" "I don't know—I lost count. The dumb thing was, no one ever really missed me. So I finally stopped running. I figured I could tick my parents off more by being around." Melody shifted in her seat. "But you ran away again when you were sixteen, right? You told me you went to see a rodeo and just never went home." "That wasn't running away. That was growing up and leaving home." He managed a wan smile. "Well, maybe not growing up. I'm still not sure I've managed to do that yet." "I think you've done just fine." Her eyes were soft in the rapidly fading light, and Cowboy knew with a sudden certainty that all he had to do was lean forward and she would let him kiss her. Despite everything that she'd said about misinterpretation and mistakes, with very little effort on his part, she would belong to him. He couldn't figure it out. Certainly if Andy was dead, but even if the kid was alive, Cowboy had proven himself to be irresponsible and incapable of dealing with a child. It didn't make sense. He screws up and now he gets the girl? What he'd done should've made her want to put even more distance between them. He just didn't get it. Maybe it was only based on comfort, on shared grief—or hope. Or hell, maybe it was only his imagination. He'd find out soon enough by kissing her again, by lowering his mouth to hers and... It was funny. All this time, he would've risked damn near anything for a chance to take this woman into his arms and lose himself in her sweet kisses. But now, as badly as he wanted to feel her arms around him, he was going to have to deny himself the pleasure. They'd come here hoping to find Andy. He should be looking for the kid, not kissing Melody. But God, he wanted to kiss her. He was drowning in the ocean blue of her eyes, wondering just how much comfort she'd be willing to give him, how much comfort she'd be willing to take in return.... "We're stalling," she told him, breaking the spell. "We should go inside." Cowboy nodded, realizing he was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles had turned white. He pried his fingers free. "I know." He was stalling. Truth was, he was afraid of going into that bus station and finding out his hunch was wrong. He was afraid this entire trip was just the result of wishful thinking and that Andy really was down at the bottom of that quarry. Melody unfastened her seat belt. “I’ll go. You stay here." Cowboy snorted at that. "I don't think so." He helped her out of the car, and as he closed the door behind her, she held on to his hand. He'd been on quite a few difficult missions since he'd become a SEAL, but this was the first time he'd had a hand to hold as he took the point. And odd as it was, he was glad for it, glad she was there. "Please, God, let him be here," she murmured as they started toward the door.

"If he is here," Cowboy told her, "do me a favor. Don't let me kill him." She squeezed his hand. "I won't." He took a deep breath, pushed open the door and together they went inside. It was vintage run-down bus station. The odor of cigarette smoke and urine wasn't completely masked by the cloyingly sweet chemical scent of air freshener. The bleak walls were a hopeless shade of beige, and the industrial-bland floor tiles were cracked and chipped in some places, revealing triangles of the dirty gray concrete beneath. The men's room had a sign on the door saying Out Of Order—Use Facilities Near Ticket Agents. The snack bar had been permanently shut down, replaced by vending machines. The cheery orange and yellow of the hard plastic chairs had long since been dulled by thousands of grimy fingers. And Andy Marshall, a picture of dejection, sat in one of them, shoulders slumped, elbows on knees, forehead resting in the palms of his hands. Relief roared in Cowboy's ears. It made the bus station, and the entire world with it, seem to shift and tilt on its axis. The relief was followed by an icy surge of anger. How could Andy have done this? The little bastard! He'd had them all worried damned sick! "Jones." He turned and looked down into Melody's eyes, They were brimming with tears. But she blinked, pushing them back as she smiled up at him. "I think he's already been punished enough," she said as if she could read his mind, as if everything he was feeling was written on his face. Cowboy nodded. It was obvious that the kid's last hope had been ripped from him without any anesthetic. It wasn't going to do either Andy or Cowboy the slightest bit of good to foam at the mouth and rage at him. "I'm going to go call Tom Beatrice,", he told Melody, knowing that he had to attempt to regain his equilibrium before he confronted the boy. "I want to give Harvard a call, too. Tell him we found Andy alive." She held on to his hand until the last possible moment. "Call Brittany, will you? Please?" "I will." He went to a row of beat-up pay phones, punching in his calling-card number and watching as Melody approached Andy. She sat down next to him, and even then the kid didn't look up until she spoke. Cowboy was too far away to hear what she said, but Andy didn't seem surprised by her presence. He watched them talk as he made his calls. Tom was quietly thankful. Harvard was out, and Cowboy left a message for him with his father. Brittany cried and then cursed the boy for his stupidity in the same breath in which she thanked God for keeping him safe. As Cowboy hung up the phone, Andy glanced warily in his direction. The flash of his pale face called to mind that other ghastly image he'd thought he'd seen 175 feet beneath the surface of the flooded quarry. Andy's face looked much better with life glistening in his eyes. And just like that, Cowboy's anger faded. The kid was alive. Yeah, he'd made a pile of very huge mistakes, but who was Cowboy to talk? He'd made some whopping mistakes here himself. Starting seven and a half months ago in that 747 bathroom with Melody. With barely a thought, he'd gambled with fate and lost— and changed her life irrevocably. She looked up at him as he approached, and he could see trepidation in her eyes. He tried to smile to reassure her, but it came out little better than a grimace. Great big God, he was tired, but he couldn't even consider slowing down. He had a ninety-minute drive back to Appleton that he had to make before he could even think about climbing into bed. Climbing into Melody's bed. If she let him. Hell, if he let himself, knowing what he now knew for certain—that he had no right to be anyone's father. He laughed silently and scornfully at himself. Yeah, right. Like he'd ever turn Melody down. Whether it was comfort, true love or sheer lust that drove her into his arms, he wasn't going to push her away. Not in this lifetime. "I'm sorry," Andy said before Cowboy even sat down. "Yeah," Cowboy told him, "I know. I'm glad you're okay, kid." "I thought maybe my father would be like you." Andy kicked once at the metal leg of the chair. "He wasn't." "I wish you had told me what you were planning to do." Cowboy was glad he'd made those phone calls first. His voice came out even and matter-offact rather than harsh and shaking with anger. "I would've come up here with you." "No, you wouldn't've." The boy's words were spoken without his usual cheeky attitude or resentment. They were flat, expressionlessly hopeless. "You didn't believe me when I said I didn't mess up that house." "Yeah," Cowboy said. He cleared his throat. "Lookit, Andy, I owe you a major apology on that one. I know now that you didn't do it. Of course, now is a little bit late. Still, I hope you can forgive me."

There was a tiny flare of surprise in Andy's eyes. "You know I didn't...?" "Brittany believed you," Melody told him. "And she figured out a way to prove you were telling the truth. The account information from her computer is going to show that someone—you— were on-line that night. And although that probably wouldn't hold up as an alibi in a court of law, it'll go far in convincing Tom Beatrice he's caught the wrong kid." "Brittany believed me, huh?" Andy looked bemused. "Man, there was a time when she would've been organizing a lynch mob." He looked up at Cowboy and squared his narrow shoulders. "Maybe I am at least partly guilty, though. I did go into that house about two weeks ago. One of the upstairs windows was open a crack. I knew the place was empty, so I climbed up and went inside. I didn't break anything, though, and I didn't steal anything. I just looked." "And touched," Cowboy added. Andy rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I left my fingerprints everywhere. What a fool. Someone must've seen me go in and told Alex Parks. He did the spray painting and broke the windows and mirrors and stuff. He told me last night up by the quarry. He told me he'd made sure I was going to leave town. He told me he'd reserved a room for me at juvy hall." He smiled grimly. "I scared the hell out of him when I jumped into the quarry." "You scared the hell out of all of us," "It was a stupid, dangerous thing to do," Melody admonished him hotly. "You might have really drowned." Andy slouched in his seat. "Yeah, like anyone would've missed me. Like anyone in the world gives a damn. My father doesn't—that's for sure. You know, he didn't even know my name? He kept calling me Anthony. Anthony. And he stood and talked with me for five lousy minutes. That's all he could spare me in all of twelve years." "Forget about your father," Melody said fiercely. "He's an idiot, Andy. You don't need him because you have us. You've got me and Brittany and Jones—" "Yeah, for how long?" There were actually tears in Andy's eyes. He couldn't keep up the expressionless act any longer. His voice shook. “Because after this mess, Social Services is going to pull me out of the Romanellas' house so fast I won't even have time to wave goodbye." "We won't let them," Melody said. “I’ll talk to Vince Ro-manella and—" "What are you going tell him to do?" Andy sneered. "Adopt me? That's about the only thing I can think of that would keep me around. And I'm so sure that would go over really well." He shook his head, swearing softly. "I bet Vince already has my stuff packed into boxes." "Someone at Social Services must have the authority to give you a second chance," Cowboy said. "Alex Parks is the one who should be thrown into the brig for this, not you." Andy wiped savagely at his tears. "What do you care? You're going to leave town yourself in a few weeks!" Cowboy didn't know what to say. The kid was right. He wasn't going to stay. He was a SEAL. His job pulled him all over the world. Even under the best of circumstances, he'd often be gone for weeks at a time. He glanced up, and Melody made a point of not meeting his gaze. "I don't know why you're so hot to marry her," Andy continued, gesturing with a thumb toward Melody, "when you're only going to see her and the kid a few times a year. My father might've been a real jerk, but at least he didn't pretend he was doing anything besides giving me his name when he married my mother." Melody stood up. "I think we'd better get going," she said, "It's getting late." "You know, Ted Shepherd's got a thing for you," Andy said to Melody. "Andy, I changed the subject." Melody's voice sounded strained. "We need to go, and we need to stop talking about this now." Andy turned to Cowboy. "The guy she works for has the hots for her. You didn't know that, did you? The guy's got money, too. He could take care of her and the kid, no problem. Brittany told me he's going to be governor some day. But as long as you're around, she doesn't stand a chance of getting anything started with him. And if you marry her—" "Home, Andrew," Melody said in that tone that she used when she had reached the absolute end of her rope. "Now."

Chapter 13 Your Lamaze class starts tonight." Brittany was in the dining room, rifling through the sideboard drawers, searching for something. "Seven o'clock. At the hospital. In the West Lounge." Melody sank into a chair at the kitchen table, aware of Jones watching her from the other side of the room. Lamaze class. God. It was nearly six. She would barely have enough time to take a shower. "Britt, I’m beat I'm just going to stay home." Brittany stopped her search long enough to poke her head through the door. " Abigail Cloutier has a waiting list a mile long for this class. If you don't show up, she'll fill your slot, and then you'll be stuck waiting for the next session, which doesn't start until next month. You'll probably end up having your baby before you're halfway through." She disappeared again. "I made some pea soup—it's on the stove. And there's bread warming in the oven." "Wait a minute," Melody said, sitting up straight. "Aren't you coming with me?" "Here's my passport," Brittany said triumphantly. She slammed the drawer shut and came into the kitchen, adjusting her hair. "I need it as a second form of ID." "You aren't coming with me, are you?" Melody looked at her sister, fighting her panic. If Brittany didn't come as her coach, then that left Melody going solo, or... She didn't look at Jones. She refused to look at Jones. But Britt was all dressed up, and it was obvious it wasn't for Abigail Cloutier's benefit. She was wearing a dark suit, complete with panty hose and her black heels that meant business. Her blond hair was pulled up into a French braid and she actually wore makeup. "Sweetie, Social Services is intending to take Andy back to Boston tonight. I've been on the phone with Vince Romanella and at least twelve different social workers since Cowboy called this afternoon. There's a meeting at 6:00 at the Romanellas'," she told them, turning to look at Jones, who was silently leaning against the kitchen counter. "I expect it to drag on until quite late, so no, Mel, I can't go to the Lamaze class with you tonight." "I'll go," Jones said. Melody closed her eyes. Britt laughed. "I figured you'd be willing to volunteer as temporary coach." God, the last thing Melody wanted to do was sit with Jones in a room with a dozen other expectant, married couples. But that wasn't the worst of it. She'd seen childbirth classes portrayed on TV, and all of them had demanded a certain amount of physical intimacy—touching at the very least— between the mother-to-be and her coach. It was obviously all she could do to keep from throwing herself at Jones even under normal circumstances. Add any strong emotions into the churning pot of passion, and she would be on the verge of meltdown. Add a situation in which Jones would be forced to touch her, and she would be lost. "Jones, you look even more exhausted than I feel," Melody countered, knowing that no matter what she said, he wouldn't quit. He didn't know how to quit He'd never quit before in his entire life. He gave her a crooked smile. "Honey, is it going to be harder than diving to 175 feet?" "No." Melody realized that for the first time since he'd arrived in Appleton all those weeks ago, he was wearing a sweatshirt She'd honestly thought he didn't have one. Before today, she'd thought he wasn't capable of feeling the cold. "Well, there you go. As long as it doesn't involve breathing a tank of mixed gas, it'll be a—" "Piece of cake," Melody finished for him with a sigh. "Speak for yourself," she muttered. He straightened up, concern darkening his eyes. "Mel, if you're really feeling too tired to go, I'll go for you. I can take notes and tomorrow I can tell you everything you missed." He was serious. He looked a total mess, but he stood ready to help her however he could, and the effect was touching. She tried to look away. When it came to Jones, she shouldn't be thinking words like "touching." But his chin glinted with golden brown stubble, and although he looked exhausted to the bone, and as if by all rights he should be sitting rather than standing, he looked...undeniably touchingly adorable. Melody couldn't help but glance at him, and he mustered a tired smile. She knew him well enough to believe he would be ready and willing to run ten miles if it was asked of him. Twenty if she asked him. Brittany pulled on her overcoat. Her purse was by the door, and she gathered it up. "If you're not going to go, call Abby now," her sister told her. Melody closed her eyes. "I'm going to go." With Jones. Oh, God. The feeling that gripped her was more than pure dread. In fact, the dread was laced with stomach-flipping, roller-coaster-style excitement. Brittany opened the door, but as a seeming afterthought, she turned back. "Oh, just so you know, I'm planning to begin the preliminary paperwork tonight to adopt Andy." Melody nearly fell out of her chair. "What?"

"You heard me." "I can't believe you're serious." Britt bristled. "If you can be a single mother, then I can, too. And it's not as if we don't have four empty bedrooms in this house." Melody shook her head. "I'm not criticizing you," she told her sister. "I'm just...amazed. A few weeks ago, Andy's name was interchangeable with Satan's." "Well, yes, but that was before I got to know him." "Britt, you don't really know Andy Marshall," Melody countered. "I mean, you might think you do, but—" "I know all that I need to know," Brittany said quietly. "I know that right now the one thing that boy needs more than anything in the world is someone who loves him and wants him, truly wants him. I know he's not perfect. I know he's going to give me headaches over things I can't even imagine, but I don't care. I don't care! Because you know what? The thought of my life without that kid around...well, it just feels cold—like spring will never come again. I've thought about it long and hard. I honestly want him, Mel." "It's not going to be that easy to cut through the red tape," Melody cautioned. "A single woman trying to adopt a kid who's a known troublemaker... I can imagine Social Services deciding that he's going to need a strong father figure and turning you down." "Even if it doesn't work out," Brittany told her, "at least Andy will know that someone wanted him. At least I can give him that much." Melody stood up and gave her sister a hug. "You go and fight for him," she whispered, blinking back tears. And then Brittany was gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen with Jones. Jones and his stormy green eyes... "I better shower and change if we're going out," he said. She nodded. "I have to, too." "Are you certain you just don't want to let me go?" he asked. Melody was certain of nothing anymore. "The class is only an hour and a half," she told him. "It'll be over before we know it." She hoped. *** Jones was helping himself to a cup of coffee as Melody returned from the ladies' room. Abby Cloutier, the Lamaze instructor, had called a tenminute washroom break—a definite necessity for a class filled with hugely pregnant women. So far, they'd sat on folding chairs in a darkened room and watched a movie that focused on giving birth. She'd barely been able to pay attention with Jones sitting so close to her. Having him here was a thorough distraction. He smelled good and looked even better. But he hadn't had to touch her. Not yet. Jones was smiling as he listened to another man talk. He was standing in a group of about five men, most of whom were helping themselves to cookies from the snack table. He'd broken out his Dockers and polo shirt for the occasion, and with his hair neatly pulled back into a pony tail at the nape of his neck, and his chin freshly shaven, he looked impossibly handsome. But even though he was dressed nearly the same as the other men, he stood out in the crowd. He might as well have been wearing his dress whites. "Is that your Navy SEAL?" a voice behind Melody asked. She turned to see Janette Dennison, one of Brittany's high school friends who was pregnant with her fourth child. Janette peered across the room at Jones. "Dear Lord, he's bigger than Hank Forsythe!" Hank owned the local gym. His wife, Sandy, was pregnant with their first. "Jones is taller," Melody pointed out. "Your Lieutenant Jones is more than taller," Janette countered. "Your Lieutenant Jones is...beyond description, Mel. Haven't you noticed every single woman in this place looking at you as if you've won the lottery?" Melody had noticed. But she was well aware that everyone's envy would fade rapidly as soon they were told exactly what a U.S. Navy SEAL did for a living. She'd heard several women complaining in the ladies' room about husbands who had to fly to Boulder or Los Angeles or Seattle on business and were gone for days, sometimes even weeks, at a time. They didn't know how lucky they were. Their husbands weren't going to be parachuting out of airplanes or helocasting— jumping from low-flying helicopters into the ocean below—as they inserted into enemy territory. Their husbands carried briefcases, not submachine guns. Their work didn't expose them to physical dangers. Their husbands would always be returning safe and sound. There was no chance of their being brought back home strapped to some medic's stretcher, bleeding from gunshot wounds, or—worse yet—zipped inside a body bag. "Did he really rescue you from that embassy where you were being held hostage?" Janette asked. "That is so romantic."

Melody smiled. But Janette was wrong. Yes, Jones had saved her life. But he'd saved Chris Sterling's and Kurt Matthews's lives, as well. He would've saved anyone's life. It wasn't personal—it was his job. And because of that, the fact that he'd saved her wasn't particularly romantic. What Melody found truly romantic was the image of Jones, up on a step stool in the baby's nursery, hanging curtains patterned with brightly colored bunnies and teddy bears. Romantic was the wondrous look in his eyes that she'd seen when he'd touched her and felt their baby move. Romantic was Jones, driving home from New Hampshire after they'd found Andy, furtively wiping tears of relief from his eyes when he thought she wasn't looking. Romantic was the way he could gaze at her from across the room—the way he was gazing at her right now—as if she were the most beautiful, most desirable woman on the entire planet. His eyelids were slightly lowered, and the intensity of the expression on his face would be a little frightening if not for the small smile playing around the corners of his lips. She'd seen that smile before. In Paris. And she knew for a fact that Jones had the ability and the wherewithal to make everything that little smile promised come true. She turned away, her cheeks heating with a blush. She didn't want this man, she reminded herself. She didn't love him. God help her, she didn't want to love him.... "Gentlemen," Abby Cloutier announced, "grab a floor mat and some pillows and find your ladies. We're going to do some simple breathing and relaxation exercises to get you started." Across the room, Jones waited patiently for a chance to take a mat from the pile. As if he felt Melody watching him, he looked up at her again and smiled. It was a tentative, apologetic smile, as if he knew what was coming and how much the thought of his touching her scared her. Scared her and exhilarated her. "Gentlemen, sit down on the mat and use your bodies and the pillows to make as comfortable a nest as you possibly can for your ladies," Abby continued. Jones set the mat and the pillows toward the back of the room, giving them what little privacy he could. No doubt he was well aware of the curious glances they'd been receiving all evening long. Appleton was a fairly conservative community, and they were the only unmarried pair in the group— although a few of the younger couples looked as if there had been a shotgun present at their nuptials. He sat down, imitating their classmates as he spread his long legs for her to sit nestled against him, as if they were riding a toboggan. Knowing it would be far worse if she hesitated and stood there gaping at him like some landed fish, Melody lowered herself to the mat. At least this way, she would keep her back to him. At least this way, he wouldn't see the blush that was heating her cheeks. At least this way, she wouldn't have to gaze into his eyes or watch his lips curve up into one of his smiles. At least this way, she wouldn't be tempted to do something foolish, such as kiss him. She gingerly inched her way back, bumping against the inside of his knee. "Oh, I'm sorry!" "That's all right, honey. Keep coming on back." She didn't dare look at him. "Are you sure? It's a little warm in here, and I'm not exactly a lightweight these days." "Mel. You're supposed to lean against me. How're you going to relax if you're not leaning back?" How was she supposed to relax, leaning back against this out rageously sexy man's solid chest, her legs against the inside of his thighs? "Come on," he whispered. "I promise it won't be that bad." Bad wasn't what she was afraid of. She was afraid it was going to be irresistibly good. "Get comfortable, ladies," Abby ordered. Melody inched farther back, closing her eyes as Jones took control and pulled her in close. Too close. He put his arms around her, the palms of his hands against her belly, and she felt both impossibly safe and in terrible peril. She felt his breath, soft against her ear. She felt his heart beating against her back. She didn't want to move, didn't want to talk. She just wanted to sit there with him like this. Forever. And that was absolutely the wrong thing to be thinking. "This makes me really uncomfortable," she whispered. It was both a lie and the understatement of the year. "Sorry—I'm sorry." He removed his hands but then didn't know quite where to put them. God, now she'd gone and made him tense, too. Abby's voice was just a drone in the background. She was saying something about breathing, about the importance of taking a deep cleansing breath before and after contractions. Melody inhaled deeply through her nose, releasing her breath through her mouth, along with the rest of the

class. She tried her best to follow the breathing exercises but knew without a doubt that she was retaining absolutely nothing. Come tomorrow morning, she would remember none of this—except for the way Jones smelled, and the warmth of his body pressed against her, and... "...back rub while she's doing this." Abby's voice cut into her thoughts. "Come on, guys, make her feel good." "At last," Jones said, trying to make light of it. "I'm finally going to get a chance to give you a back rub." Melody closed her eyes. There was nothing even remotely funny here. She remembered his back rubs far too well. They had involved a great deal more of both of their anatomies than simply her back and his hands. She felt him move aside the mass of her long hair, felt his hands touch her shoulders, his fingers gently massaging the too tense muscles in her upper back and neck. She tried to focus on her breathing, but with him touching her that way, she could barely get a breath in, let alone push one out. "Tell her how wonderfully she's doing, gentlemen," Abby urged. "Tell her how beautiful she is. Tell her how much you love her. Don't hold back. Practice letting her know. When she's in labor, she's going to need to hear all these little things you take for granted." "Don't you dare say anything," Melody said from between clenched teeth. His husky laughter moved the hair next to her ear. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "I wouldn't dream of it. I'm supposed to be relaxing you, not getting you more tense. I know you pretty well by now, Mel—enough to know that when you look into a mirror, you don't see what I see. I happen to think you're crazy, but this is not the time to debate the issue." "...called effleurage," Abby was saying. "It's a French word, meaning to stroke or lightly massage. Gentlemen, when your lady is in labor, it may comfort her to stroke her abdomen very lightly in a circular motion. Ladies, let him know the right amount of pressure. Tell him what feels good. Don't be shy." Melody closed her eyes tightly as Jones's long fingers caressed the mountain that was her belly. Somehow he knew exactly how to touch her. Watching those powerful-looking hands touch her so exquisitely gently was enough to make her dizzy. "Is this all right?" he asked. "Am I doing this right?" She managed to nod. Right was not quite the word for what he was doing. "How's your lower back?" he asked, using his other hand to reach between them and massage her. "This is where you're always hurting the most, isn't it?" She nodded again, unable to speak. "Are you focusing on the breathing?" he asked, his voice soft and soothing in her ear. "If I know you, you're not. You're thinking about something else entirely—about Brittany and Andy, about what's going on over at the Romanellas'. You're always thinking and worrying about someone else, but right now, you've got to clear your mind and think only about yourself. Relax and breathe and just shut everything else out." He laughed softly. "I know that's hard because I'm probably the one problem you'd like to shut out the most, right?" Wrong. Jones was wrong. He was incredibly, impossibly, amazingly, totally wrong. Melody realized with a sudden startling clarity that she didn't want to shut him out. She'd tried, but he'd been doggedly persistent, and somehow, someway, over the past few weeks, he'd gone from former lover and near stranger to dear friend. He'd been patient and he'd let her see that although he would never be called average or normal, there was a part of him that could be content just sitting on the porch, talking and watching the sunset. He'd taken his time and told her stories about himself as a boy, about growing up, so she felt she had a good sense of him, of why he did the things he did. And his dealings with Andy had told her even more about the kind of man he'd become. He was the kind of man she could fall in love with. The kind of man she had fallen in love with. I know you pretty well by now, he'd said. If I know you... He did know her. And she knew him. Oh, she didn't know him completely. Even if she spent the rest of her life with him, there'd still be secrets she knew he'd never share with her. And even the parts of him she did know, she'd never totally understand. His need to risk his life, to be a SEAL. But even though she didn't understand it, she could appreciate it. And God knows he was good at what he did. She was starting to believe that if he did marry her, he would stick by her—for the rest of his life, if need be. If he made a vow, he wouldn't break it. He had the strength and the willpower to keep to his word, no matter how hard. But would that be enough for her? Knowing that he was with her not out of love, but out of duty? Was it possible that her own feelings for him were strong enough to sustain them both? She didn't think so.

She knew he liked her. And although she couldn't quite believe it, he seemed to desire her. But unless he loved her, truly loved her, she couldn't marry him. Could she? "Mel, you're tightening up again," Jones whispered. "Just let it go. Whatever you're wrestling with, just give it up, throw it away." "We're out of time," Abby announced. "The next class is about to break down the doors, so just leave your mats and pillows where they are. Next week, we're going to work on Modi-fied-Paced Breathing and the Progressive Relaxation Exercise, so read over those sections in your books—it'll save us a little time. Ladies, remember to do your stretches and your Kegels!" Jones helped Melody to her feet He would've held on to her hand, but she pulled away, afraid he would somehow know the awful truth just from touching her. She'd done what she'd sworn she wouldn't do. She'd fallen in love with him. She was doomed. A shadow flickered in his eyes, and all at once he looked about as tired as she felt. "You're never going be able to relax around me, are you?" It was a rhetorical question, and he didn't wait for her to answer. “It was stupid to think I could be your labor coach. Come on, let's get you home. You look beat." He was careful not to touch her again as he opened the door for her. And he was noticeably silent in the car on the way home. And it wasn't until they pulled into the driveway that Melody gathered up the nerve to speak. "Jones, I'm sorry...I, um..." What could she possibly say? I love you? She wasn't sure she'd ever be able to tell him that. Not with words anyway. Not in this lifetime. He pulled up the parking brake and turned to face her. "Mel, look, I've been thinking about...a lot of things. Andy. Our baby. You and me. You—what you want and what you don't want." The muscle in his jaw was jumping. "As in me." "Jones—" He stopped her by holding up one hand. "I need to say this, so please let me talk. I think it's kind of obvious that my parenting skills need a lot of work. I'm not sure anymore that I should help you raise our child. "But I keep coming back to the fact that I don't want this kid growing up thinking I don't give a damn. Because I do. I do." His voice broke, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I care about him, but I care about you, too. And what Andy said is right. If you marry me, you'll never find someone that you can really love, someone who can be a real father to our baby." "Jones—" "Hush and let me finish. I'm giving you your deal, Melody. You acknowledge that the baby's mine, put my name on his birth certificate, let me come and visit a couple times a year. I'll want to pay child support, too, but we can have our lawyers work that out." He cleared his throat. "My only other condition is that I'd like to be there when the baby's born. I know there's no real way to be certain when that's going to take place, but it's not likely to happen within the next three weeks. So I figure what I'll do is pack up and head back to base as soon as possible. I'll apply for additional leave at the start of December, and then we'll just cross our fingers and hope it happens sooner rather than later." Melody was speechless. He was accepting her deal. He had it all figured out, down to being there when the baby was born. He was capitulating, backing down, giving in. She could barely believe it. Didn't he realize that she was on the verge of surrender herself? But there was no need to worry anymore. She'd won. So why did she feel as if she'd lost?

Chapter 14 Cowboy stood on the steps of the porch, waiting while Melody unlocked the front door. He was making sure she got safely inside before he returned to his tent. He'd grab a combat nap—just enough to refresh him—and then he'd pack up and walk over to the gas station by the highway, bum a ride off someone heading into Boston. Once in town, he'd take the T to Logan Airport. By sunup, he'd be wheels up, heading back to base. Harvard had told him most of Alpha Squad had long since returned to Virginia. After a great deal of bitching and moaning, FinCOM was ready to negotiate with Joe Cat about the counter-terrorist training session. It looked as if FinCOM would keep its rule book with the understanding that the program was going to happen on a trial basis only. Although latest word was that the combined SEALIFinCOM training program wouldn't happen until spring—May or June at the earliest. Which left Alpha Squad with a looong time to prepare. But as they waited, of course, they were ready to go wherever they were needed at a moment's notice. The moon had risen above the trees, and its silvery light made Melody's face seem exquisitely otherworldly as she pushed open the door and then turned to face him. "Good night." "You are beautiful, you know." She closed her eyes. "Jones, we're done. We've come to an agreement. There's no need for you to—" "Yeah, I know," he interrupted. "I figure that's why I can say it. I don't have to worry anymore about you freaking out and running away. Hell, I don't have to stop there. I can tell you that despite what you think, you're the sexiest lady I've ever known." She tried to make a joke of it. "Well, sure, you're a SEAL. After spending all that time in the ocean, it's no wonder you'd be attracted to someone who reminds you of a whale." Cowboy didn't laugh. "You know what you remind me of?" "A circus tent?" He refused to acknowledge her attempts at humor. He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "You remind me of the hottest, most powerful sex I've ever had in my life. Every time I see you, I think about what we did to make you look that way. I think about locking myself in that bathroom with you on board that 747. I think about the way you made me feel, about the fact that for the first time in my entire life, I honest to God didn't care that I didn't have a condom." He lowered his voice. "I think about the way you kissed me when you climaxed so you wouldn't cry out. I look at you, Melody, and I remember every stroke, every touch, every kiss. I look at you, and all I can think about is how badly I want another chance to make love to you like that again." Melody was silent, just staring at him, her eyes wide. "So," Cowboy said, "now you know." She still didn't say a word. But she didn't run away, either. He took a step toward her, and then another step, and she still didn't move. "I may be way out of line here—no, I know I'm way out of line, but I figure as long as I'm being brutally honest, I have to tell you that I've spent these past few weeks damn near tied in knots from wanting you so badly. I wanted you and I thought I needed you, but I found out today that wanting and needing aren't the same thing. Need's not about sex, is it? Not really. Because today I needed you more than I've ever needed anyone, and you were there for me." He forced a smile. "And what do you know? We had our clothes on the entire time." He touched her hair, touched the softness of her cheek. "Look at me," he said. "Still putting the moves on you. We've reached an understanding, made an agreement. We've achieved a friendship of sorts, and I still can't seem to back away. I still want you more than I've ever wanted any woman," She was trembling. He knew damn well that kissing her wasn't the gallant, gentlemanly thing to do, but he couldn't keep himself from lowering his mouth to hers. She tasted so sweet, so perfect. Her lips were deliciously soft, exquisitely inviting. He pulled her closer, and the tautness of her belly pressed against him. He loved the way she felt beneath his hands, loved the way she seemed to sigh and melt against him as he kissed her again, deeper, longer, but just as slowly and gently. "Come inside," she whispered. Her eyes were soft and dreamy as she gazed up at him. “Please?" Her fingers were laced through his hair, and she tugged his head down toward her to kiss him again. She kissed him. Cowboy knew he should turn and walk away. He knew nothing had changed. He was still going to have to leave tomorrow. But hell, it was entirely possible that she was doing this because he was leaving. He broke free from her kiss. "Mel, are you sure?"

"Yes." Yes. It wasn't something he needed to hear twice. She took his hand and drew him into the house. She didn't say another word as she led him toward the stairs and up to her bedroom. Cowboy felt compelled to speak. "Honey, I don't have any condoms. Again." She glanced back at him. "Jones, it's not as if you're going to get me pregnant," she said. "Again." "Still, I was reading this whole huge debate about whether or not women should have sexual relations in the eighth and ninth months of their pregnancies," he told her. "The consensus was unless the pregnancy was high risk, anything goes. Except there was a minority who seemed to think unprotected sex increased the risk of potential infection to the baby." She'd gone into her room without turning the light on and now stood there in the moonlight, gazing at him. "Sometimes I think you go a teeny bit overboard with your research. My garden, for instance. It looks as if it's ready for a Siberian winter. All I really needed was someone to clear out the dead plants and throw down a little mulch." A smile softened her words. "Thank you for taking care of it, by the way." "You're welcome. But yeah," he agreed, "I've definitely read far more than I should have about the potential dangers of pregnancy. Eclampsia. God. Just the thought of it scares me to death." Damn, he was nervous. He'd wanted her for so long, but now all he could do was stand here and talk. Yada, yada, yada. He couldn't seem to make himself shut up. He cleared his throat, fighting the urge to ask her about her blood pressure. She was fine. He knew she was fine. With the exception of the relentless morning sickness she suffered, she was healthy. Melody's was not a high-risk pregnancy. He'd already discussed it with Brittany, and she'd reassured him. She was a nurse; she should know. He cleared his throat again. "May I lock your door?" Melody nodded. "Please." The door had an old-fashioned hook-and-eye lock, and he fastened it. It wouldn't do much against an invading horde, but for privacy, it would work just fine. When he turned around, she was closing the curtains. Without the moonlight, the room was very, very dark. He switched on the light. "Oh," she said, "please don't." He turned it off. She must've had some kind of room-darkening shades because it was nearly as dark in there as it had been down at 175 feet in the quarry. "Mel, I'm going to need night-vision glasses to see you." She was a disembodied voice, lost in the shadows on the other side of the room. "That's the idea." "Oh, come on. Weren't you paying attention to anything I said downstairs on the porch?" "Yes," she said. "And it got you this far. It was...very nice. But... You know that cover Demi Moore did for Vanity Fair when she was pregnant?" "You mean the one where she was naked?" "Yeah. Pregnant and naked. She looked amazingly beautifuL" She paused. "I don't look anything like that." Cowboy had to laugh. "How will I ever know?" She laughed, too. She had a musical laugh that brushed over him like velvet in the darkness. "My point exactly." "How about we turn on the light in the bathroom? Nothing too bright?" "How about you come over here?" It was an invitation he couldn't refuse. He moved toward her, sensing more than seeing that she'd climbed into bed. He reached for her, and with an explosion of pleasure, discovered that in the darkness she'd rid herself of her clothes. Every last little stitch was gone. It was a total surprise, and as he touched her, he realized that with the lights off and the room so very dark, his other senses were heightened. Making love in the dark this way might not have been exactly what he'd wanted, but it was going to be very, very, very good. He kissed her, her skin smooth beneath his still-exploring fingers. Her breasts were so full, they rested on the enormous bulge of her belly—the bulge that held their baby. She moaned as he kissed her harder, deeper, filling her mouth with his tongue and his hands with the softness of her breasts. Her nipples were hard peaks pressed against the palms of his hands, a sensation that was impossibly delicious. And apparently, it felt as good from Melody's end. She pulled his shirt free from the waist of his pants, slipping her hands underneath and sliding her fingers up along the muscles of his chest as they knelt there together on her bed. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to touch you like this," she whispered. "All those weeks of watching you run around with hardly any clothes

on..." Cowboy had to laugh. All this time, he'd thought she'd become immune to damn near everything he'd thought he had working in his favor. He ran his hands lightly down her stomach, marveling at the way it seemed to bloom from her body. The rest of her was still slender. It was true, she'd put on a few extra pounds since Paris, but he'd thought she was a bit too skinny before. She felt good beneath his hands—so soft and utterly, thoroughly feminine. He strained to see her in the darkness, but though his eyes had tried to adjust, he still couldn't see a damn thing. She kissed him as she tugged at his shirt, breaking off to say, "I'm feeling very much as if I'm the only one naked here." "That's because you are. And, to be honest, I like it. There's a real hint of a master-slave thing to it," he teased. He lowered his head to draw one hard bud of a nipple into his mouth as his hand explored lower, sweeping beneath the taut curve of her stomach, his fingers encountering her soft nest of curls. Talk about a turn-on. She was ready for him, slick with heat and desire, and as he touched her, first lightly, then harder, deeper, she clung to him. "Master and slave, huh?" Her voice was breathless. "In that case—slave, take off your clothes." Cowboy cracked up. Damn, he couldn't get enough of this girl. He yanked his shirt over his head, then kissed her, pulling her back with him onto the bed, careful, so careful to be gentle. He felt her fingers fumble with the buckle of his belt, and he tortured himself for a moment, just letting her knuckles brush against him as she worked to get him free. There was no way she'd ever figure out how to unfasten that belt—certainly not in this blanket of darkness, and probably not even in the light. "Jones..." He reached down with one hand and released the catch. "Thank you," she murmured. It took her next to forever to unfasten the button. And he was so aroused, it took her another eon to work the zipper down, and then?... She didn't touch him. Damn, she didn't touch him! She dragged his pants and his shorts down his legs instead, leaving him screaming with need, aching for her touch, and loving every minute of the way she always kept him guessing. Melody pulled off his boots one by one, and he wished for the zillionth time that it wasn't so damned dark. He would've loved to have watched. He propped himself up on his elbows as he helped her pull his legs free from his pants. "Honey, do you have a condom?" She froze. "You're not kidding, are you?" "No. I...just want to protect you and the baby." He felt her sit down next to him on the bed, felt her touch his leg, her fingers trailing up from his calf to his knee to his thigh. "Most guys wouldn't think past the fact that they couldn't get me more pregnant than I already am." Her fingers did slow figure eights on his thigh. He reached for her, but she heard him start to move and backed away. He felt her fingers again, this time down near his ankle. He'd never realized that being touched on the ankle could be such a mind-blowing turn-on. He tried to moisten his dry lips. "Most guys wouldn't have gotten totally paranoid by reading every book in the library on pregnancy." "Most guys wouldn't have bothered." She kissed him on the inside of his knee, her mouth soft and moist and cool against the fiery heat of his skin. Cowboy reached for her again, but again, she wasn't there. He had to move slowly, searching for her carefully in the pitch black. He didn't want to knock her over with quick moves and flailing arms. Besides, he liked this game she was playing too damn much to want it to end. But it was going to end. In just a handful of hours, the sun was going to creep above the horizon, and this night was going to end. And he was going to crawl out of Melody's soft bed and walk out of her room, out of this house. He was going to pack up his tent and be gone. Game over. It was ironic. The fact that there was an end in sight was quite possibly the only reason Melody was making love to him tonight. It was possible that it was only because he'd already told her that he wouldn't stay that she could let herself have this time with him. But with each kiss, each touch, each caress, he was wishing that he could keep this crazy game alive forever. Forever. She touched him again, and this time he was ready for her. His fingers closed around her arm and he gently pulled her up, finding her mouth with his, her body with his fingers, entangling their legs, the heaviness of his arousal against the roundness of her belly. She moved languidly, lazily, kissing his neck, his ear, that delicate spot beneath his jaw that drove him crazy and made him want nothing more than to bury himself inside her forever. Forever. In the past, the word had scared him to death. It meant a deadly sameness, a permanent lack of change. It meant stagnation, boredom, a life of

endless reruns, a slow fade from the brilliant colors of fresh new experiences to the washed-out gray of tired and old. But Cowboy could be a SEAL forever without ever fearing he'd fall victim to that fate. Even if he ever got tired of parachuting out of jet planes, Joe Cat would have Alpha Squad doing HALO jumps—jumping out of planes at outrageously high altitudes, yet not opening the chute until they reached a ridiculously low altitude. And if he got tired of that—and he'd have to do one whole hell of a lot of 'em ever to be blase about the adrenalineinducing sensation of the ground rushing up to meet him—there was always Alpha Squad's refresher courses in underwater demolition, or Arctic, desert and jungle survival, or... The truth was, he could be a SEAL forever because he never knew what was coming next. Cowboy had always thought he'd feel the same about women. How could he possibly agree to spend the rest of his life with only one, when he never knew for certain who might be walking into his life at any given moment? How could he survive the endless stagnation of commitment even as temptation walked toward him every time he turned a corner? But as he lost himself in the sweetness of Melody's kisses, he found himself wondering instead how he could possibly survive the constant disappointment of searching for her face in a crowd—despite the fact that he knew damn well she was two thousand miles away. How could he survive turning corner after corner, coming face-to-face with beautiful women, women who wanted to be with him—women he wanted nothing to do with, women whose only real faults were that they weren't Melody? She pulled away from him slightly, opening herself to his hand, lifting her hips to push his fingers more deeply inside her. Her own fingers trailed down his side, moving across his stomach, almost but not quite touching him. "You're driving me insane," he breathed. "I know." He could hear the smile in her voice. "I want you so badly, honey, but I'm terrified I'll hurt you." His own voice was hoarse. She pulled back. "Do you mind if I get on top of you?" Mind? Did she actually think he would mind? But then he realized that she was laughing at his stunned silence. "But first..." She touched him, and his mind exploded with white-hot pleasure as she kissed him most intimately. "Do you think if I keep doing this while calling you Harlan," she wondered, "you'll learn to associate positive emotions with the use of your first name?" Cowboy didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Harlan," she said. "Harlan. Harlan. Harlan. You know, I never really thought about it before, but I like that name." He could barely speak. "I like it, too." Melody laughed. "Wow, that was easy. I think I may have just developed a powerful brainwashing technique. Better not let any enemies of the U.S.A. get their hands—so to speak—on this, or we'll all be in trouble." "Yeah, but it wouldn't work with anyone else but you." Melody was quiet for a moment. "Well, that was really sweet," she said. He could tell from her voice that she didn't believe him. He pushed himself up on one elbow. "Melody, I'm serious." She pushed him back down, straddling his thighs. "Let's not argue about this now," she told him, reaching for something. He heard the sound of a drawer opening, and then she moved back. "Let's just...pretend that we might've been able to make this thing between us work." "But—" “Please ? " He felt her touch him, covering him with a condom. "Mel, dammit, if you could look into my eyes—" "Hush up and kiss me, Jones." It was an order he couldn't refuse. And when she shifted herself forward, and in one smooth, languorous motion, surrounded him with her tight heat, he couldn't do more than groan her name. He wanted more. He wanted to thrust deeply inside her. He wanted to flip her onto her back and rock her, hard and fast, the way he knew she liked it. He wanted to turn on the light and gaze into her eyes. He wanted to watch her release, see the incredibly sexy look on her beautiful face as he took her higher than she'd ever been before. Instead, he lay on his back. "Mel, I'm afraid to move." His voice was a paper-dry whisper in the darkness. "Then I'll move," she whispered back, doing just that The sensation was off the charts. Cowboy clenched his teeth to keep from raising his hips to meet her. It was possible that he'd never been more turned on in his entire life. Not in the bathroom of the 747. Not in Paris. Not anywhere.

"But I want—" She pushed herself a little bit farther onto him, and he heard himself groan. "Come on," she urged him, "I promise I won't let you hurt me. I promise there are pregnant women everywhere around the world, making love just like this, right this very minute...." Her long, slow movements brought him almost entirely out of her before he glided deeply back in. And it was then, as Cowboy pushed himself up to meet her in this, the sweetest of dances, that he knew the truth at last. He wanted to come home to this woman every night for the rest of his life. He wanted forever, and he knew that that forever with Melody would be as fascinating and endlessly exciting as his future with the SEALs, because, bottom line—he loved her. He loved her. And he knew right at that moment that in Paris, when Melody had kissed him goodbye and told him not to write, not to call, not to see her anymore, she'd been both very, very wrong and very, very right. She had been wrong in not giving them a chance to be together. She had been wrong not to let their passion deepen. But she had been right when she'd told him that real love was so much more than the hot flood of lust and relief. Because while his feelings for her had been born of danger and attraction and the powerful rush of being trusted and needed so desperately, it wasn't until he was here, in everyday, average Appleton, U.S.A., that those feelings had truly started to grow. He loved her, but not because she needed him. In fact, one of the reasons he loved her so very much was because she refused to need him. He loved her laughter, her point-blank honesty, her gentle kindness. He loved the faraway look she would get in her eyes when she felt their baby kick. He loved the fierceness with which she supported her sister. He loved the sheer courage it must have taken for her to stand up in front of the conservative Ladies' Club of Appleton to announce her pregnancy. He loved sitting on her back porch and talking to her. He loved the heavenly blue of her eyes and the sweetness of her smile. And he especially loved making love to her. "Oh, Harlan," she breathed as he felt her release, and he knew without a single doubt that he would indeed forever associate sheer pleasure with his name. He'd been clinging rather desperately to the edge of the cliff that controlled his own release, and as Melody gripped him tighter, as he filled his hands with her breasts, he felt himself go into free fall, felt the dizzying, weightless drop. And then he exploded in slow motion. Fireballs of pleasure rocketed through him, scorching him, making him cry out. Melody kissed him, and the sweetness of her mouth took him even further. And then, with Melody's hands in his hair, with her head on his shoulder, with their unborn child resting between them, Cowboy began his ascent back to the surface of reality. He was leaving in the morning. She didn't want to marry him, didn't need him, didn't love him. There were no decompression stops, although he wasn't sure it would have mattered either way. There wasn't anything he could have done to protect himself from the painful truth. As much as he wanted her, she'd be happier without him. Melody rolled off him, then snuggled next to him, drawing up the covers. "Please hold me," she murmured. Lt. Harlan Jones pulled her in close, fitting their bodies together like spoons. He would hold her tonight. But tomorrow, he would let her go. He knew he could do it. He'd done impossibly difficult things before. He was a U.S. Navy SEAL.

Chapter 15 Alpha Squad was back in Virginia. Someone at the base apparently disapproved of the SEALs' disagreement with FinCOM, because the Quonset hut to which they'd been reassigned was several very healthy steps down from the first one they'd been given. And that had been no palace. As Cowboy went inside, the door creaked on rusty hinges and a spider damn near landed on his head. He could see daylight through part of the corrugated-metal roof. Whatever top brass had placed them here hadn't simply disapproved of their disagreement with FinCOM—he no doubt disapproved of SEALs in general. But that was no big surprise. This wasn't the first time they'd run into narrow-minded thinking. Wes was on the phone. "Computers and rain don't mix, sir," he was saying. His tone implied that sir was merely a substitution for another, far less flattering word. "We have close to half a dozen computers we need up and running, plus a series of holes in the roof that will not only make it very chilly, but, when it starts to rain—which according to the forecast will happen within the next few hours—will make it very wet in here. As a matter of fact, there are already several permanent-looking puddles on the floor. Sir." Built during World War II, this place looked as if it hadn't been used since the Vietnam conflict. "We've been waiting on that request for a week, sir. Meanwhile, our computers are still in their boxes and we're sitting here with our thumbs up our —" Joe Cat and Blue were on the other side of the gloomy room, deep in discussion. "Well, yippee-yi-oh-kai-ay! Look who's back!" Cowboy looked up to see Lucky O'Donlon grinning down at him through the biggest hole in the roof. Harvard was up there, too. "Get your butt up here, Junior. Aren't you some kind of expert when it comes to fixing roofs?" “No—" "Well, you are now. You're always claiming that with a little time and a library, you can learn to do anything. Here's your chance to prove it. And if that's not a compelling enough reason, how about this? As last man back from leave, you've won yourself the honor." "Jones. Welcome back." Cowboy turned to see Joe Cat coming toward him. He shook his captain's hand. "Thank you, sir." Wes hung up the phone with a crash. "No go, Skipper. Apparently, there's no other location for us on the entire base." Bobby joined them, bristling. "This place is huge. That's a load of—" "Hey, I'm just saying what they told me." Wes shrugged. "We can request repairs, but it's got to go through channels and you know what that means. We'll still be able to stargaze from our desks three weeks from now." "I say we forget about channels and fix this place ourselves," Lucky called down from his perch on the roof. "I'm for that, too, Cat," Harvard chimed in. "We can get the job done better in a fraction of the time." Cowboy squinted up at the roof. "Can we patch it, or will we have to replace the whole damn thing?" This was good. He could get into the distraction of creative problem solving. It would take his mind off the woman he'd left behind in Appleton, Massachusetts. Melody hadn't thrown herself at his feet and begged him not to go. She'd only taken a few minutes away from the frantic housecleaning she was helping Brittany do in anticipation of a visit from Social Services. Britt's request to adopt Andy Marshall was actually being considered. Melody had been so focused on Britt's need to make everything as perfect as possible, she'd barely noticed when he left. She'd kissed him goodbye and told him to be careful. And then she'd gone back to work. Cowboy had passed a billboard advertising Ted Shepherd's candidacy for state representative on his way out of town. The man's pasty face, enlarged to a giant size, made him feel sick with jealousy. He'd had to look away, unable to gaze into the man's average brown eyes, unable to deal with the thought that this could well be the man Melody would spend her life with. This could be the man who would raise Cowboy's child as his own. If he'd had a grenade launcher in his luggage, he would have blown the damn billboard to bits. "Jones, I understand congratulations are in order." Joe Cat slapped Cowboy's back, bringing him abruptly back to the present. "When's the big day?" The big...? "Yeah, you gonna invite us to the wedding?" Lucky asked. "Damn, I feel like singing a verse of 'Sunrise, Sunset.' I can't believe our little Cowboy is actually old enough to tie the knot." "You want us to wear dress whites, or should we cammy up?" Wes asked. "Dress whites are more traditional, but the camouflage gear would probably go better with the shotgun accessories.".

Beside him, Bobby broke into a chorus of "Love Child." Cowboy shook his head. "You guys are wrong—" "Yeah, you know, that's probably the only way I'm going to go," Lucky said. "Trapped in the corner with no way out." "Yo, Diana Ross," Harvard called from the roof. "S-squared." Bobby obediently sat down and shut up. "The rest of you guys back off," Harvard continued. "Junior's doing the right thing here. Maybe if you pay attention, you might actually learn something from his fine example." Cowboy looked up at Harvard through the hole in the roof. "But I'm not marrying her, H." He looked around at the other guys. "I'm going to be a father in a few weeks, but I'm not getting married." Blue McCoy, a man of few words, was the first to break the silence. He looked around at the rest of Alpha Squad. "This just goes to show we should learn to mind our own business." He turned to Cowboy. "I'm sorry, Jones," he said quietly. But Wes couldn't keep his mouth shut. "Sorry?" he squeaked. "How could you be sorry? Jones's luck is rocketing off the scale. In fact, the way I see it, O'Donlon's just lost the right to his nickname. From now on, I'm calling Jones Lucky." Cowboy shook his head, unable to respond, unable even to force a smile. By all rights, he should have been agreeing with them and celebrating his freedom, but instead he felt as if part of him would never feel like celebrating again. "I'm gonna go check out this roof," he told Joe Cat. The captain had a way of looking at a man that made you feel as if he could see clear through all the bull and camouflage to the heart and soul that lay beneath. He was looking at Cowboy that way right now. "I'm sorry, too, kid," he said before nodding and dismissing him. Cowboy escaped out the door, searching for the easiest way up to the curving metal roof. There was a drainpipe on the southwest corner of the building that looked pretty solid. In fact, as he approached, Lucky was using it to climb down. "Kudos to you, Jones," he said, wiping the remnants of rust from his hands onto his pants. "How about getting together tonight over a cold beer? You could share the secrets of your success." His smile turned knowing. "I remember that girl, Melody. She was something else. And she was on top of you like a dog in heat right from the word go, wasn't she?" Something inside Cowboy snapped, and snapped hard. He knocked Lucky down into the dust. "Just shut the hell up!" Lucky was instantly on his feet, crouched and ready in a combat stance. "What the—" Cowboy rushed him again, and this time Lucky was ready for his attack. They landed together, hard, in the dirt. Cowboy's elbow hit a rock and he welcomed the pain that shot through him. It was sharp and sweet, and it masked the pain in his heart. But Lucky didn't want to fight. He kneed Cowboy hard in the stomach. While Cowboy was struggling to regain his breath, Lucky scrambled free. "You crazy bastard! What the hell's wrong with you?" Cowboy pulled himself to his feet, breathing hard, moving menacingly toward the other SEAL. "I warned you if you bad-mouthed her again, I'd kill you." Wes had stuck his head out the door to see what was causing the commotion. "Senior Chief!" he bellowed after taking one quick look. Harvard was across the roof and down that drainpipe in a flash. "Back off," he shouted to Cowboy, stepping directly between the two men. "Just back off! Do you hear me, Jones? You hit him again, and your butt is going to be in deep trouble!" Cowboy stood, bent over, hands on his knees, still catching his breath. Harvard turned and glared at Wesley and Bobby, who both stood watching by the door. "This doesn't concern you!" They disappeared back inside. "What the hell is this about?" Harvard asked, looking from Cowboy to Lucky. "Beats me, H." Lucky brushed dirt from his shoulder. "The psycho here jumped me." Harvard fixed his obsidian glare on Cowboy. "Junior, you have something to say?" Cowboy lifted his head. "Only that if O'Donlon so much as breathes Melody's name again, I'll put him in the hospital." "Damn, I feel like a kindergarten teacher," Harvard muttered, turning back to Lucky. "O'Donlon, were you really stupid enough to be dissing his woman?" "His woman...?" Lucky was genuinely confused and not entirely unamused. "Jones, you just got through telling us that you're not going to marry...the

one who shall remain nameless because I don't want to have to put you in the hospital." Harvard swore pungently. "It's obvious that right here we've got a live showing of Dumb and Dumber, Part Two." "I don't get it," Lucky said to Cowboy. "If you're so hot for this girl, why the hell aren't you marrying her?" Cowboy straightened up. "Because she doesn't want me," he said quietly, all of his anger and frustration stripped away, leaving only the hurt behind. God, it hurt. He looked at Harvard. "H., I tried, but...she doesn't want me." To his absolute horror, tears filled his eyes. And for maybe the first time in his entire life, Lucky was silent. He didn't try to make a joke. Harvard looked at the blond-haired SEAL. "Jones and I are going take a walk. That okay with you, O'Donlon?" Lucky nodded. "Yeah, that's uh... Yeah, Senior Chief." Harvard didn't say another word until they'd walked halfway across the exercise field. By then, thank God, Cowboy had regained his composure. "Jones, I have to start by apologizing to you," Harvard told him. "This whole snafu's my fault. I told the guys you were going to marry this girl. I guess I just assumed you'd do whatever you had to, to convince her that marrying you is the right thing. Which leads me to my main point. I'm honestly surprised at you, Junior. I've never known you to quit." Cowboy stopped walking. "Bottom line, what do I really have to offer her? Thirty days of leave a year." He swore. "I grew up with a father who was never there. With only thirty days each year, there's no use pretending I could be any kind of a real father to my kid—or a real husband to Melody. This.way, we're all being honest. I'll be the guy who comes to visit a few times a year. And Mel will hook up with someone else. Someone who'll be there for her all the time." Harvard was shaking his head. "You've talked yourself into believing this is a lose-lose situation, haven't you? Open your eyes and look around you, boy. Your captain's in the exact same boat. It's true Veronica and his kid miss him when he's gone, but with a little effort, they're making the situation work." "Yeah, but Veronica is willing to travel. I couldn't ask Melody to leave Appleton. It's her home. She loves it there." “Junior, you can't afford not to ask." Cowboy shook his head. "She doesn't want me," he said again. "She wants an average guy, not a SEAL." "Well, there I can't help you," Harvard said. "Because even if you quit the units tomorrow, you're never going to be mistaken for an average guy." Quit the units tomorrow... He could do that. He could quit. He could move to Massachusetts, set up permanent residence in that tent outside Melody's house.... But he didn't want to quit. Except that was exactly what he'd done. Harvard was right. In what could possibly be the most important fight of his life— the fight to win Melody—he'd surrendered far too easily. He should have told her he loved her before he left. He should be there right now, down on his knees, still telling her that he loved her, telling her that this time it was real. No matter what she said, he knew it was real. And she loved him, too. He'd seen it in her eyes, tasted it in her kisses, heard it in her laughter. Yeah, she might not know it yet, but she definitely loved him. He should have realized it a full day ago, from the way she'd held him so tightly up at the quarry. Cowboy looked at Harvard. "I've got to go back to Massachusetts right away. A weekend. That's all I need. Just two and a half days." Harvard laughed. "Come on. I'll go with you. We'll go talk to Joe." "Thank you, Senior Chief." "Don't thank me yet, Junior." Joe Catalanotto sighed. "I can't do it, Jones. It's going to have to wait a week or so." He gestured to the television in the corner of his office. "I've been monitoring a situation in South America for the past day and a half. A plane's been hijacked. Two hundred forty-seven people on board." Sure enough, the TV was tuned to CNN. "Any minute now, this phone's gonna ring, and Alpha Squad's going to be ordered over to Venezuela to help create order out of chaos." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, kid. I need you with the team. Best I can tell you is to let your fingers do the walking. Make a phone visit, but do it now. Get your gear ready to go, too. Because once we get the word to move, there won't be time." Cowboy nodded. "And if you're wrong, sir?" Cat laughed. "If I'm wrong, I'll give you an entire week. But I'm not wrong." As if to prove his point, the telephone rang. Cowboy scrambled for the door. He threw it open and made a dash for the nearest telephone. He punched in his calling-card number and then Melody's number. Please, God, let her be home. Please, God... The phone rang once, twice, three times. All around him, he could hear the sounds of Alpha Squad getting ready to move. On the fourth ring, the

answering machine picked up. "Come on, Cowboy!" Wes shouted. "You don't even have your gear together yet!" Brittany's recorded voice came on, followed by the beep. "Melody, it's me, Jones." God, he had no clue what to say. ' 'I just wanted to tell you—" Beep. Damn, he paused too long and the answering machine, mistaking his silence for a disconnected line, had cut him off. "Come on, Cowboy! Move!" "I love you!" he shouted into the receiver. That was what he should have said. KISS. Keep it simple. Bottom line. But it was too late to call her back. Cowboy hung up the phone with a curse. Melody was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming because Jones was with her, and they were back in the Middle East, hiding from the soldiers who were patrolling the city. "Close your eyes," Jones told her. "Keep breathing, shal-lowly, softly. They won't see us. I promise." Her heart was pounding, but his arm was around her, and she knew at the very least, if she died, she wouldn't die alone. "I love you," she whispered, afraid if she didn't say it now, she'd never get the chance. He motioned for her to be silent, but it was too late. One of the soldiers had heard her, then turned and fired his gun. The bullet slammed into her with wrenching force. Pain exploded in her abdomen. The baby! Dear God, she'd been shot, and they'd hit the baby. Her legs felt wet with blood, but Jones was fighting the enemy soldiers. He was firing his own gun, driving them away. Another knife blade of pain seared through her, and she cried out. Jones turned toward her, touching her, and his hands came away red with her blood. He looked at her and his eyes were so green, even in the darkness. "Wake up," he said. "Honey, you've got to wake up." Melody opened her eyes to see the first dim light of dawn creeping in through her windows. She'd been so tired last night, she hadn't even taken the time to draw the curtains. Pain knifed through her, real pain, the same pain she'd dreamed. She gasped, turning to reach for the lamp on her bedside table. She switched it on, and with shock realized that her hands had left behind a smear of blood. She was bleeding. She pulled back the covers to see that her nightgown and the sheets below were stained bright red. Brittany was still at work. She wouldn't be home until after seven. Pain made the room spin. "Jones!" But Jones wasn't there to help her, either. Melody didn't know where Jones was. He'd called and left a message on the machine over two weeks ago. She'd tried to call him back, but was told he was unavailable and would remain that way for an undetermined amount of time. He was out of touch on some mission, risking his life doing God knows what. She'd spent the past two weeks scared to death and kicking herself for not being honest with him. She should have told him that she loved him while she had the chance. Please, God, keep him safe. Every time Melody thought about him, she said that silent prayer. The pain gripped her again, and she cried out. God, what was happening? This wasn't labor. She wasn't supposed to bleed when she went into labor.... Her door was pushed open. "Mel?" Brittany. Thank God, she'd gotten home from work early. "Oh, dear Lord!" Brittany saw the blood on the sheets. She picked up the phone, dialed 911, smoothed back Melody's hair, feeling her forehead, checking her eyes. "Sweetie, when did the bleeding start?" "I don't know. I was sleeping...God!" The pain made her see stars. "Britt, the baby! What's happening with the baby?"

But Brittany spoke into the phone, rattling off their address. "We need an ambulance here stat. I've got a twenty-five-year-old woman in the ninth month of her first pregnancy, experiencing severe abdominal pain and hemorrhaging." Melody closed her eyes. Please, God, keep both Jones and her baby safe and alive... "Yes, I'm a nurse," Brittany responded. "I suspect placental abruption. We'll need fetal monitors and an ultrasound ready and waiting at the hospital. Yes. I'll have the door open. Just get here!" "Jones, you better get down here." Harvard's voice sounded tight and grim over the telephone line. "There's a stack of messages for you that's four inches high." Cowboy's heart leaped. "From Melody?" "Junior, just get down here." Fear flickered inside him. "H., what's the deal? Is Mel all right? Did she have the baby?" "I don't know for sure. It looks as if the first few messages are from Melody, but the rest... Jones, Mel's sister has been calling nearly every hour for the past two days. I recommend you get down here and call her back ASAP. She's left a number at the hospital." A number at the hospital. Cowboy didn't even say goodbye. He hung up the phone and ran. The temporary barracks he was sharing with the other unmarried members of the team were a good half mile from the leaky-roofed Quonset hut that housed Alpha Squad's office. Cowboy was still wearing his clunky leather boots and his heavy camouflage gear, but he covered the distance in a small handful of minutes. As he burst through the door,. Harvard handed him both the pile of messages and a telephone. The sheer number of message slips was enough to terrify him. Brittany had, literally, called every hour on the hour since early Monday morning. Cowboy's hands were shaking so badly, he had to dial the number twice. Harvard had backed away, giving him privacy. He sat down at the desk, shuffling through the pile of messages as, up in the County Hospital in Appleton, Massachusetts, the phone was ringing. "Hello?" It was Brittany's voice. She sounded hoarse and worn-out. "Britt, it's Jones," "Thank God." "Please tell me she's safe." Cowboy closed his eyes. "She's safe." Brittany's voice broke. "For now. Jones, you've got to come up here and talk her into having a C-section. I think one of the reasons she's refusing to do it is because she promised you that you could be here when the baby was born." "But she's not due for another two and a half weeks." "She had a partial placental abruption," Brittany told him. "That's when the placenta becomes partially separated from the uterus—" "I know what it is," he said, cutting her off. "Did she hemorrhage?" "Yes. Early Monday morning. It wasn't as bad as I first thought, though. She was taken by ambulance to the hospital and her doctor managed to get her stabilized. Both she and the baby are being monitored. If there's the slightest change in either of their conditions, they're going to have to do a C-Section. She knows that. But right now, the doctor has told her that the baby's in no real danger, and she's determined to hold on as long as possible." Cowboy drew in a deep breath. "May I talk to her?" "She's sleeping right now. Please, Lieutenant, I don't think she's going to agree to have this baby until you get up here. But if she starts hemorrhaging again, there's no guarantee that this time they'll be able to get her to stop. They'll be able to save the baby, but they'll lose the mother." Cowboy looked down at the phone messages in his hand. There were four from Melody, all dated close to the day he'd left for South America. The first three were just notices that said she'd called. The last actually had a message. It was written in quotes, and the receptionist who answered the phone had put a smiley face next to the words, "I love you." Cowboy stood up. "Tell her our deal's off," he told Britanny. "Tell her not to wait for me to have the baby. Tell her I'll be mad as hell if I get up there and that baby's not hanging out in the hospital nursery. Tell her I'm on my way." He hung up the phone, and Harvard silently appeared. The senior chief handed him papers signed by the captain, granting him as much personal emergency leave as he needed.

"There's an air force transport heading up to Boston in twenty minutes," Harvard told him. "I've called in some favors from some people I know— they're holding the flight for you. Bobby's out front with a jeep to drive you to the airfield." Cowboy held up the message that Melody had left. "She loves me, H." "This is news to you, Junior?" Harvard laughed. "Damn, I knew that last year in the Middle East." He followed Cowboy to the door. "Godspeed, Jones. My prayers are with you." Cowboy swung himself up and into the jeep, and with a squeal of tires, he was away. "She was given an amniocentesis so we could assess the baby's lung development." Brittany was talking in a whisper as she came into the room. Melody kept her eyes closed. "All of the tests have indicated that this baby is ready for delivery. His estimated weight clocked in at over eight pounds. But Melody insists that unless the baby is in danger, she's not going to deliver him any earlier than December 1st. You've got to convince her that her stubbornness is putting her life in danger." "The worst part about being in the hospital is that everybody always talks about you as if you weren't in the room." Melody opened her eyes, expecting to glare up at her sister and some new doctor she'd enlisted. Instead, she found herself looking directly at Harlan Jones. He was wearing camouflage pants and a matching shirt, and he looked as if he'd come directly from the jungle. "Hey," he said, smiling at her, "heard you've been raising a little too much hell around here." She recognized that smile he was giving her. It was his "I’m going to pretend everything's all right" smile. In truth, he was scared to death. "I'm fine," she told him. As she watched, Brittany quietly left the room. He sat down next to her. "That's not what I hear." She forced a smile of her own. "Yeah, well, you've been talking to Nurse Doom." He laughed. She realized he was carrying a clipboard in his hands, and he held it out to her now. "Sign these forms," he told her. "Have the Csection. It's time to stop playing games with your life." Melody lifted her chin. "You think that's what this is? Some game? Everything I've ever read stressed the importance of car rying a baby to term. Or at least carrying for as long as possible. The baby's not in danger. I'm not in danger. I see no reason to do this." Jones took her hand. "Do this now because until this baby is born, there is a risk that you will bleed to death," he said. "Do this because although the chances of that happening are very slim, so were the chances of your having a placental separation in the first place. You don't have high blood pressure. You aren't a smoker. There's no real reason why this should have happened. Do this because if you die, a very large part of me will die, too. Do this because I love you." Melody was caught in the hypnotizing intensity of his gaze. "I guess you got my message." "Yeah," he said. "But you only got part of mine. I had literally ten seconds before I had to leave and I blew it. What I meant to say on your answering machine was that I want you to marry me, not for the baby's sake, but for my sake. Purely selfish reasons, Mel. Like, because I love you and I want to spend my life with you." He cleared his throat. "And I was going to tell you that I knew there was a part of you that could love me, and that I was going to keep coming back to Appleton, that I was going to court you until you did fall in love with me. I was going to tell you that I wasn't going to quit, and that sooner or later, I'd wear you down—even if you only married me to shut me up." He handed her the clipboard. "So sign these release forms, have this baby and marry me." Melody's heart was in her throat. "Do you really understand what you're asking me to do?" He looked out the window at the dreary late-afternoon light. "Yeah," he said, "I do. I'm asking you to leave your home and come live with me near naval bases, moving around God only knows how many times in the course of a year. I'm asking you to give up your job, and your garden, and your sister and Andy, just to be with me, even though some of the time—hell, most of the time—I'll be gone. It's a bad deal. I don't recommend you take it. But at the same time, honey, I'm praying that you'll say yes." Melody looked at the man sitting beside her bed. His hair was long and dirty, as if he hadn't showered in days. He smelled of gasoline and sweat and sunblock. He looked spent, as if he'd run all the way from Virginia just to be here with her. "Trust me," he whispered, leaning close to kiss her softly. "Trust me with your heart. I'll keep it safe, I swear." Mel closed her eyes and kissed him. Harlan Jones wasn't the average, run-of-the-mill, home-every-day-at-five-thirty type she would have chosen if the choice could be made with pure intellect. But love wasn't rational. Love didn't stick to a plan. And truth was, she loved him. She had to take the chance. "You are going to get so sick of me telling you to be careful," she whispered. "No, I'm not."

Melody signed the medical procedure consent forms. "Do you think Harvard would agree to be our best man?" Jones took the clipboard from her hands. "I want to hear you say yes." She gazed up at him. "Yes. I love you," she told him. Tears filled his eyes, but his smile was pure Jones as he leaned forward and kissed her.

Epilogue Melody Jones sat in her new backyard, watching her neighbors, her friends and her new family gather to celebrate her wedding. It was only February, but the South was having a mild winter, and the daffodils in her garden were already in bloom. The growing season in Virginia was at least three months longer than in Massachusetts. She loved that. She loved everything about her new life. She loved this little rented house outside the naval base where Alpha Squad was temporarily stationed. She loved waking up each morning with Jones in her bed. She loved holding their son, Tyler, in her arms as she rocked him to sleep. She even loved the late-night feedings. Brittany sat down next to her. "The papers came through," she said. "Day before yesterday. Andy's my kid now." She laughed. "God help me." Melody embraced her sister. "I'm so happy for you." "And I'm so happy for you." Brittany laughed again. "I'm not sure I've ever been to a party before with so many incredible-looking men. And all those dress uniforms! I nearly fainted when I went into the church. I suppose you get used to it." Melody grinned. "No," she said, "you don't." Across the yard, Jones had Tyler on one shoulder. He swayed slightly to keep the baby happy as he stood talking to Harvard and his father, the admiral. As Melody watched, he laughed at something Harvard said and the baby started. Jones gently kissed the baby's head, soothing him back to sleep. As Melody looked around her yard, she realized that Brittany was right. Nearly all of the men there were SEALs, and they were, indeed, an unusuallooking group. Jones looked across the yard and met her eyes. The smile he gave her made her heart somersault in her chest. It was his "I love you" smile—the smile he saved for her and her alone. She smiled back at him, knowing he could read her love for him as clearly in her eyes. Despite her best intentions, she had gone and married the least everyday, ordinary, average man that she'd ever known. No indeed, there was absolutely nothing normal about a man called "Cowboy" Jones. He was one hundred percent out of the ordinary—and so was his incredible love for her. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

5 - Harvard’s Education (1998)

Special thanks to Candace Irvin—friend, fellow writer and unlimited source of U.S. Navy information—and to my on-line SEAL buddy, Mike— wherever you are. Thanks also to the helpful staff at the UDT-SEAL Museum in Fort Pierce, Florida, and to Vicki Debock, who told me about it.

Chapter 1 This was wrong. It was all wrong. Another few minutes, and this entire combined team of FInCOM agents and Navy SEALs was going to be torn to bits. There was a small army of terrorists out there in the steamy July night. The Ts—or tangos, as the SEALs were fond of calling them—were waiting on their arrival with assault rifles that were as powerful as the weapon P. J. Richards clutched in her sweating hands. P.J. tried to slow her pounding heart, tried to make the adrenaline that was streaming through her system work for her rather than against her as she crept through the darkness. FInCOM Agent Tim Farber was calling the shots, but Far-ber was a city boy—and a fool, to boot. He didn't know squat about moving through the heavy underbrush of this kind of junglelike terrain. Of course, P. J. was a fine one to be calling names. Born in D.C., she'd been raised on concrete and crumbling blacktop—a different kind of jungle altogether. Still, she knew enough to realize that Farber had to move more slowly to listen to the sounds of the night around him. And as long as she was criticizing, the fact that four FInCOM agents and three SEALs were occupying close to the same amount of real estate along this narrow trail made her feel as if she were part of some great big Christmas package, all wrapped up with a ribbon on top, waiting under some terrorist's tree. "Tim." PJ. spoke almost silently into the wireless radio headset she and the rest of the CSF team—the Combined SEAL/FInCOM Antiterrorist team —had been outfitted with. "Spread us out and slow it down." "Feel free to hang back if we're moving too fast for you." Farber intentionally misunderstood, and PJ. felt a flash of frustration. As the only woman in the group, she was at the receiving end of more than her share of condescending remarks. But while PJ. stood only five feet two inches and weighed in at barely one hundred pounds, she could run circles around any one of these men— including most of the big, bad Navy SEALs. She could outshoot nearly all of them, too. When it came to sheer, brute force, yes, she'd admit she was at a disadvantage. But that didn't matter. Even though she couldn't pick them up and throw them any farther than she could spit, she could outthink damn near anyone, no sweat. She sensed more than heard movement to her right and raised her weapon. But it was only the SEAL called Harvard. The brother. His name was Daryl Becker and he was a senior chief—the naval equivalent of an army sergeant. He cut an imposing enough figure in his street clothes, but dressed in camouflage gear and protective goggles, he looked more dangerous than any man she'd ever met. He'd covered his face and the top of his shaved head with streaks of green and brown greasepaint that blended eerily with his black skin. He was older than many of the other SEALs in the illustrious Alpha Squad. P J. was willing to bet he had a solid ten years on her at least, making him thirty-five—or maybe even older. This was no green boy. This one was one-hundred-percent-pure grown man—every hard, muscled inch of him. Rumor had it he'd actually attended Harvard University and graduated cum laude before enlisting in Uncle Sam's Navy. He hand-signaled a question. "Are you all right?" He mouthed the words as well—as if he thought she'd already forgotten the array of gestures that allowed them to communicate silently. Maybe Greg Greene or Charles Schneider had forgotten, but she remembered every single one. "I'm okay," she signaled to him as tersely as she could, frowning to emphasize her disapproval. Damn, Harvard had been babying her from the word go. Ever since the FInCOM agents had first met the SEALs from Alpha Squad, this man in particular had been watching her closely, no doubt ready to catch her when she finally succumbed to the female vapors and fainted. P.J. used hand signals to tell him what Tim Farber had ignored. Stop. Listen. Silent. Something's wrong. The woods around them were oddly quiet. All the chirping and squeaking and rustling of God only knows what kinds of creepy crawly insect life had stopped. Someone else was out there, or they themselves were making too much racket. Either possibility was bad news. Tim Farber's voice sounded over the headphones. "Ra-heem says the campsite is only a quarter mile ahead. Split up into groups." About time. If she were the AIC—the agent in charge—of the operation, she would have broken the group into pairs right from the start. Not only that, but she would have taken what the informant, Raheem Al Hadi, said with a very large grain of salt instead of hurtling in, ill-informed and halfcocked. "Belay that." Tim's voice was too loud in her ears. "Raheem advises the best route in is on this path. These woods are booby-trapped. Stay together." PJ. felt like one of the Redcoats, marching along the trail from Lexington to Concord—the perfect target for the rebel guerrillas. She had discussed Raheem with Tim Farber before they'd left on this mission. Or rather, she'd posed some thought provoking questions to which he'd responded with off-the-cuff reassurances. Raheem had given information to the SEALs before. His record had proven him to be reliable. Tim had reassured her, all right—he'd reassured her that he was, indeed, a total fool. She'd found out from the other two FInCOM agents that Farber believed the SEALs were testing him to see if he trusted them. He was intending to

prove he did. Stay close to me, Harvard said with his hands. P.J. pretended not to see him as she checked her weapon. She didn't need to be baby-sat. Annoyance flooded through her, masking the adrenaline surges and making her feel almost calm. He got right in her face. Buddy up, he signaled. Follow me. No. You follow me. She shot the signal back at him. She, for one, was tired of blindly following just anyone. She'd come out here in these wretched, bug-infested, swampy woods to neutralize terrorists. And that was exactly what she was going to do. If G.I. Joe here wanted to tag along, that was fine by her. He caught her wrist in his hand—Lord, he had big hands— and shook his head in warning. He was standing so close she could feel body heat radiating from him. He was much taller than she was, more than twelve inches, and she had to crane her neck to glare at him properly. He smiled suddenly, as if he found the evil eye she was giving him behind her goggles amusing. He clicked off his lip mike, pushing it slightly aside so that he could lean down to whisper in her ear, "I knew you'd be trouble, first time I saw you." It was remarkable, really, the way this man's smile transformed his face, changing him from stern, savage warrior to intensely interested and slightly amused potential lover. Or maybe he was just mildly interested and highly amused, and her too vivid imagination had made up the other parts. P.J. pulled her hand away, and as she did, the world exploded around her, and Harvard fell to the ground. He'd been shot. Her mind froze, but her body reacted swiftly as a projectile whistled past her head. She brought her weapon up as she hit the ground, using her peripheral vision to mark the positions of the tangos who had crept up behind them. She fired in double bursts, hitting one, then two, then three of them in rapid succession. All around her, weapons were being fired and men were shouting in outrage and in pain. From what she could see, the entire CSF team was completely surrounded—except for the little hole she'd made in the terrorists' line of attack. "Man down," PJ. rasped, following FInCOM procedure as she crawled on knees and elbows toward Harvard's body. But he'd taken a direct hit. She knew from one glance there was no use pulling him with her as she moved outside the kill zone. "Backup—we need backup!" She could hear Tim Farber's voice, pitched up an octave, as she moved as silently as possible toward the prone bodies of the terrorists she'd brought down. "By the time help arrives—" Chuck Schneider's voice was also very squeaky, "—there'll be nothing left here to back up!" Yeah? Not if she could help it. There was a tree with low branches just beyond the terrorists' ambush point. If she could get there and somehow climb up it... She was a city girl, an urban-street agent, and she'd never climbed a tree in her life. She absolutely hated heights, but she knew if she could fire from the vantage point of those branches, the tangos wouldn't know what hit them. PJ. moved up and onto her feet in a crouching run and headed for the tree. She saw the tango rising out of the bushes at the last possible second and she fired twice, hitting him squarely in the chest He fell, and only then did she see the man behind him. She was dead. She knew in that instant that she was dead. She fired anyway, but her aim was off. His wasn't. The force of the double impact pushed her back, and she tripped and went down. She felt her head crack against something, a rock, the trunk of a tree—she wasn't sure what, but it was granite hard. Pain exploded, stars sparking behind her tightly closed eyes. "Code eighty-six! Eighty-six! Cease and desist!" Just like that, the gunfire stopped. Just like that, this particular training exercise was over. PJ. felt bright lights going on all over the area, and she struggled to open her eyes, to sit up. The movement made the world lurch unappealingly, and she desperately fought the urge to retch, curling instead into a tight little ball. She prayed she'd somehow find her missing sense of equilibrium before anyone noticed she was temporarily out for the count. "We need a hospital corpsman," the voice over her headset continued. "We've got an agent down, possibly head in-jury." PJ. felt hands touching her shoulder, her face, unfastening her goggles. So much for no one noticing. "Richards, yo. You still with me, girl?" It was Harvard, and his voice got harsher, louder as he turned away from her. "Where the hell is that

corpsman?" Softer again, and sweeter, like honey now. "Richards, can you open your eyes?" She opened one eye and saw Harvard's camouflaged face gazing at her. His chin and cheeks were splattered with yellow from the paint ball that had hit him in the center of his chest. "I'm fine," she whispered. She still hadn't quite regained her breath from the paint ball that had caught her directly in the midsection. "Like hell you're fine," he countered. "And I should know. I saw you doing that George of the Jungle imitation. Right into that tree, headfirst..." One Harvard became two—and Lord knows one was more than enough to deal with. PJ. had to close her eyes again. "Just give me another minute...." "Corpsman's on the way, Senior Chief." "How bad's she hurt, H.?" PJ. recognized that voice as belonging to Alpha Squad's commanding officer, Captain Joe Catalanotto—Joe Cat, as his men irreverently called him. "I don't know, Cat. I don't want to move her, in case she's got a neck injury. Why the hell didn't one of us think about the danger of firing a paint ball at someone this girl's size? What is she? Ninety, ninety-five pounds at the most? How the hell did this get past us?" The breathlessness and dizziness were finally fading, leaving a lingering nausea and a throbbing ache in her head. P.J. would have liked a few more minutes to gather her senses, but Harvard had just gone and called her a girl. "This is no big deal," P.J. said, forcing her eyes open and struggling to sit up. "I was moving when the projectile hit me—the force caught me off balance and I tripped. There's no need to turn this into some kind of a national incident. Besides, I weigh a hundred pounds." On a good day. "I've played paint-ball games before with no problem." Harvard was kneeling next to her. He reached out, caught her face between his hands and lightly touched the back of her head with the tips of his fingers. He skimmed an incredibly sore spot, and she couldn't help but wince. He swore softly, as if it hurt him, as well. "Hurts, huh?" "I'm—" "Fine," he finished for her. "Yes, ma'am, you've made that clear. You've also got a bump the size of Mount Saint Helens on the back of your head. Odds are, you've got a concussion to go along with that bump." PJ. could see Tim Farber standing in the background, all but taking notes for the report she knew he was going to file with Kevin Laughton. / recommend from now on that Agent Richards‘s role in this antiterrorist unit be limited to dealing with administrative issues.... Some men couldn't abide working in the field alongside a woman. She glanced at Harvard. No doubt he'd be first in line to put his initials right next to Farber's recommendation. She silently composed her own note. Hey, Kev, I fell and I landed wrong—so sue me. And before you pull me off this teamt prove that no male FInCOM agent ever made a similar mistake and... Oh, wait, what's that I'm remembering? A certain high-level AIC who shall remain nameless but whose initials are K.L doing a rather ungraceful nosedive from a second-story window during a training op back about a year and a half ago? P J. focused on the mental image of Laughton grinning ruefully as he rubbed the newly healed collarbone that still gave him twinges of pain whenever it rained. That picture made Farber's lofty smirk easier to bear. No way was Kevin Laughton pulling her from this assignment. He had been her boss for two years, and he knew she deserved to be right here, right through to the end, come hell or high water or Tim Farber's male chauvinist whining. The corpsman arrived, and after he flashed a light into PJ.'s eyes, he examined the bump on the back of her head a whole lot less gently than Harvard had. "I want to take you over to the hospital," the corpsman told her. "I think you're probably fine, but I'd feel better if we got an X ray or two. You've got a lot of swelling back there. Any nausea?" "I had the wind knocked out of me, so it's hard to tell," PJ. said, sidestepping the question. Harvard was shaking his head, watching her closely, and she carefully made a point not to meet his gaze. "Can you walk or should we get a stretcher?" PJ. was damned if she was going to be carried out of these woods, but truth was, her legs felt like rubber. "I can walk." Her voice rang with false confidence as she tried to convince herself as well as everyone else. She could feel Harvard watching as she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. He moved closer, still looking to catch her if she fell. It was remarkable, really. Every other woman she knew would've been dying for a good-looking man like Senior Chief Daryl Becker to play hero for them. But she wasn't every other woman. She'd come this far on her own two feet and she wasn't about to let some silly bump on the head undermine her tough-as-nails reputation.

It was hard enough working at FInCOM, where the boys only grudgingly let the girls play, too. But for eight weeks, she was being allowed access to the absolutely-no-women-allowed world of the U.S. Navy SEALs. For the next eight weeks, the members of SEAL Team Ten's invincible Alpha Squad were going to be watching her, waiting for her to screw up so they could say to each other, See, this is precisely why we don't let women in. The SEALs were the U.S. Navy's special forces units. They were highly trained warriors with well-earned reputations for being the closest things to superheroes this side of a comic book. The acronym came from sea, air and land, and SEALs were equally comfortable—and adept—at operating in all of those environments. They were smart, they were brave and they were more than a little crazy—they had to be to make it through the grueling sessions known as BUD/s training, which included the legendary Hell Week. From what P.J. had heard, a man who was still in the SEAL program after completing Hell Week had every right to be cocky and arrogant. And the men of Alpha Squad at times could be both. As P.J. forced herself to walk slowly but steadily away, she could feel all of Alpha Squad's eyes on her back. Especially Senior Chief Harvard Becker's.

Chapter 2 Harvard didn't know what the hell he was doing here. It was nearly 0100. He should have gone back to his apartment outside the base. He should be sitting on his couch in his boxers, chillin' and having a cold beer and skimming through the past five days' videotapes of "The Young and the Restless" instead of making a soap opera out of his own life. Instead, he was here in this allegedly upscale hotel bar with the rest of the unmarried guys from Alpha Squad, making a sorry-assed attempt to bond with FInCOM's wunderkinder. Steel guitars were wailing from the jukebox—some dreadful song about Papa going after Mama and doing her in because of her cheatin' heart. And the SEALs—Wes and Bobby were the only ones Harvard could see from his quick scan of the late-night crowd—were sitting on one side of the room, and the three male FInCOM agents were on the other. Not much bonding going down here tonight. Harvard didn't blame Wes and Bob one bit. FInCOM's fab four didn't have much in common with the Alpha Squad. It was amazing, really. There were something like seventy three hundred agents in the Federal Intelligence Commission. He'd have thought the Chosen Four would have come equipped with superhero capes and a giant S emblazoned on the fronts of their shirts at the very least. Timothy Farber was FInCOM's alleged golden boy. He was a fresh-faced, college-boy type, several years shy of thirty, with a humorless earnestness that was annoying as hell. He was a solid subscriber to the FInCOM my-way-or-the-highway way of thinking. This no doubt worked when directing traffic to allow clear passage for the President's convoy, but it wouldn't do him quite as well when dealing with unpredictable, suicidal, religious zealots. No, in Harvard's experience, a leader of a counterterrorist team needed constantly to adjust his plan of attack, altering and revising as unknown variables become known. A team leader needed to know how to listen to others' opinions and to know that sometimes the other guy's idea might be the best idea. Joe Cat had consulted with Alan "Frisco" Francisco—one of the best BUD/s training instructors in Coronado—and had purposely put blustery Tim Farber in command of the very first training scenario in an attempt to knock him off his high horse. A former member of the Alpha Squad who was off the active duty list because of a permanent injury to his knee, Frisco had duties that kept him in California, but he was in constant contact with both Alpha Squad's captain and Harvard. Still, judging from the way Farber was holding court at the bar, surrounded by his two fellow agents, it was obvious to Harvard that Frisco's ploy hadn't worked. Farber was totally unperturbed by his failure. Maybe tomorrow, when Alpha Squad reviewed the exercise, the fact would finally sink in that Farber had personally created this snafu, this grandscale Charlie Foxtrot. But somehow Harvard doubted it. As Harvard watched, Farber drew something on a napkin, and the two other FInCOM agents nodded seriously. Greg Greene and Charles Schneider were around Harvard's age, thirty-five, thirty-six, maybe even older. They'd spent most of the preliminary classroom sessions looking bored, their body language broadcasting "been there, done that." But in the field, during the evening's exercise, they'd shown little imagination. They were standard issue FInCOM agents—finks, as the SEALs were fond of calling them. They didn't make waves, they followed the rule book to the last letter, they waited for someone else to take the lead and they looked good in dark suits and sunglasses. They'd looked good smeared with yellow paint from the terrorists' weapons, too. They'd followed Tim Farber's command without question, and in the mock ambush that had resulted, they'd been rather messily mock killed. Still, they hadn't seemed to learn that following Farber unquestioningly might've been a mistake, because here they were, following Farber still. No doubt because someone higher up in FInCOM had told them to follow him. Only one of the four superfinks out there tonight had openly questioned Farber's command decisions. P. J. Richards. Harvard glanced around the bar again, but he didn't see her anywhere. She was probably in her room, having a soak in the tub, icing the bruise on the back of her head. Damn, he could still see her, flung backward like some rag doll when that paint ball hit her. He hadn't gone to church in a long time, but he'd silently checked in with God as he'd called for the training session to halt, asking for divine intervention, praying that P.J. hadn't hit that tree with enough force to break her pretty neck. Men died during training. The risk was part of being a SEAL. But P. J. Richards was neither man nor SEAL, and the thought of her out there with them, facing the dangers they so casually faced, made Harvard's skin crawl. "Hey, Senior Chief. I didn't expect to see you here." Lucky O'Donlon was carrying a pitcher of beer from the bar. "I didn't expect to see you here, either, O'Donlon. I was sure you'd be heading out to see that girlfriend of yours at warp speed."

Harvard followed Lucky to the table where Bobby and Wes were sitting. He nodded a greeting to them—the inseparable twins of Alpha Squad. Unidentical twins. Bobby Taylor came close to Harvard's six feet five, and he gave the impression of being nearly as wide around as he was tall. If he hadn't wanted to become a SEAL, he would have had a serious future as a professional football linebacker. And Wes Skelly was Alpha Squad's version of Popeye the sailor man, short and wiry and liberally tattooed. What he lacked in height and weight, he more than made up for with his extremely big mouth. "Renee had a meeting tonight for the state pageant." Lucky sat down at the table and then kicked out a chair for Harvard to join them. He filled first Bobby's mug from the pitcher, then poured some beer for Wes. "You want me to get you a glass?" he asked Harvard. "No, thanks." Harvard shook his head as he sat down. "What's that title Renee just won? Miss Virginia Beach?" "Miss East Coast Virginia," Lucky told him. "Pretty girl. Young girl." Lucky flashed his movie-star-perfect grin as if the fact that his girlfriend probably hadn't yet celebrated her nineteenth birthday was something to be proud of. "Don't I know it." Harvard had to smile. To each his own. Personally, he liked women with a little more life experience. "Hey, Crash," Wes called in his megaphone voice. "Pull up a chair." William Hawken, Alpha Squad's newest temporary member, sat across from Harvard, meeting his eyes and nodding briefly. Hawken was one spooky individual, dark and almost unnaturally quiet, seemingly capable of becoming invisible upon demand. At first glance, he was not particularly tall, not particularly well-built, not particularly handsome. But Harvard knew better than to go by a first glance. The man had been nicknamed Crash for his ability to move soundlessly in any circumstance, under any condition. Crash was anything but average. On closer examination, his eyes were a steely shade of blue with a sharpness to them that seemed almost to cut. Crash didn't so much look around a room—he absorbed it, memorized it, recorded it, probably permanently. And beneath his purposely loose-fitting clothes, his body was that of a long-distance runner—lean and muscular, without an extra ounce of fat anywhere. "Grab a glass and have a beer," Lucky told Crash. He shook his head. "No, thanks," he said in his deceptively quiet voice. "Beer's not my drink. I'll wait for the waitress." Harvard knew that Crash was part of this FInCOM project at Captain Catalanotto's special request. He was in charge of organizing all the "terrorist" activities the combined SEAL/ FInCOM team would be running into over the next eight weeks. He'd been the strategical force behind tonight's paint-ball slaughter. The score so far was Crash—one, CSF team— zero. Harvard didn't know him very well, but Hawken's reputation was close to legendary. He'd been part of the SEALs mysterious Gray Group for years. And apparently he'd been involved in countless black operations—highly covert, hush-hush missions that were as controversial as they were dangerous. SEALs were allegedly sent into other countries to perform tasks that even the U.S. Government claimed to know nothing about— neutralization of drug lords, permanent removal of political and military leaders preaching genocide and so on. The SEALs were forced to play God, or at least take on the roles of judge, jury and hangman combined. It was not a job Harvard would have relished doing. If the SEALs on a black op succeeded at their mission, they'd get little or no recognition. And if they failed, they were on their own, possibly facing espionage charges, with no chance of the government stepping forward and accepting the responsibility. No wonder Crash didn't drink beer. He probably had an ulcer the size of an aircraft carrier from the stress. He'd no doubt come here tonight in an attempt to better get to know the SEALs who made up Alpha Squad—the men he'd be working with for the next eight weeks. Which reminded Harvard of why he'd come here. He glanced at the three FInCOM agents sitting at the bar. Still no sign of P.J. "Has anyone tried to make friends with the finks tonight?" "Besides you trying to get close to P. J. Richards, you mean? Trying to hold her hand out in the woods?" Wes Skelly laughed at his miserable joke. "Jeez, Senior Chief, only time in my memory that you were the first man down in a paint-ball fight." "That was my paint ball that hit you, H.," Lucky drawled. "I hope it didn't hurt too badly." "Hey, it's about time he found out what it feels like just being hit," Bobby countered in his sub-bass-woofer voice. "I couldn't resist," Lucky continued. "You were such a great, big, perfect target, standing there like that." "I think Harvard let you shoot him. I think he was just trying to score some sympathy from P.J.," Wes said. "Is she hot or is she hot?" "She's a colleague," Harvard said. "Show a little respect." "I am," Wes said. "In fact, there are few things I respect more than an incredibly hot woman. Look me in the eye, H., and tell me that you honestly don't think this lady is a total babe." Harvard had to laugh. Wes could be like a pit bull when he got hold of an idea like this. He knew if he didn't admit it now, Wes would be on him all

night until he finally caved in. He met Crash's amused gaze and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "All right. You're right, Skelly. She's hot." "See? Harvard was distracted," Bobby told Lucky. "That's the only reason you were able to hit him." "Yeah, his focus was definitely not where it should have been," Lucky agreed. "It was on the lovely Ms. Richards instead." He grinned at Harvard. "Not that I blame you, Senior Chief. She is a killer." "Are you gonna go for her?" Wes asked. "Inquiring minds want to know. You know, she's short, but she's got really great legs." "And a terrific butt." Wes smiled blissfully, closing his eyes. "And an incredible set of—" "Well, this is really fun." Harvard looked up to see P. J. Richards standing directly behind him. "But aren't we going to talk about Tim and Charlie and Greg's legs and butts, too?" Her big brown eyes were open extra wide in mock innocence. Silence. Dead, total silence. Harvard was the first to move, pushing back his chair and standing up. "I have to apologize, ma'am—" The feigned curiosity in her eyes shifted to blazing hot anger as she glared at him from her barely five-foot-two-inch height. "No," she said sharply. "You don't have to apologize, Senior Chief Becker. What you have to do is learn not to make the same disrespectful mistakes over and over and over again. What you as men have to do is learn to stop dissing women by turning them into nothing more than sex objects. Great legs, a terrific butt and an incredible set of what, Mr. Skelly?" She turned her glare to Wesley. "I have to assume you weren't about to compliment me on my choice of encyclopedias, but were instead commenting on my breasts?" Wes actually looked sheepish. "Yeah. Sorry, ma'am." "Well, you get points for honesty, but that's all you get points for," P.J. continued tartly. She looked from Wes to Bobby to Lucky. "You were the first three tangos I shot out there tonight, weren't you?" She turned to Crash. "Exactly how many members of your team were hit tonight, Mr. Haw-ken?" "Six." He smiled slightly. "Four of whom you were responsible for," "Four out of six." She shook her head, exhaling in a short burst of disbelief as she glared at the SEALs. "I beat you at your own game, and yet you're not talking about my skills as a shooter. You're discussing my butt. Don't you think there's something really wrong with this picture?" Lucky looked at Bobby, and Bobby glanced at Wes. Bobby seemed to think a response was needed, but didn't know quite what to say. "Um..." P.J. still had her hands on the hips in question, and she wasn't finished yet. "Unless, of course, you think maybe my ability to hit a target was just dumb luck. Or maybe you think I wouldn't have been able to hit you if I had been a man. Maybe it was my very femaleness that distracted and stupefied you, hmm? Maybe you were stunned by the sight of my female breasts—which, incidentally, boys, are a meager size thirty-two B and can barely be noticed when I'm wearing my combat vest. We're not talking heavy cleavage here, gang.” Harvard couldn't hide his smile. She turned her glare to him. "Am I amusing you, Senior Chief?" Damn, this woman was mad. She was funny as hell, too, but he wasn't going to make things any better by laughing. Harvard wiped the smile off his face. "Again, I'd like to apologize to you, Ms. Richards. I assure you, no disrespect was intended." "Maybe not," she told him, her voice suddenly quiet, "but disrespect was given." As he looked into her eyes, Harvard could see weariness and resignation, as if this had happened to her far too many times. He saw physical fatigue and pain, too, and he knew that her head was probably still throbbing from the blow she'd received earlier that evening. Still, he couldn't help thinking that despite everything she'd said, Wesley was right. This girl was smoking hot. Even the loose-fitting T-shirt and baggy fatigues she wore couldn't disguise the lithe, athletic and very female body underneath. Her skin was smooth and clear, like a four-year-old's, and a deep, rich shade of chocolate. He could imagine how soft it would feel to his fingers, how delicious she would taste beneath his lips. Her face was long and narrow, her chin strong and proud, her profile that of African royalty, her eyes so brown the color merged with her pupils, becoming huge dark liquid pools he could drown in. She wore her hair pulled austerely from her face in a ponytail. Yeah, she was beautiful. Beautiful and very, very hot. She stepped around him, heading toward the bar. Harvard caught up with her before she was halfway across the room. "Look," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the cowboy music blaring from the jukebox. "I don't know how much of that conversation you overheard—" "Enough. Believe me." "The truth is, you were a distraction out there tonight. To me. Having you mere was extremely disconcerting."

She had her arms folded across her chest, one eyebrow raised in an expression of half-disdain, half-disgust. "And the point of your telling me this is...?" He let his eyelids drop halfway. "Oh, it's not a come-on line. You'd know for sure if I were giving you one of those." Her gaze faltered, and she was the first to look away. What do you know? She wasn't as tough as she was playing. Harvard pressed his advantage. "I think it's probably a good idea for you to know that I believe there's no room in this kind of high-risk joint FInCOM/military endeavor for women." PJ. gave him another one of those you've-lost-your-mind laughs. "It's a good thing you weren't on the FInCOM candidate selection committee, then, isn't it?" "I have no problem at all with women holding jobs in both FInCOM and in the U.S. Military," he continued. "But I believe that they—that you—should have low-risk supporting roles, doing administrative work instead of taking part in combat." "I see." PJ. was nodding. "So what you're telling me is that despite the fact that I'm the best shooter in nearly all of FInCOM, you think the best place for me is in the typing pool?" Her eyes were shooting flames. Harvard stood his ground. "You did prove yourself an expert shooter tonight. You're very good, I'll grant you that. But the fact is, you're a woman. Having you on my team, out in the field, in a combat situation, would be a serious distraction." "That's your problem," she said, blazing. "If you can't keep your pants zipped—" "It has nothing to do with that, and you know it. It's a protectiveness issue. How can my men and I do our jobs when we're distracted by worrying about you?" P.J. couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You're telling me that because you're working with a Stone Age mentality, because you're the one with the problem, / should be the one to adapt? I don't think so, Jack. You're just going to have to stop thinking of me as a woman, and then we'll get along just fine." It was his turn to laugh in disbelief. "That's not going to happen." "Try counseling, Senior Chief, because I'm here to stay." His smile was nowhere to be seen, and without it, he looked hard and uncompromising. "You know, it's likely that the only reason you're here is to fill a quota. To help someone with lots of gold on their sleeves be PC." P.J. refused to react. "I could fire those exact same words right back at you—the only black man in Alpha Squad." He didn't blink. He just stood there, looking at her. Lord, he was big. He'd changed into a clean T-shirt, but he still wore the camouflage fatigue pants he'd been wearing earlier tonight. With his shirt pulled tight across his mile-wide shoulders and broad chest, with his shaved head gleaming in the dim barroom light, he looked impossibly dangerous. And incredibly handsome in a harshly masculine way. No, Harvard Becker was no pretty boy, that was for sure. But he was quite possibly the most handsome man P.J. had ever met. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His nose was big, but it was the right length and width for his face. Any smaller, and he would have looked odd. And he had just about the most perfect ears she'd ever seen—just the right size, perfectly rounded and streamlined. Before the war game, he'd taken off the diamond stud he always wore in his left ear, but he'd since put it back in, and it glistened colorfully, catching snatches of the neon light. But it was Harvard's eyes that P.J. had been aware of right from the start. A rich, dark golden-brown, they were the focal point of his entire face, of his entire being. If it were true that the eyes were the window to the soul, this man had one powerfully intense soul. Yeah, he was the real thing. As a matter of fact, more than one or two of the other patrons in the bar, both men and women, were sneaking looks at the man. Some were wary, some were nervous, and some were flat-out chock-full of pheromones. Without even turning around, Harvard could have snapped his fingers and three or four women—both black and white— would've been pushing their way to his side. Well, maybe she was exaggerating a little bit. But only a little bit. This man could have any woman he wanted—and he knew it. And even though P.J. could still hear an echo of his rich voice saying yes, he thought she was hot, she knew the last thing he needed was any kind of involvement with her. Hell, he'd made it more than clear he didn't even want to be friends.

P.J. refused to feel regret, pushing the twinges of emotion far away from her, ignoring them as surely as she ignored the dull throb of her still-aching head. Because the last thing she needed was any kind of involvement with him—or with anyone, for that matter. She'd avoided it successfully for most of her twenty-five years. There was no reason to think she couldn't continue to avoid it. He was studying her as intently as she was looking at him. And when he spoke, P.J. knew he hadn't missed the fatigue and pain she was trying so hard to keep from showing in her face. His voice was surprisingly gentle. "You should call it a night—get some rest." P.J. glanced toward the bar, toward Tim Farber and the other FInCOM agents. "I just thought I'd grab a nightcap before I headed upstairs." Truth was, she'd wanted nothing more than to drag herself to her room and throw herself into a warm tub. But she felt she had to come into the bar, put in an appearance, prove to the other agents and to any of the SEALs who might be hanging around that she was as tough as they were. Tougher. She could go from a hospital X-ray table directly to the bar. See? She wasn't really hurt. See? She could take damn near anything and come back ready for more. Harvard followed her as she slid onto a bar stool several seats away from the other agents. "It wasn't even a concussion," she said. She didn't bother to raise her voice—she knew Farber was listening. Harvard glanced at the FInCOM agents. "I know," he said, leaning against the stool next to her. "I stopped in at the hospital before heading over here. The doctor said you'd already been checked over and released." "Like I said before, I'm fine." "Whoops, I'm getting paged." Harvard took his pager from his belt and glanced at the number. As the bartender approached, he greeted the man by name. "Hey, Tom. Get me my usual. And whatever the lady here wants." "I'm paying for my own," P.J. protested, checking her own pager out of habit. It was silent and still. "She's paying for her own," Harvard told Tom with a smile. "Mind if I use the phone to make a local call?" "Anytime, Chief." The bartender plopped a telephone in front of Harvard before looking at P.J. "What can I get you, ma'am?" Iced tea. She truly wanted nothing more than a tall, cool glass of iced tea. But big, tough men didn't drink iced tea, so she couldn't, either. "Give me a draft, please, Tom." Beside her, Harvard was silent, listening intently to whoever was on the other end of that telephone. He'd pulled a small notebook from one of his pockets and was using the stub of a pencil to write something down. His smile was long gone—in fact, his mouth was a grim line, his face intensely serious. "Thanks, Joe," he said, then he hung up the phone. Joe. He'd been talking to Joe Catalanotto, Alpha Squad's CO. He stood up, took out his wallet and threw several dollar bills onto the bar. "I'm sorry, I can't stay." "Problem at the base?" PJ. asked, watching him in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. For some reason, it was easier than looking directly at him. He met her eyes in the mirror. "No, it's personal," he said, slipping his wallet into his pants. She instantly backed down. "I'm sorry—" "My father's had a heart attack," Harvard told her quietly. "He's in the hospital. I've got to go to Boston right away." "I'm sorry," PJ. said again, turning to look directly at him. His father. Harvard actually had a father. Somehow she'd imagined him spawned—an instant six-and-a-half-foot-tall adult male. "I hope he's all right...." But Harvard was already halfway across the room. She watched him until he turned the corner into the hotel lobby and disappeared from view. The bartender had set a frosty mug of beer on a coaster in front of her. And in front of the bar stool that Harvard had been occupying was a tall glass of iced tea. His usual. PJ. had to smile. So much for her theory about big, tough men. She pushed the beer aside and drank the iced tea, wondering what other surprises Harvard Becker had in store for her.

Chapter 3 "He looks awful." "He looks a great deal better than he did last night in that ambulance." His mother lowered herself carefully onto the deck chair, and Harvard was aware once again of all the things he'd noticed for the first time in the hospital. The gray in her hair. The deepening lines of character on her slightly round, still pretty face. The fact that her hip was bothering her yet again—that she moved stiffly, more slowly each time he saw her. Harvard's father had looked awful—a shriveled and shrunken version of himself, lying in that hospital bed, hooked up to all those monitors and tubes. His eyes had been closed when Harvard had come in, but the old man had roused himself enough to make a bad joke. Something about how he'd gone to awfully extreme lengths this time just to make their wayward son come to visit. The old man. Harvard had called his father that since he was twelve. But now it was true. His parents were getting old. The heart attack had been relatively mild, but from now on Dr. Medgar Becker was going to have to stop joking about how he was on a two-slicesof-cheesecake-per-day diet and really stick to the low-fat, high-exercise regimen his doctor had ordered. He was going to have to work to cut some of the stress out of his life, as well. But God knows, as the head of the English department at one of New England's most reputable universities, that wasn't going to be an easy thing to do. "We're selling the house, Daryl," his mother told him quietly. Harvard nearly dropped the can of soda he'd taken from the refrigerator on his way through the kitchen. "You're what?" His mother lifted her face to the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine, breathing in the fresh, salty air. "Your father was offered a part-time teaching position at a small college in Phoenix. It'll be fewer than a third of the hours he currently has, and far less responsibility. I think we've been given a sign from the Almighty that it's time for him to cut back a bit." He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was just as calm as hers had been. "Why didn't you tell me about this before?" "Medgar wasn't sure he was ready to make such a big change," his mother told him. "We didn't want to worry you until we knew for sure we were going to make the move." "To Phoenix. In Arizona." His mother smiled at the skepticism in his voice. "We'll be near Kendra and Robby and the kids. And Jonelle and her bunch won't be too far away in Santa Fe. And we'll be closer to you, too, when you're in California. It'll be much easier for you to come and visit. There's a fine community theater there—something I'm truly looking forward to. And last time we were out there, we found the perfect little house within walking distance of the campus." Harvard leaned against the railing on the deck, looking out over the grayish green water of Boston Harbor. His parents had lived in Hingham, Massachusetts, in this house near the ocean, for nearly thirty years. This had been his home from the time he was six years old. "I've read that the housing market is really soft right now," he said. "It might be a while before you find a buyer willing to meet your asking price." "We've already got a buyer—paying cash, no less. I called this morning from the hospital, accepted his offer. Closing date's scheduled for two weeks from Thursday." He turned to face her. "That soon?" His mother smiled sadly. "I knew that out of all the children, you would be the one to take this the hardest. Five children—you and four girls—and you're the sentimental one. I know you always loved this house, Daryl, but we really don't have a choice." He shook his head as he sat next to her. "I'm just surprised, that's all. I haven't had any time to get used to the idea." "We're tired of shoveling snow. We don't want to fight our way through another relentless New England winter. Out in Arizona, your father can play golf all year long. And this house is so big and empty now that Lena's gone off to school. The list of pros is a mile long. The list of cons has only one item—my Daryl will be sad." Harvard took his mother's hand. "I get back here twice a year, at best. You've got to do what's right for you and Daddy. Just as long as you're sure it's really what you want." "Oh, we're sure." Conviction rang in his mother's voice. "After last night, we're very sure." She squeezed his fingers. "We've been so busy talking about Medgar and me, I haven't had the chance to ask about you. How are you?" Harvard nodded. "I'm well, thanks." "I was afraid when I called last night you'd be off in some foreign country saving the world or whatever it is that you Navy SEAL types do." He forced a smile. His parents were moving from this house in just a few weeks. This was probably going to be the very last time he sat on this deck. "Saving the world just about sums it up."

"Have you told that captain of yours it ticks your mother off that you can't freely talk about all these awful, dangerous assignments you get sent on?" Harvard laughed. "Right now we're temporarily stationed in Virginia. We're helping train some FInCOM agents in counterterrorist techniques." "That sounds relatively safe." P. J. Richards and her blazing eyes came to mind. "Relatively," he agreed. "But it's going to keep me tied up over the next seven and a half weeks. I won't be around to help you pack or move or anything. Are you sure you're going to be able to handle that—especially with Daddy laid up?" "Lena's home for the summer, and Jonelle's volunteered to help out, too." Harvard nodded. "Good." "How's that young friend of yours—the one that just got married and had himself a son, although not quite in that order?" "Harlan Jones." Harvard identified the friend in question. His mother frowned. "No, that's not what you usually call him." "His nickname's Cowboy." "That's right. Cowboy. How could I forget? How's that working out for him? He had to grow up really fast, didn't he?" "It's only been a few months, but so far so good. He's on temporary assignment with SEAL Team Two out in California. He had the chance to be part of a project he couldn't turn down." "A project you can't tell me anything about, no doubt." Harvard had to smile. "Sorry. You'll like this irony, though. Cowboy's swim buddy from BUD/s training—a guy named William Hawken—is temporarily working with Alpha Squad." "That's that small world factor again," his mother proclaimed. "Everyone's connected in some way—some more obviously than others." She leaned forward. "Speaking of connections—what's the chance you'll bring a girlfriend with you when you come to the new house for Thanksgiving?" He snorted. "We're talking negative numbers—no chance at all. I’m not seeing anyone in particular right now." "Still tomcatting around, huh? Getting’ it on without getting involved?" Harvard closed his eyes. "Mom." "Did you really think your mother didn't know? I know you're a smart man, so I won't give you my safe-sex speech—although in my opinion, the only sex that's truly safe is between a man and his wife." She pushed herself out of her chair. "Okay, I'm done embarrassing you. I'm going to go see about getting lunch on the table." "Why don't you let me take you out somewhere?" "And miss the chance to make sure you get at least one home-cooked meal this month? No way." "I'll be in in a sec to help." She kissed the top of his head. "You know, you were born with hair. You have exceptionally nice hair. I don't see why you insist on shaving it all off that way." Harvard laughed as she headed inside. "I'll try to grow it in for Thanksgiving." He'd already reserved a few days of leave to spend the holiday at home with his parents. Home. It was funny, but he still thought of this place as home. He hadn't lived here in more than fifteen years, but he'd always considered this house his sanctuary. He could come here any time he needed to, and he could center himself. It was the one place he could come back to that he'd foolishly thought would always remain the same. The sweet smell of cookies baking in his mother's kitchen. The scent of his father's pipe. The fresh ocean air. It was weird as hell to think that within less than two weeks his home would belong to strangers. And he would be spending Thanksgiving far from the ocean at his parents' new house in Arizona. "Excuse me, Senior Chief Becker! I've been looking for you!" Harvard turned to find P. J. Richards bearing down on him, eyes shooting fire. He turned and kept walking. He didn't need this right now. Damn it, he was tired, he was hungry, he was wearing the same clothes he'd had on

when he'd left here close to forty-eight hours ago, he hadn't been able to grab more than a combat nap on the flight from Boston to Virginia, and he'd had to stand on the crowded bus back to the base. On top of the annoying physical inconveniences, there were seven different items that had crash-landed on his desk while he was gone that needed his—and only his—immediate and undivided attention. It was going to be a solid two hours before he made his way home and reintroduced himself to his bed. And that was if he was lucky. P.J. ran to catch up with him. "Did you give the order to restrict my distance for this and last morning's run to only three miles?" Harvard kept walking. "Yes, I did." She had to keep trotting to match the length of his stride. "Even though the rest of the team was required to go the full seven miles?" "That's right." "How dare you!" She was nearly hopping up and down with anger, and Harvard swore and turned to face her. "I don't have time for this." He spoke more to himself than to her, but of course, she had no way of knowing that. "Well, you're going to have to make time for this." Damn, she was pretty. And so thoroughly passionate. But if his luck continued in its current downward spiral, he stood only a blind man's chance in a firing range of ever getting a taste of that passion any way other than her hurling angry words—or maybe even knives—in his direction. "I'm sorry if my very existence is an inconvenience," she continued hotly, "but—" "My order was standard procedure," he told her tightly. She wasn't listening. "I will file a formal complaint if this coddling continues, if I am not treated completely the same as—" "This coddling is by the book for any FInCOM agent who has received an injury sufficient to send him—or her—to the hospital." She blinked at him. "What did you say?" Well, what do you know? She was listening. "According to the rule book set up for this training session, if a fink goes to the hospital, said fink gets lighter physical training until it's determined that he—or she—is up to speed. Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Richards, but you were treated no differently than anyone else would have been." The sun was setting, streaking the sky with red-orange clouds, giving the entire base a romantic, fairy-tale look. Everything was softer, warmer, bathed in diffused pink light. Back home in Hingham, it would have been the perfect kind of summer evening for a long, lazy walk to the local icecream stand, flirting all the way with his sister's friends, strutting his seventeen-year-old stuff while they gazed at him adoringly. The woman in front of him was gazing at him, but it sure as hell wasn't adoringly. In fact, she was looking at him as if he were trying to sell her a dehumidifier in the desert. "Rule book?" Harvard glanced in the direction of his office, wishing he were there so he could, in turn, soon go home. "No doubt one of your bosses was afraid that Alpha Squad was going to hurt you and keep on hurting you. There's a list of ground rales for this training session." "I wasn't shown any rule book." Harvard snorted, his patience flat-out gone. He started walking again, leaving her behind. "Yeah, you're right, I'm making all this up." "You can't blame me for being wary!" P.J. hurried to keep pace. "As far as I know, there's never been this kind of a rule book before. Why should FInCOM start now?" "No doubt someone heard about BUD/s Hell Week—about the sleep deprivation and strenuous endurance tests that SEALs undergo at the end of phase-one training. I bet they were afraid we'd do something similar to the finks with this counterterrorist deal. And they were right. We would have, if we could. Because in real life, terrorists don't pay too much attention to time-out signals." P.J. was back to glaring at him, full power. "I’ll have you know that I find 'fink' to be an offensive term." "It's a nickname. A single syllable versus four. Easier to say." "Yeah, well, I don't like it." "There's not much you do like, is there?" Including him. Maybe especially him. Harvard pushed open the door to the Quonset hut that housed Alpha Squad's temporary offices. "My father's going to be fine. I'm sure you were dying to know." "Oh, God, I'm so sorry I didn't ask!"

His mistake was turning to look at her. She looked stricken. She looked completely, thoroughly horrified, all her anger instantly vanished. He almost felt bad for her—and he didn't want to feel bad for her. He didn't want to feel bad for anyone, especially not himself. He'd been off balance since he'd gotten that phone call from Joe Cat telling him about his father's heart attack. His entire personal life had been turned on its side. His parents were succumbing to age and his home was no longer going to be his home. And then here came P. J. Richards, getting in his face, making all kinds of accusations, reminding him how much easier this entire assignment would be were it not for her female presence. "Please forgive me—I didn't mean to be insensitive. I was rude not to have asked earlier. Is he really going to be all right?" As Harvard gazed into PJ.'s bottomless dark eyes, he knew he was fooling himself. He hadn't been off balance since that phone call came in about his father. Damn, he'd been off balance from the moment this tiny little woman had stepped out of the FInCOM van and into his life. He'd liked her looks and her passion right from the start, and her ability to face up to her mistakes made him like her even more. "Yeah," he told her. "He should be just fine in a few weeks. And his long-term prognosis is just as good, provided he stays with his diet." He nodded at her, hoping she'd consider herself dismissed, wishing he could pull her into his arms and kiss that too-vulnerable, still-mortified look off her face. Thank God he wasn't insane enough to try that. "If you'll excuse me, Ms. Richards, I have a great deal of work to do." Harvard went inside the Quonset hut, forcing himself to shut the door tightly behind him, knowing that starting something hot and heavy with this woman was the dead last thing he should do but wanting it just the same. Damn, he wanted it, wanted her. He wanted to lose this unpleasant sensation he had of being adrift, to temporarily ground himself in her sweetness. He took a deep breath and got to work. His father was going to be fine in a few weeks, but he suspected his own recovery was going to take quite a bit longer. PJ. had never done so much shooting in her life. They were going on day fourteen of the training, and during every single one of those days she'd spent a serious chunk of time on the firing range. Before she'd started, she could outshoot the three other FInCOM agents, as well as some of the SEALs in Alpha Squad. And after two weeks of perfecting her skill, she was at least as good as the quiet SEAL with the thick southern accent, the X.O. or executive officer of Alpha Squad, the one everyone called Blue. And he was nearly as good as Alpha Squad's C.O., Joe Cat. But, of course, nobody even came close to Harvard. Harvard. PJ. had managed successfully to avoid him since that day she'd been so mad she'd forgotten even the most basic social graces. She still couldn't believe she hadn't remembered to ask him about his father's health. Her anger was a solid excuse, except for the fact that that degree of rudeness was inexcusable. Lord, she'd made one hell of a fool out of herself that evening. But as much as she told herself she was avoiding any contact with Harvard out of embarrassment, that wasn't the only reason she was avoiding him. The man was too good at what he did. How could she not respect and admire a man like that? And added onto those heaping double scoops of respect and admiration was a heady whipped topping of powerful physical attraction. It was a recipe for total disaster, complete with a cherry on top. She'd learned early in life that her own personal success and freedom hinged on her ability to turn away from such emotions as lust and desire. And so she was turning away. She'd done it before. She could do it again. PJ. went into the mess hall and grabbed a tray and a turkey sandwich. It turned out the food they'd been eating right from the start wasn't standard Uncle Sam fare. This meal had been catered by an upscale deli downtown, as per the FInCOM rule book. Such a list of rules did exist. Harvard had been right about that. She felt his eyes following her as she stopped to pour herself a glass of iced tea. As usual, she'd been aware of him from the moment she'd walked in. He was sitting clear across the room, his back against the far wall. He had two plates piled on his tray, both empty. He was across from the quiet SEAL called Crash, his feet on a chair, nursing a mug of coffee, watching her. Harvard watched her all the time. He watched her during physical training. He watched her during the classroom sessions. He watched her on the firing range. You'd think the man didn't have anything better to do with his time. When he wasn't watching her, he was nearby, always ready to offer a hand up or a boost out of the water. It was driving her insane. He didn't offer Greg Greene a boost. Or Charlie Schneider.

Obviously, he didn't think Greg or Charlie needed one. P.J. was more than tempted to carry her tray over to Harvard, to sit herself down at his table and to ask him how well she was doing. Except right now, she knew exactly how well she was doing. The focus of this morning's classroom session had been on working as a team. And she and Tim Farber and Charlie and Greg had totally flunked Teamwork 101. PJ. had read the personnel files of the other three agents, so when asked, she'd at least been able to come up with such basic facts as where they were from. But she hadn't been able to answer other, more personal questions about her team members. She didn't know such things as what they perceived to be their own strengths and weaknesses. And in return, none of them knew the first little teeny thing about her. None of them were even aware that she hailed from Washington, D.C.—which, apparently, was as much her fault as it was theirs. And it was true. She hadn't made any attempts to get to know Tim or Charlie or Greg. She'd stopped hanging out in the hotel bar after hours, choosing instead to read over her notes and try to prepare for the coming day's assignments. It had seemed a more efficient use of her time, especially since it included avoiding Harvard's watching eyes, but now she knew she'd been wrong. PJ. headed for the other FInCOM agents, forcing her mouth into what she hoped was a friendly smile. "Hey, guys. Mind if I join you?" Farber blinked up at her. "Sorry, we were just leaving. I've got some paperwork to do before the next classroom session." "I'm due at the range." Charlie gave her an insincere smile as he stood. Greg didn't say anything. He just gathered his trash and left with Charlie. Just like that, they were gone, leaving PJ. standing there, holding her tray like an idiot. It wasn't personal. She knew it wasn't personal. She'd arrived late, they had already eaten, and they all had things that needed to get done. Still, something about it felt like a seventh-grade shunning all over again. She glanced around the room, and this time Harvard wasn't the only one watching her. Alpha Squad's captain, Joe Catalanotto, was watching her, too. She sat and unwrapped her sandwich, praying that both men would leave her be. She took a bite, hoping her body language successfully broadcast, "I want to be alone." "How you doing, Richards?" Joe pulled out the chair next to hers, straddled it and leaned his elbows on the backrest. So much for body language. Her mouth was full, so she nodded a greeting. "You know, one of my biggest beefs with FInCOM has to do with their refusing to acknowledge that teams just can't be thrown together," he said in his husky New York accent. "You can't just count down a line, picking, say, every fourth guy—or woman—and automatically make an effective team." PJ. swallowed. "How do the SEALs do it?" "I handpicked Alpha Squad," Joe told her, his smile making his dark brown eyes sparkle. It was funny. With his long, shaggy, dark hair, ruggedly handsome face and muscle-man body, this man could pull off sitting in a chair in that ridiculously macho way. He made it look both comfortable and natural. "I've been with Blue McCoy, my XO, for close to forever. Since BUD/s—basic training, you know?" She nodded, her mouth full again. "And I've known Harvard just as long, too. The rest of the guys, well, they'd developed reputations, and when I was looking for men with certain skills... It was really just a matter of meeting and making sure personalities meshed before I tapped 'em to join the squad." He paused. "Something tells me that FInCOM wasn't as careful about compatible personalities when they made the selections for this program." PJ. snorted. "That's the understatement of the year." Joe absentmindedly twisted the thick gold wedding band he wore on his left hand. PJ. tried to imagine the kind of woman who'd managed to squeeze vows of fidelity from this charismatic, larger-than-life man. Someone unique. Someone very, very special. Probably someone with the brains of a computer and the body of a super model. "What FInCOM should have done," he told her, "if they wanted a four-man team, was select a leader, have that leader choose team members they've worked with before—people they trust." "But if they'd done that, there's no way I would be on this team," she pointed out. "What makes you so sure about that?" P.J. laughed. Joe laughed along with her. He had gorgeous teeth. "No, I'm serious," he said. PJ. put down her sandwich. "Captain, excuse me for calling you crazy, but you're crazy. Do you really think Tim Farber would have handpicked me for his team?"

"Call me Joe," he said. "And no, of course Farber wouldn't have picked you. He's not smart enough. From what I've seen, out of the four of you, he's not the natural leader, either. He's fooled a lot of people, but he doesn't have what it takes. And the other two..." He shrugged. "I'm not particularly impressed. No, out of the four of you, this assignment should've been yours." PJ. couldn't believe what she'd just heard. She wasn't sure what to say, what to do, but she did know that knocking over her iced tea was not the correct response. She held tightly onto the glass. "Thank you...Joe," she somehow managed to murmur. "I appreciate your confidence." "You're doing all right, P.J.," he said, standing in one graceful movement. "Keep it up." As he walked away, PJ. closed her eyes. God, it had been so long since she'd been given any words of encouragement, she'd almost forgotten how important it was to hear praise. Someone else—in this case, the commanding officer of Alpha Squad—recognized that she was doing her job well. He thought she was the one who should lead the team. Out of the four FInCOM agents... P.J. opened her eyes, realizing with a flash of clarity that the captain's compliment hadn't been quite as flattering as she'd first believed. She was the best candidate for team leader—compared to Farber, Schneider and Greene. Still, it was better than being told that women had no place on a team like this one. She wrapped her half-eaten sandwich and threw it in the trash on her way out of the mess hall, aware of Harvard glancing up to watch her go.

Chapter 4 Blue called to say he's running late. He'll be here in about a half hour." Joe Catalanotto closed the door behind Harvard, leading him through the little rented house. "He went home first, didn't he?" Harvard shook his head in amused disgust. "I told the fool not to stop at home." Blue McCoy's wife, Lucy, had come into town two days ago. After spending a month and a half apart, Harvard had no doubt exactly what was causing Blue's current lateness. And now Blue was going to show up for this meeting at Joe Cat's house grinning like the Cheshire Cat, looking relaxed and happy, looking exactly like what he was—a man who just got some. Damn, it seemed everyone in Alpha Squad had that little extra swing in their steps these days. Everyone but Harvard. Joe's wife was with him in Virginia, too. Lucky O'Donlon was living up to his nickname, romancing Miss East Coast Virginia. Even Bobby and Wes had hooked up with a pair of local women who were serving up more than home-cooked meals. Harvard tried to remember the last time he'd gone one on one with a member of the opposite sex, June, May, April, March... Damn, it had been February. He'd been seeing a woman named Ellen off and on for a few months. It was nothing serious—she'd call him, they'd go out and wind up at her place. But he hadn't noticed when she'd stopped phoning. He couldn't call up a clear picture of her face. Every time he tried, he kept seeing P. J. Richards's big brown eyes. "Hello, Harvard." Joe's wife, Veronica, was in the kitchen. As usual, she was doing three different things at once. A pile of vegetables was next to a cutting board, and a pot of something unidentifiable was bubbling on the stove. She had paperwork from her latest consulting assignment spread out across the kitchen table and one-and-a-half-year-old Frankie in his high chair, where he was attempting rather clumsily to feed himself his dinner. "Hey, Ron," Harvard said as Joe stopped to pull several bottles of beer from the refrigerator. "What's up?" "I'm teaching myself to cook," she told him in her crisp British accent. Her red hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was casually dressed in shorts and a halter top. But she was the kind of super classy woman who, no matter what she wore, always looked ready to attend some kind of state function. Just throw on a string of pearls, and she'd be ready to go. "How's your father?" "Much better, thanks. Almost back to one hundred percent." "I'm so glad." "Moving day's coming. My mother keeps threatening to pack him in a box if he doesn't quit trying to lift things she perceives as being too heavy for him." Joe looked up from his search for a bottle opener. "You didn't tell me your parents were moving." "No?" He shook his head. "No." "My father's taking a position at a school out in Arizona. In Phoenix. Some little low-key private college." "It sounds perfect," Veronica said. "Just what he needs— a slower pace. A change of climate." "Yeah, it's great," Harvard said, trying to mean it. "And they found a buyer for the house, so..." Joe found the bottle opener and closed the drawer with his hip, still gazing at Harvard. "You okay about that?" "Yeah, yeah, sure," Harvard said, shrugging it off. Veronica turned to the baby. "Now, Frank, really. You're supposed to use the other end of the spoon." Frankie grinned at her as he continued to chew on the spoon's handle. "He inherited that smile from his father," Veronica told Harvard, sending a special smile of her own in Joe Cat's direction. "And he knows when he uses it, he can get away with anything, I swear, I'm doomed. I'm destined to spend the rest of my life completely manipulated by these two men." "That's right," Joe said, stopping to kiss his wife's bare shoulder before he handed Harvard an opened bottle of beer. "I manipulated her into allowing me to refinish the back deck two weeks ago. We don't even own this place, and yet I managed to talk her into letting me work out there in the hot sun, sanding it down, applying all those coats of waterproofing...." "It was fun. Frank and I helped," Veronica said. Joe just laughed. "Can I convince you to stay for dinner?" she asked Harvard. "I'm making a stew. I hope."

"Oh, no, Ron, I'm sorry," Harvard said, trying hard to sound as if he meant it. "I have other plans." Plans such as eating digestible food. Veronica may have been one of the sweetest and most beautiful women in the world, but her cooking skills were nonexistent. "Really? Do you have a date?" Her eyes lit up. "With what's her name? The FInCOM agent? PJ. something?" Harvard nearly choked on his beer. "No," he said. "No, I'm not seeing her socially." He shot a look at Joe Cat. "Who told you that I was?" Joe was shaking his head, shrugging and making not-me faces. "Just a guess. I saw her the other day." Veronica stirred the alleged stew. "While I was dropping something off at the base. She's very attractive." No kidding. "So what's the deal?" Veronica asked, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Has Lucky O'Donlon already staked his claim three feet in every direction around her?" Lucky and P.J.? Of course, now that Harvard was dunking about it, Lucky had been circling PJ.—albeit somewhat warily—for the past few days. No doubt Miss East Coast Virginia was starting to cling. Harvard knew of nothing else that would send Lucky so quickly into jettison mode—and put him back on the prowl again. He had to smile, thinking of the way P. J. would react to Lucky's less-than-subtle advances. His smile faded. Unless it was only Harvard she was determined to keep her distance from. "PJ.'s not seeing anyone, Ron," Joe told his wife as he slid open the door to the back deck. "She's working overtime trying to be one of the guys. She's not going to blow that just because Lucky gives her a healthy dose of the O'Donlon charm." "Some women find heart-stoppingly handsome blond men like Lucky irresistible," Veronica teased. "Particularly heart-stoppingly handsome blond men who look as if they've stepped off the set of 'Baywatch.'" "There's no rule against a SEAL getting together with a FInCOM agent." Harvard managed to keep his voice calm. "I have no problem with it, either. As long as the two of them are discreet." The minute he got back to base, he was going to track down O'Donlon and... What? Beat him up? Warn him off? He shook his head. He had no claim on the girl. "Ronnie, would you please send Blue out here after he gets here?" Joe asked his wife as he led Harvard onto the deck. As Harvard closed the door behind him, he looked closely at his longtime friend. The captain of Alpha Squad looked relaxed and happy. The undercurrent of tension that seemed to surround the man like an aura was down to a low glow. And that was amazing, since the meeting tonight was to discuss the fact that the frustration levels regarding this FInCOM training mission were about to go off the chart. At least Harvard's were. "You're not really that bothered by all the interference we're getting from FInCOM and Admiral Stonegate, are you?" Harvard asked. Joe shrugged and leaned both elbows on the deck railing. "You know, H., I knew this program was a lost cause the day I met FlnCOM's choices for the team. To be honest, I don't think there's anything we can do to get those four working effectively together. So we do what we do, and then we recommend—emphatically—that FInCOM stay the hell out of counterterrorist operations. We suggest—strongly—that they leave that to the SEALs." "If you're quitting, man, why not just detonate the entire program right now? Why keep on wasting our time with—" "Because I'm being selfish." Joe turned to look at him, his dark eyes serious. "Because Alpha Squad runs at two hundred and fifty percent energy and efficiency one hundred percent of the time, and the guys need this down time. / need this down time. I'm telling you, H., it's tough on Ronnie with me always leaving. She never knows when we sit down to dinner at night if that's the last time I'm going to be around for a week or for a month or— God forbid—forever. She doesn't say anything, but I see it in her eyes. And that look's not there right now because she knows I'm leading this training drill for the next six weeks. She's got another six weeks of reprieve, and I'm not taking that away from her. Or from any of the other wives, either." "I hear you," Harvard said. "But it rubs the wrong way. Doing all this for nothing." "It's not for nothing." Joe finished his beer. "We've just got to revise this mission's goal. Instead of creating a Combined SEAL/FInCOM counterterrorist team, we're creating a FlnCOM counterterrorist expert. We're giving this expert all of the information she can possibly carry, and you know what she's gonna do?" "She?" "She's gonna take that expertise back to Kevin Laughton, and she's gonna tell him and all of the FlnCOM leaders that the best thing they can do in a terrorist situation is to step back and let SEAL Team Ten do the job." Harvard swore. "She?" "Yes, I’m referring to P. J. Richards." Joe grinned. "You know, you should try talking to her sometime. She doesn't bite." Harvard scowled. "Yes, she does. And I have the teeth marks to prove it." Joe's eyebrows went up. "Oh, really?"

Harvard shook his head. "I didn't mean it that way." "Oh, yeah, that's right. I almost forgot—you have no problem with her hooking up with Lucky O'Donlon as long as the two of them are discreet." Joe snorted. "Why do I foresee a temporary transfer for O'Donlon crossing my desk in the near future?" "You know I wouldn't do that." "Well, maybe you should." Harvard clenched his teeth and set his barely touched bottle of beer on the deck railing. "Cat, I'm trying to be professional here." "What happened, she turn you down?" Harvard pushed himself off the rail and walked toward the sliding doors, then stopped and walked toward the captain. "What exactly do you envision her role at FlnCOM to be?" "You're purposely changing the subject." "Yes, I am." "I can't believe you haven't at least tried to get friendly with this woman. If I weren't a happily married man, I'd be pulling some discreet moves myself. I mean, she's smart, she's beautiful, she's—" "What exactly do you envision her role at FlnCOM to be?" Harvard enunciated very clearly. "All right," Joe said with a shrug. "Be that way." He drew in a deep breath, taking the time to put his thoughts into words. "Okay, I see her continuing to climb FlnCOM's career ladder and moving into an upper-level position—probably onto Kevin Laughton's staff. She's worked with him before. He was the one who insisted she be part of this program in the first place." Kevin Laughton and P.J. Now Harvard had to wonder about that relationship. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes in disgust. Everything became more complicated when women were thrown into the equation. Suddenly sex became an issue, a motivation, a factor. A possibility. Damn, why couldn't P.J. just stay in the FlnCOM office, safe and sound and out of sight—a distraction for after hours? "I see her as being the voice of reason and being right there, on hand, so that when a terrorist situation like that incident at the Athens airport comes up again, she can tell Laughton to get the SEALs involved right from the start instead of waiting a week and a half and getting five agents and ten civilians killed. "The U.S. has a no-negotiation policy with terrorists," Joe Cat went on. "We need to go one step further and consistently deliver an immediate and deadly show of force. Tangos take over another airport? FlnCOM snaps to it, and boom, SEAL Team Ten is there within hours. The first CNN report doesn't bring attention to the bastards' cause—instead it's an account of how quickly the Ts were crushed. It's a report on the number of body bags needed to take the scum out of there. Tangos snatch hostages? Same thing. Boom. We go in, we get them out. No standing around wringing our hands. And eventually the terrorists will realize that their violent action causes a swift and deadly reaction from the United States every single time." "And you think P. J. Richards will really reach a point in FlnCOM where her opinion is that important?" Harvard let his skepticism ring in his voice. "Where she can say, 'Call in the SEALs,' and have anyone listen to her?" "On her own? Probably not," Joe said baldly. "She's a woman and she's black. But I do think Kevin Laughton's going all the way to the top. And I think P. J. Richards will be close by when he gets there. And I'm betting when she says, 'Call in the SEALs,' he's going to listen." Harvard was silent. Damn, but he hated politics. And he hated the image of Laughton with PJ. by his side. "So since our goal has changed," Harvard asked, crossing his arms and trying to stay focused, "do we still try to convince FInCOM to let us run training ops that extend past their current ten-hour limit? And what about our request to go out of the country with the finks? If you'd prefer to just stay here in Virginia—" "No," Joe said. "I think it would create more of an impression on PJ. if we put on a real show—you know, let her feel the impact of being in a strange country for these longer exercises." "But you just said Veronica—" "Ronnie will be fine if I go out of town for a few days for something as safe as a FInCOM training exercise. And I can't stress enough the importance of convincing PJ. that the creation of a CSF team is not the way to go," Joe told him. "And the way I think we can do that is to set up and run two different forty-eight-hour exercises either in the Middle East or somewhere in Southeast Asia. We'd let the finks take part in the first operation. And then, after they fail miserably again, I'd like to set PJ. up as an observer as Alpha Squad does a similar training op—and succeeds. I want her to see exactly how successfully a SEAL team like Alpha Squad can operate, but I want her to get a taste of just how hard it is first." "We'll need to make a formal request to Admiral Stone-gate's office." "It's already sent. They're pretty negative. I think they're afraid we're somehow going to hurt the finks."

Harvard smiled. "They're probably right. God only knows what will happen if the finks don't get their beauty sleep." "I've also put in a call to Laughton's office," Joe told him. "But I'm having trouble reaching the man. So far, his staff has been adamant that the rules stand as is." The door slid open and Blue stepped onto the deck. "Sorry I'm late." Harvard looked at Joe. "He look sorry to you?" "He's trying." "He's not succeeding. Look at that smile he can't keep off his face." Blue sat down. "Okay, okay, I'm not sorry. I admit it. So what are we talking about? P. J. Richards? Her test scores are off the scale. And I assume you're both aware she's an expert-level sharpshooter?" "Yeah, we've already voted her in as Wonder Woman," Harvard told him. "What we've got to do now," Joe said, "is make sure she's got the same warm fuzzy feelings about us that we have about her. We want her going back to Laughton and telling him, 'These guys are the best,' not 'Whatever you do, stay away from those nasty SEALs.' She's been kind of aloof, but then again, we haven't exactly welcomed her with open arms." "Consider that about to change," Blue said. "I heard Lucky talking before I left the base. PJ.'s having dinner with him—the Alpha Squad's ambassador of open arms—right this very moment." Joe swore. "That's not what I had in mind. You'd better go and intercept that," he said, turning toward Harvard. But Harvard was already running for his car. PJ. punched her floor number into the hotel elevator. Well, that had been a joke. She'd finally decided to take some action. Over the past few days, she'd come to the conclusion that she had to attempt to make friends with one of the SEALs. She needed an ally—because it was more than obvious that these big, strong men were scared to death of her. She needed just one of them to start looking at her as if she were an equal. All it would take was one, and that one would, by example, teach the others it could be done. She could be accepted as a person first, a woman second. But that special chosen one wasn't going to be the SEAL nicknamed Lucky, that was for sure. He had a nice smile and an even nicer motorcycle, but his intentions when he'd asked her to join him for dinner hadn't been to strike up a friendship. On the contrary, he'd been looking for some action. A different kind of action than the kind she was looking for. He'd fooled her at first. They had a common interest in motorcycles, and he let her drive his from the base to the restaurant. But when he rode behind her, he'd held her much too tightly for the tame speeds they were going. And so she'd told him bluntly between the salad and the main course that she wasn't interested in anything other than a completely nonsexual friendship. By the time coffee arrived, she'd managed to convince him. And although he wasn't as forthright as she had been, from the way he kept glancing at his watch she knew that he wasn't interested in anything other than a sexual relationship. Which left her back at square one. The doors opened, and PJ. stepped into the small sitting area by the elevators. She searched through her belt pack for her key card. She almost didn't see Harvard Becker sitting in the shadows. And when she did see him, she almost kept going. If she'd had any working brains in her head, she should have kept going. But in her surprise, she stopped short, gaping at him like an idiot. He was the dead last person she'd expected to see sitting in the hallway on the soft leather of the sofa, waiting for her. Harvard nodded a greeting. "Ms. Richards." She had to clear her throat so her voice wouldn't come out in an undignified squeak. "Were you looking for me? Am I needed on base? You could have paged me." "No." He stood up—Lord, he was tall. "Actually, I was looking for Luke O'Donlon." "He's not here." "Yes, I can see that."

P.J. started for her room, afraid if she didn't move, her anger would show. Who was he checking up on and trying to protect? Her or Lucky? Either way, it was damned insulting. She unlocked her door with a vicious swipe of the key card. "Do you happen to know where he was headed?" "Back to the base," she said shortly. She wanted to slam the door behind her, but she forced herself to turn and face him. "I'm sorry to have bothered you," he said quietly. "Was there anything else you wanted?" She knew as soon as the sarcastic words were out of her mouth it was the wrong thing to say. Undisguised heat flared in his eyes, heat tinged with an awareness that told her he knew quite well his attraction was extremely mutual. He wanted her. The message was right there in his gorgeous brown eyes. But all he did was laugh, a soft chuckle that made her heart nearly stop beating and the hair stand up on the back of her neck. All she had to do was step into her room and hold open that door, and he would come inside and... And what? Mess up her life beyond repair, no doubt. He was not on her side. He'd flatly admitted that he didn't like working with her, he didn't want to work with her. PJ. moistened her dry lips, holding her head high and trying to look as if she were totally unaffected by the picture he made standing there. "Good night, Senior Chief." She closed the door tightly behind her and drew in a deep breath. Dear God, how on earth was she going to make it through another six weeks? She needed an ally, and she needed one bad.

Chapter 5 Harvard knew the moment PJ. walked into the bar. He turned and sure enough, there she was, looking everywhere but at him, pretending he didn't exist. Today had been a classroom day for the finks, and Harvard had had other business to take care of. He'd gone to the mess hall at lunchtime, hoping for...what? He wasn't sure. But when he got there, Wes told him PJ. had gone to the firing range. The afternoon had passed interminably slowly, the biggest excitement being when he spoke to Kevin Laughton's assistant's assistant, who had told him there was no way the FInCOM rule book was going to be altered to allow for two-or three-day-long exercises. And hadn't they already compromised on this issue? And no, Mr. Laughton couldn't come to the phone, he was far too busy with important matters. Harvard had wheedled and cajoled, reasoned and explained, but he'd hung up the phone without any real hope that Laughton would call him or Joe Cat. He'd cheered himself up some by calling the friend of a friend of a friend who worked at the Pentagon and who faxed him the layout of FInCOM headquarters, where Kevin Laughton's office was housed. He'd spent his coffee break pinpointing the areas of FInCOM HQ that would be most vulnerable to a direct assault by a small, covert group of SEALs. He'd managed to put a smile on his face by imagining the look on Laughton's face when he walked into his high-level security office and found Harvard and Joe Cat sitting there, feet up on his desk, waiting to talk to him. Harvard headed for an empty table in the bar, keeping PJ. securely in his peripheral vision, trying to figure out the best strategy for approaching her. It was funny. He'd never had to work at approaching a woman before. Usually women fell right in his lap. But PJ. wasn't falling anywhere. She was running—hard—in the opposite direction. The only other woman he'd ever pursued was Rachel. Damn, he hadn't thought about Rachel in years. He'd met her during a training op in Guam. She was a marine biologist, part of a U.S. government survey team housed in the military facilities. She was beautiful—part African American, part Asian and part Hawaiian—and shyly sweet. For a week or two, Rachel had had Harvard thinking in terms of forever. It was the only time in his life he'd been on the verge of crossing that fine line that separated sex from love. But then he'd been sent to Desert Shield, and while he was gone, Rachel had reconciled with her ex-husband. He could still remember how that news had sliced like a hot knife into his quick. He could still remember that crazily out-of-control feeling of hurt and frustration—that sense of being on the verge of despair. He hadn't liked it one bit, and he'd worked hard since then to make sure he'd never repeat it. He glanced at PJ. and met her eyes. She quickly looked away, as if the spark that had instantly ignited had been too hot for her to handle. Hot was definitely the key word here. Yes, he was the pursuer, but he wasn't in any real danger of going the Rachel route with this girl. She was nothing like Rachel, for one thing. For another, this thing, this current between him and PJ. came from total, mindless, screaming animal attraction. Lust. Pure, sizzling sex. Two bodies joined in a quest for heart-stopping pleasure. That wasn't what his relationship with Rachel had been about. He'd been so careful with her. He'd held back so much. But when he looked into P.J.'s eyes, he saw them joined in a dance of passion that had no civilities. He saw her legs locked around him as he drove himself into her, hard and fast, her back against the wall, right inside the doorway of her hotel room. Oh, yeah. It was going to be amazingly good, but no one was going to cry when it was over. Harvard smiled at himself, at his presumption that such a collaboration was, indeed, going to happen. First thing he had to do was figure out how to get this girl to quit running away for long enough to talk to her. Only then could he start to convince her they'd gotten off to a bad start. He should have been cooler last night. He'd stood there outside her hotel room and he hadn't been able to think of anything besides how good she looked and how badly he wanted her and how damn glad he was that she hadn't been bringing Lucky back to her room with her. He wasn't sure he would have been able to make small talk even if he'd tried. But he hadn't tried. He'd just stood there, looking at her as if she were the gingerbread girl and he was the hungry fox. At least he hadn't drooled. He caught the waitress's eye as he sat down. "Iced tea, no sugar," he ordered, then glanced again at P.J. This time, she was looking straight at him and smiling. Damn, she had an incredible smile. On a scale from one to ten, it was an even hundred. He felt his mouth curve into an answering smile. He couldn't explain what caused her sudden change of heart, but he wasn't going to complain.

"Hey," she said, walking toward him. "What are you doing here?" As she moved closer, Harvard realized she wasn't looking at him at all. Her focus was behind him. He turned and saw that Joe Cat had come into the bar through the back door, "I thought I'd stop in tonight before going home," the captain said to PJ. "What's shaking?" "Not much," Harvard heard PJ. say as she gave Joe Cat another of those killer smiles. "Everyone's glued to the TV, watching baseball." She rolled her eyes in mock disgust. Excuse me, Harvard felt like standing up and saying, but everyone isn't watching baseball. The waitress put his drink on the table in front of him, and PJ. still didn't glance in his direction. Joe shrugged out of his jacket. "You're not a baseball fan?" "Nuh-uh. Too slow for me. The batter wiggles around, getting all ready for the pitch, and the pitcher does his thing, getting ready for the pitch, and I'm sitting there thinking, 'Just throw the ball!'" She laughed. She had musical-sounding laughter. "And then the ball is fired over the plate so fast that they've got to play it back in slo-mo just so I can see it." "You're probably not into football, either, then. Too many breaks in the play." "You got that right," PJ. said. "Do you have time to sit down? Can I buy you a beer?" "I'd love it," Joe said. "Then grab us a table. I'll be right back." P J. headed toward the bar. "If you don't sit with me, I may have to seriously damage you," Harvard said to his friend. Joe Cat laughed and pulled out a chair at Harvard's table. "You didn't think I couldn't see you lurking here, eavesdropping, did you?" "Of course, she may not want to chill with you after she comes back and sees the excess company," Harvard pointed out. "She's been running from me all day—she's bound to keep it up." "Nah, she's tougher than that." Harvard gave a short laugh of disbelief as he squeezed the lemon into his iced tea. "Wait a minute. Suddenly you're the authority on this girl?" "I'm trying to be," Joe said. "I spent about two hours with her today at the range. She just happened to show up while I was there. You know, H., she's really good. She's got a real shooter's instinct And a natural ability to aim." Harvard didn't know what to say. P.J. had just happened to show up.... He took a sip of his drink. "She's funny, too," Joe added. "She has a solid sense of humor. She's one very sharp, very smart lady." Harvard found his voice. "Oh, yeah? What's Veronica think about that?" He was kidding, but only half kidding. Joe didn't miss that. And even though P.J. was coming toward them carrying two mugs filled with frothy beer, he leaned closer to Harvard. "It's not about sex," he said, talking fast. "Yes, PJ.'s a woman, and yes, she's attractive, but come on, H., you know me well enough to know I'm not going to go in that direction. Ever. I love Ronnie more than you will ever know. But I'm married, I'm not dead. I can still appreciate an attractive woman when I see one. And being friendly to this particular attractive woman is going to get us further than shutting her out. She approached me. She's clearly trying to make friends. This is exactly what we wanted." Harvard saw P.J. glance over and see him sitting with Joe. He saw her falter, then square her shoulders and keep coining. She nodded at him as she set the mugs on the table. "Senior Chief Becker," she said coolly, managing not to meet his eyes. "If I'd known you'd be joining us, I'd have offered to get you a drink, as well." He wasn't aware they sold hemlock in this bar. "You can catch me on the next round," he said. "I've got a lot of reading to do. I may not be able to stay for a next round. It might have to be some other time." She sat as far from him as possible and took a sip of her beer. The temperature in that corner of the room had definitely dropped about twenty degrees. "Basketball," Joe said to PJ. "I bet you like basketball." She smiled, and the temperature went up a bit. "Good guess." "Do you play?" "I'm a frustrated player," she admitted. "I have certain... height issues. I never really spent enough time on the court to get any good." "Have you had a chance to check out that new women's professional basketball league?" Harvard asked, attempting to be part of the conversation.

PJ. turned to him, her eyes reminiscent of the frozen tundra. "I've watched a few games." She turned to Joe Cat. "I don't spend much time watching sports—I prefer to be out there playing. Which reminds me, Tim Farber mentioned that you're something of a wizard on the handball court I was wondering if you play racquetball. There's a court here in the hotel, and I'm looking for an opponent" Harvard shifted in his seat, clenching his teeth to keep from speaking. "I've played some," Joe told her. "Hmm. Now, in my experience, when people say they've played some, that really means they're too humble to admit that if you venture onto the court with them, they're going to thoroughly whip your butt" Joe laughed. "I guess that probably depends on how long you've been playing." PJ.'s smile returned. "I've played some." She was flirting with Joe. PJ. was sitting right there, directly in front of him, flirting with the captain. What was this girl up to? What was she trying to pull? Joe's pager went off. He looked at Harvard. "You getting anything?" Harvard's pager was silent and still. "No, sir." "That's a good sign. I'll be right back." As Joe headed toward the bar and a telephone, PJ. pretended to be fascinated by the architectural structure of the building. Harvard knocked on the table. Startled, she looked at him. "I don't know what your deal is," he said bluntly. "I don't know what you stand to gain by getting tight with the captain—whether it's some career thing or just some personal power trip—but I'm here to tell you right now, missy, hands off. Didn't your research on the man include the fact that he's got a wife and kid? Or maybe you're the kind that gets off on things like that." As Harvard watched, the permafrost in PJ.'s eyes morphed into volcanic anger. "How dare you?" she whispered. The question was rhetorical, but Harvard answered it anyway. "I dare because Cat is my friend—and because you, little Miss Fink, are temptation incarnate. So back off." She was looking at him as if he were something awful she'd stepped in, something disgusting that had stuck onto the bottom of her shoe. "You're such a...man," she said, as if that were the worst possible name she could call him. "The captain is the only person in this entire program who's even bothered to sit down and talk to me. But if you're telling me that all he's doing is dogging me, despite having a wife and kid at home—" "He's not dogging you, baby, you're dogging him." "I am not!” "You just happen to head over to the firing range while Cat's scheduled to be there. He walks into this bar, and you all but launch yourself at him." She flushed, unable to deny his accusations. "You really have no idea what it's like, do you?" "Poor baby, all alone, far away from home. Is this where the violins start to play? Tell me, do you go for the married men because there's less of a chance of actually becoming involved?" She was seething, her eyes all but shooting sparks. "I was only trying to be friends!" "Friends?" "You know, people who hang out together, share meals occasionally, sometimes get together for a game of cards or Scrabble?" "Friends." Harvard let skepticism drip from his voice. "You want to be Cat's friend." PJ. stood. "I knew you wouldn't understand. You've probably never had a friend who was a woman in your entire life." "I'm ready to learn—a willing and able volunteer with the added bonus of being unattached. I'm wicked good at Scrabble. Among other things." She snorted. "Sorry. From where I stand, you're the enemy." "I'm what?" "You heard me. You want me gone from this training op on pure principle. You think women have no place out in the field, in the line of fire. You're judging me not as an individual, but based only on the fact that I don't have a penis. What's the deal with that? Do you use your penis to aim your rifle better? Does it help you dodge bullets or run faster?" This woman could really piss him off, but at the same time, she could really make him laugh. "Not that I know of."

"Not that / know of, either. You're a narrow-minded bigot, Senior Chief, and I have no desire to spend even a minute more in your company." Harvard stopped laughing. A bigot? "Hey," he said. But PJ. was already walking away, her beer barely touched. Harvard had never been called a bigot before. A bigot was someone narrow-minded who believed unswervingly that he and his opinions were inarguably right. But the fact is, he was right. Women did not belong on combat missions, carrying— and firing—weapons and being shot at. It was not easy to stare down the sight of a rifle at a human being and pull the trigger. And countless psych reports stated that women, God bless 'em, had a higher choke factor. When the time came to pull that trigger, after all those tax dollars had been spent on thousands of hours of training, most women couldn't get the job done. God knows that certainly was the truth when it came to women like his mother and sisters and Rachel. He couldn't picture Rachel holding an MP5 automatic weapon. And his sisters... All four of them were card-carrying pacifists who spouted make-love-not-war-type cliches whenever he was around. Still, after his sister Kendra had gotten married and started a family, she'd attached an addendum to her nonviolent beliefs. "Except if you threaten or hurt my kids." Harvard could still see the light of murder in his sister's eyes as the former president of Students Against Violence proclaimed that if anyone, anyone threatened her precious children, she would rip out their lungs with her bare hands. Put an MP5 in that girl's hands and tell her her children were in danger, and she'd be using up her ammo faster than any man. But on the other hand, you'd never be able even to get a weapon into his father's hands. The old man would gently push the barrel toward the floor and start lecturing on the theme of war in modern American literature. Harvard could imagine what P.J. would say about that. He could hear her husky voice as clearly as if she were standing right behind him. Just because your father and men like him don't make good soldiers doesn't mean that all men shouldn't be soldiers. And in the same way, women like me shouldn't be lumped together with softer women like Rachel or your mother. Damn, maybe he was a bigot Joe returned to the table. "I don't suppose PJ.'s in the ladies' room?" Harvard shook his head. "No, I, uh...let's see." He counted on his fingers. "I totally alienated her, I incensed her, and last but not least, I made her walk away in sheer disgust." Joe pursed his lips, nodding slowly. "All that in only six minutes. Very impressive." "She called me," Harvard said, "a bigot." "Yeah, well, you've got to admit, you've been pretty narrow-minded when it comes to PJ.'s part in this exercise." Damn, Joe Cat thought he was a bigot, too. Joe finished his beer. "I've got to go. That was Ronnie who paged me. Frankie's had an ear infection over the past few days, and now he's throwing up the antibiotic. I'm meeting them at the hospital in fifteen minutes." "Is it serious?" "Nah, the kid's fine. I keep telling Ronnie, babies barf. It's what they do. She's just not going to sleep tonight until she hears a doctor say it, too." Joe rolled his eyes. "Of course, she probably won't even sleep then. I keep telling her it's the baby who's supposed to wake the mother up at night, not the other way around. But she has a friend who lost a kid to SIDS. I'm hoping by the time Frank turns two, Veronica will finally sleep through the night." Joe picked up his jacket from the back of the chair he'd thrown it over. "You sure there's nothing I can do to help?" The captain turned to look at him. "Yeah," he said. "There is something you can do. You can stay away from P. J. Richards after hours. It's clear you two aren't ever going to be best friends." There was that word again. Friends. "If there's one thing I've learned as a commander," Joe continued, "it's that you can't force people to like each other." The stupid thing was, Harvard did like P.J. He liked her a lot. "But it's not too much to ask that you and she work together in a civil manner," Joe continued. "I've been civil," Harvard said. "She's the one who walked away in a huff." Joe nodded. "I'll speak to her about that in the morning." "No, Cat..." Harvard took a deep breath and started again. "With your permission, Captain, allow me to handle the situation." He wasn't a bigot, but he was guilty of generalizing without noting that there was, of course, a minuscule amount of the population that was an exception to the rule. And maybe P. J. Richards was in that tiny percentage.

Joe Cat looked at Harvard and grinned. "She drives you crazy, but you can't stay away from her, can you? Aw, H., you're in trouble, man." Harvard shook his head. "No, Captain, you've got it wrong. I just want to be the lady's friend." They both knew he was lying through his teeth.

Chapter 6 "That's an apology?" P.J. laughed. "You say, 'Yes, I'm guilty of being small-minded when it comes to my opinions about women, but oh, by the way, I still think I'm right'?" Harvard shook his head. "I didn't say that." "Yes, you did I'm paraphrasing, but that is the extent of the message you just delivered." "What I said was that I think women who have the, shall we say, aggressive tendencies needed to handle frontline pressures are the exception rather than the rule." "They're few and far between, was what you said." P.J. crossed her arms. "As in practically nonexistent." Harvard turned away, then turned back. He was trying hard to curb his frustration, she had to give him that much. "Look, I didn't come here to argue with you. In fact, I want us to try to figure out a way we can get along over the next six weeks. Joe Cat's aware that we're having some kind of personality clash. I want him to be able to look over, see us working side by side without this heavy cloud of tension following us around. Do you think we can manage to do that?" "The captain knows?" Every muscle in PJ.'s body ached, and she finally gave in to the urge to sit on the soft leather of the lobby couch. Harvard sat across from her. "It's not that big a deal. When you're dealing with mostly alpha personalities, you've got to expect that sometimes the fit won't work." He gazed at her steadily, leaning slightly forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "But I think that transferring out of this particular program isn't an option for either of us. Both of us want to be here badly enough to put in a little extra effort, am I right?" "You are." She smiled. "For once." Harvard smiled, too. "A joke. Much better than fighting." "A half a joke," she corrected him. His smile widened, and she saw a flash of his perfect white teeth. "That's a start," he told her. PJ. took a chance and went directly to the bottom line. "Seriously, Senior Chief, I need you to treat me as an equal." She was gazing at him, her pretty face so somber. She'd changed out of her uniform shirt and into a snugly fitting T-shirt boasting the logo, Title Nine Sports. She had put on running shorts, too, and Harvard forced his gaze away from the graceful shape of her bare legs and back to her eyes. "I thought I had been." "You're always watching me—checking up on me as if I were some little child, making sure I haven't wandered away from the rest of the kindergarten class." Harvard shook his head. "I don't-—" "Yeah," she said, "you do. You're always looking to see if I need some help. 'Is that pack too heavy for you, Ms. Richards?' 'Careful of your step, Ms. Richards.' 'Let me give you a boost into the boat, Ms. Richards." "I remember doing that," Harvard admitted. "But I gave Schneider and Greene a boost, too." "Maybe so, but you didn't announce it to the world, the way you did with me." "I announced it with you because I felt it was only polite to give you a proper warning before I grabbed your butt." She gazed steadily into his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the embarrassment that was heating her cheeks. "Well, it just so happens that I didn't need a boost. I'm plenty strong enough to pull myself into that boat on my own." "It's harder than it looks." "I didn't get a chance to find that out, did I?" She was right. She may indeed have found that she couldn't pull herself into the boat without a boost, but she hadn't had that opportunity, and so she was right. Harvard did the only thing he could do. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have assumed. It's just that women tend not to have the upper body strength necessary—" "/ do." She cut him off. "It's one of the times my size works to my advantage. I can probably do more chin ups than you, because I'm lifting less than a hundred pounds." "I'll grant that you weigh less because you're smaller, but everything's smaller. Your arms are smaller." "That doesn't mean I don't have muscles." P.J. pushed up the sleeve of her T-shirt and flexed her bicep. "Check this out. Feel this. That's one solid muscle."

She actually wanted him to touch her. "Check it out," she urged him. Harvard was so much bigger than she was, he could have encircled her entire upper arm with one hand—flexed bicep and all. But he knew if he did that, she would think he was mocking her. Instead, he touched her lightly, his fingers against the firmness of her muscle, his thumb against the inside of her arm. Her skin was sinfully soft, impossibly smooth. And as he moved his fingers, it was more like a caress than a test of strength. His mouth went dry, and as he looked up, he knew everything he was thinking was there in his eyes, clear as day, for her to see. He wanted her. No argument, no doubt. If she said the word go, he wouldn't hesitate even a fraction of a second. P.J. pulled her arm away as if she'd been burned. "Bad idea, bad idea," she said as if she were talking to—and scolding—herself. She stood up. "I need to go to bed. You should, too. We both have to be up early in the morning." Harvard slouched on the couch, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out in a rush of air. "Maybe that's a way to relieve some of the tension between us." She turned to look at him, her beautiful eyes wary. "What is?" "You and me," Harvard said bluntly. "Going to bed together—getting this attraction thing out of our systems." P.J. crossed her arms. "Now, how did I know you were going to suggest that?" "It's just a thought." She looked at him, at the way he was sitting, the way he was trying to hide the fact that he'd gotten himself totally turned on just from touching her that little tiny bit. "Somehow I think it's more than just a thought." "Just say the word and it changes from a good idea to hard reality." His eyes were impossibly hot as he looked at her. "I'm more than ready." P.J. had to clear her throat before she could speak. "It's not a good idea. It's a bad idea." "Are you sure?" "Absolutely." "You know it'd be great." "No, I don't," she told him honestly. "Well, / know it would be better than great." He looked as if he were ready to sit there all night and try to tease her into getting with him. But no matter how determined he was, she was more so. "I can't do this. I can't be casual about something so important." Lord, if he only knew the whole truth.... She turned toward her room, and he stood up, ready to follow her. "I'm not just imagining this," he asked quietly, his handsome face serious. "Am I? I mean, I know you feel this thing between us, too. It's damn powerful." "There's a definite pull," she admitted. "But that doesn't mean we should throw caution to the wind and go to bed together." She laughed in disbelief, amazed their conversation should have come this far. "You don't even like me." "Not so," Harvard countered."You're the one who doesn't like me. I would truly like us to be friends." She snorted. "Friends who have sex? What a novel idea. I'm sure you're the first man who's ever come up with that." "You want it Platonic? I can keep it Platonic for as long as you want." "Well, there's a big word I didn't think you knew." "I graduated with high honors from one of the toughest universities in the country," he told her. "I know lots of big words." P.J. desperately wanted to pace, but she forced herself to stand still, not wanting to betray how nervous this man made her feel. "Look," she said finally. "I have a serious problem with the fact that you've been treating me as if I'm a child or—a substandard man." She forced herself to hold his gaze, willed herself not to melt from the magmalike heat that lingered in his eyes. "If you really want to be my friend, then try me," she said. "Test me. Push me to the edge—see just how far I can go before you set up imaginary boundaries and fence me in." She laughed, but it wasn't because it was funny. "Or out." Harvard nodded. "I can't promise miracles. I can only promise I'll try." "That's all I ask." "Good," Harvard said. He held out his hand for her to shake. "Friends?"

P.J. started to reach for his hand, but quickly pulled away. "Friends," she agreed, "who will stay friends a whole lot longer if we keep the touching to an absolute minimum." Harvard laughed. "I happen to disagree." P.J. smiled. "Yeah, well, old buddy, old pal, that's not the first time we've not seen eye to eye, and I'm willing to bet it's not going to be the last." "Yo, Richards—you awake?" "I am now." P.J. closed her eyes and sank onto her bed, telephone pressed against her ear. "Well, good, because it's too early to be sleeping." She opened one eye, squinting at the clock radio on the bedside table. "Senior Chief, it's after eleven." "Yeah, like I said, it's too early to crash." Harvard's voice sounded insufferably cheerful over the phone. "We don't have to be on base tomorrow until ten. That means it's playtime. Are you dressed?" "No." "Well, what are you waiting for? Get shakin', or they're gonna start without us. I'm in the lobby, I'll be right up." "Start what?" But Harvard had already disconnected the line. P.J. hung up the phone without sitting up. She'd gone to bed around ten, planning to get a solid ten hours of sleep tonight. Lord knows she needed it. Bam, bam, bam. "Richards, open up!" Now the fool was at the door. P.J. closed her eyes a little tighter, hoping he'd take a hint and go away. Whatever he wanted, she wanted to sleep more. The past week had been exhausting. True to his word, the Senior Chief had stopped coddling her. She'd gotten no more helpful boosts, no more special treatment. She was busting her butt, but she was keeping up. Hell, she was out front, leading the way. Of course, the FInCOM agents were being trained at a significantly lower intensity than the SEALs normally operated. This was a walk in the park for Alpha Squad. But P.J. wasn't trying to be a SEAL. That wasn't what this was about. She was here to learn from them—to try to understand the best way not just FInCOM but the entire United States of America could fight and win the dirty war against terrorism. Harvard hadn't stopped watching her, but at least now when she caught him gazing in her direction, there was a glint of something different in his eyes. It may not quite have been approval, but it was certainly awareness of some kind. She was doing significantly better than Farber, Schneider and Greene without Harvard's help, and he knew it. He'd nod, acknowledging her, never embarrassed that she caught him staring. She liked seeing that awareness. She liked it a lot. She liked it too damn much. "Oh, man, Richards, don't wimp out on me now." P.J. opened her eyes to see Harvard standing next to her bed. He looked impossibly tall. "How did you get in here?" she asked, instantly alert, sitting up and clutching her blanket to her. "I walked in." "That door was locked!" Harvard chuckled. "Allegedly. Come on, we got a card game to go to. Bring your wallet. Me and the guys aim to take your paycheck off your hands tonight." A card game. She pushed her hair out of her face. To her relief, she was still mostly dressed. She'd fallen asleep in her shorts and T-shirt. "Poker?" "Yeah. You play?" "Gambling's illegal in this state, and I'm a FInCOM agent." "Great. You can arrest us all—but only after we get to Joe Cat's. Let's get there quickly, shall we?" He started toward the door. "First I'm going to arrest you for breaking and entering," P.J. grumbled. She didn't want to go out. She wanted to curl up in the king-size bed She would have, too, if Harvard hadn't been there. But sinking back into bed with him watching was like playing with fire. He'd get that hungry look in his eyes—that look that made her feel as if everything she did, every move she made was personal and intimate. That look that she liked too much. PJ. pushed herself off the bed. It would probably be best to get as far away from the bed as possible with Harvard in the room. "Those electronic locks are ridiculously easy to override. Getting past 'em doesn't really count as breaking." He looked at the ceiling, squinting suddenly. "Damn, I can feel it. They're starting without us."

"How does the captain's poor wife feel about being dropped in on at this time of night?" "Veronica loves poker. She'd be playing, too, except she's in New York on business. Come on, Richards." He clapped his hands, two sharp bursts of sound. "Put on your sneakers. Let's get to the car—double time!" "I've got to get dressed." "You are dressed." "No, I'm not." "You're wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Not exactly elegant, but certainly practical in this heat. Come on, girl, get your kicks on your feet and—" "I can't go out wearing this." "What, do you want to change into your Wonder Woman uniform?" Harvard asked. "Very funny." He grinned. "Yeah, thanks. I thought it was, too. Sometimes I'm so funny, I crack myself up." "I don't want to look too—" "Relaxed?" he interrupted. "Approachable? Human? Yeah, you know, right now you actually look almost human, P.J. You're perfectly dressed for hanging out and playing cards with friends." He was still smiling, but his eyes were dead serious. "This was what you wanted, remember? A little Platonic friendship." Approachable. Human. God knows in her job she couldn't afford to be too much of either. But she also knew she had a tendency to go too far to the other extreme. As she looked into Harvard's eyes, she knew he'd set this game of cards up for her. He was going to go in Joe Cat's house tonight and show the rest of Alpha Squad that it was okay to be friends with a fink. With this fink in particular. P.J. wasn't certain the Senior Chief truly liked her. She knew for a fact that even though she'd proved she could keep up, he still only tolerated her presence. Barely tolerated. But despite that, he'd clearly gone out of his way for her tonight. She nodded. "I thank you for inviting me. Just let me grab a sweatshirt and we can go." This wasn't a date. It sure as hell felt like a date, but it wasn't one. Harvard glanced at P.J., sitting way, way over on the other side of the big bench seat of his pickup truck. "You did well today," he said, breaking the silence. She'd totally rocked during an exercise this afternoon. The FInCOM team had been given Intel information pinpointing the location of an alleged terrorist camp which was—also allegedly—the site of a munitions storage facility. P.J. smiled at him. Damn, she was pretty when she smiled. "Thanks." She had used the computer skillfully to access all kinds of information on this particular group of tangos. She'd dug deeper than the other agents and found that the terrorists rarely kept their munitions supplies in one place for more than a week. And she'd recognized from the satellite pictures that the Ts were getting ready to mobilize. All three of the other finks had recommended sitting tight for another week or so to await further reconnaissance from regular satellite flybys. P.J. had written up priority orders for a combined SEAL/ FInCOM team to conduct covert, on-site intelligence. Her orders had the team carrying enough explosives to flatten the munitions site if it proved to be there. She'd also put in a special request to the National Reconnaissance Office to reposition a special KeyHole Satellite to monitor and record any movement of the weapons pile. There was only one thing Harvard would have done differently. He wouldn't have bothered with the CSF team. He would have sent the SEALs in alone. But if Joe Cat's plan worked, by the time P. J. Richards completed this eight-week counterterrorist training session, she would realize that adding FInCOM agents to the Alpha Squad would be like throwing a monkey wrench into the SEALs' already perfectly oiled machine. Harvard hoped that was the case. He didn't like working with incompetents like Farber. And Lord knows, even though he'd been trying, he couldn't get past the fact that P.J. was a woman. She was smart, she was tough, but she was a woman. And God help him if he ever had to use her as part of his team. Somebody would probably end up getting killed—and it would probably be him. Harvard glanced at P.J. as he pulled up in front of Joe Cat's rented house.

"Do you guys play poker often?" she asked. "Nah, we usually prefer statue tag." She tried not to smile, but she couldn't help it as she pictured the men of Alpha Squad running around on Joe Cat's lawn, striking statuesque poses. "You're a regular stand-up comic tonight." "Can't be a Senior Chief without a sense of humor," he told her, putting the truck in park and turning off the engine. "It's a prerequisite for the rank." "Why a chief?" she asked. "Why not a lieutenant? How come you didn't take the officer route? I mean, if you really went to Harvard..." "I really went to Harvard," he told her. "Why a chief? Because I wanted to. I'm right where I want to be." There was a story behind his decision, and Harvard could see from the questions in PJ.'s eyes that she wanted to know why. But as much as he liked the idea of sitting here and talking with her in the quiet darkness of the night, with his truck's engine clicking softly as it cooled, his job was to bring her into Joe's house and add to the shaky foundation of friendship they'd started building nearly a week ago. Friends played cards. Lovers sat in the dark and shared secrets. Harvard opened the door, and bright light flooded the truck's cab. "Let's get in there." "So do you guys play often?" P.J. asked as they walked up the path to the front door. "No, not really," Harvard admitted. "We don't have much extra time for games." "So this game tonight—this is for my benefit, huh?" she asked perceptively. He gazed into her eyes. Damn, she was pretty. "I think it's for all of our benefit," he told her honestly. He smiled. "You should be honored. You're the first fink we've ever set up a poker party for." "I hate it when you call me that," she said, her voice resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to stop. "And this isn't really any kind of honor. This is calculated bonding, isn't it? For some reason, you've decided you need me as a part of the team." Her eyes narrowed speculatively. "It's in Alpha Squad's best interest to gain me as an ally. But why?" She was pretty, but she wasn't half as pretty as she was smart. Harvard opened Joe's front door and stepped inside. "You've been doing that spooky agent voodoo for too many years. This is just a friendly poker game. No more, no less." She snorted. "Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Senior Chief."

Chapter 7 P. J. was late. A truck had jackknifed on the main road leading to the base, and she'd had to go well out of her way to get there at all. She grabbed her gym bag from the back of her rental car and bolted for the field where SEALs and FInCOM agents met to start their day with an eye-opening run. They were all waiting for her. Farber, Schneider and Greene had left the hotel minutes before she had. She'd seen them getting into Farber's car and pulling out of the parking lot as she'd ridden down from her room in the glass-walled elevator. They must've made it through moments before the road had been closed. "Sorry I'm late," she said breathlessly. "There was an accident that shut down route—" "Forget it. It doesn't matter," Harvard said shortly, barely meeting her eyes. "We ready to go? Let's do it." P.J. stared in surprise as he turned away from her, as he broke into a run, leading the group toward the river. To Harvard, tardiness was the original sin. There was no excuse for it. She'd fully expected him to lambaste her good-naturedly, to use her as yet another example to get his point about preparedness across. She'd expected him to point out in his usual effusive manner that she should have planned ahead, should have given herself enough time, should have factored in the possibility of Mr. Murphy throwing a jack-knifed truck into her path. She'd even expected him to imply that a man wouldn't have been late. But he hadn't. What was up with him? In the few days since the poker game, P.J. had enjoyed the slightly off-color, teasing friendship of the men she'd played cards with. Crash had been there, although she suspected he was as much a stranger to the other men as she was. And the quiet blond lieutenant called Blue. The team's version of Laurel and Hardy had anted up, as well—Bobby and Wes. And the captain himself, with his angelic-looking baby son asleep in a room down the hall, had filled the seventh seat at the table. P.J. had scored big. As the dealer, she'd chosen to play a game called Tennessee. The high-risk, high-penalty, high-reward nature of the game appealed to the SEALs, and they'd played it several times that evening. P.J. had won each time. She tossed her bag on the ground and followed as Joe Cat hung back to wait for her. The other men were already out of sight. "I'm really sorry I was late," she said again. "I pulled in about forty-five seconds before you." The captain pulled his thick, dark hair into a ponytail as they headed down the trail. "I guess H. figured he couldn't shout at you after he didn't shout at me, huh?" They were moving at a decent clip. Fast but not too fast— just enough so that P.J. had to pay attention to her breathing. She didn't want to be gasping for air and unable to talk when they reached their destination. "Does the Senior Chief shout at you?" she asked. "Sometimes." Joe smiled. "But never in public, of course." They ran in silence for a while. The gravel crunching under their feet was the only sound. "Is his father all right?" PJ. finally asked. "I didn't see Harvard at all yesterday, and today he seems so preoccupied. Is anything wrong?" She tried to sound casual, as if she were just making conversation, as if she hadn't spent a good hour in bed last night thinking about the man, wondering why he hadn't been at dinner. They'd only gone about a mile, but she was already soaked with perspiration. It was ridiculously humid today. The air clung to her, pressing against her skin like a damp blanket. "His father's doing well," Joe told her. He gave her a long, appraising look. "H. has got some other personal stuff going on, though." PJ. quickly backpedaled. "I didn't mean to pry." "No, your question was valid. He was uncharacteristically monosyllabic this morning," he said. "Probably because it's moving day." She tried not to ask, but she couldn't stop herself. "Moving day?" "H.'s parents are moving. I don't want to put words in his mouth, but I think he feels bad that he's not up there helping out. Not to mention that he's pretty thrown by the fact that they're leaving Massachusetts. For years his family lived in this really great old house overlooking the ocean near Boston. I went home with him a few times before his sisters started getting married and moving out. He has a really nice family— really warm,

friendly people. He grew up in that house—it's gotta hold a lot of memories for him." "He lived in one house almost his entire life? God, I moved five times in one year. And that was just the year I turned twelve." "I know what you mean. My mother and I were pros at filling out post office change of address cards, too. But H. lived in one place from the time he was a little kid until he left for college. Wild, huh?" "And on top of that his parents are both still alive and together." P.J. shook her head. "Doesn't he know how lucky he is? Unless he's got some deep, dark, dysfunctional secret that I don't know about." "I don't think so, but I'm not exactly qualified to answer that one. I think it's probably best if Harvard got into those specifics with you himself, you know?" "Of course," she said quickly. "I wasn't looking to put you on the spot." "Yeah, I know that," he said easily. "And I didn't mean to make it sound as if I was telling you to mind your own business. Because I wasn't." P.J. had to laugh. "Whew—I'm glad we got that settled." "It's just... I'm speculating here. I don't want to mislead you in any way." "I know—and you're not." As he glanced at her again, PJ. felt compelled to add, "The Senior Chief and I are just friends." Joe Catalanotto just smiled. "I've known H. almost as long as I've known Blue," he told her after they'd run another mile or so in silence. "Yeah, you told me you and Blue—Lieutenant McCoy— went through BUD/s together, right?" PJ. asked. "Yeah, we were swim buddies." Swim buddies. That meant Joe Cat and Blue had been assigned to work together as they'd trained to become SEALs. From what P.J. knew of the rigorous special forces training, they'd had to become closer than blood brothers, relying on one man's strengths to counter the other's weaknesses, and vice versa. It was no wonder that after all those years of working side by side, the two men could communicate extensively with a single look. "H. was in our graduating class," Joe told her. "In fact, he was part of our boat team during Hell Week. A vital part." Funny, they were talking about Harvard again. Not that PJ. particularly minded. "Who was his swim buddy?" "Harvard's swim buddy rang out—he quit—right before it was our turn to land our IBS on the rocks outside the Hotel Coronado." "IBS?" "Inflatable Boat, Small." Joe smiled. "And the word small is relative. It weighs about two hundred and fifty pounds and carries seven men. The boat team carries it everywhere throughout Hell Week. By the time we did the rock portage, we were down to only four men—all enlisted—and that thing was damn heavy. But we all made it through to the end." Enlisted? "You and Blue didn't start out as officers?" Joe picked up the pace. "Nope. We were both enlisted. Worked our way up from the mailroom, so to speak." "Any idea why Harvard didn't take that route?" she asked. She quickly added, "I'm just curious." The captain nodded but couldn't hide his smile. "I guess he didn't want to be an officer. I mean, he really didn't want to. He was approached by OCS —the Officer's Candidate School—so often, it got to be kind of a joke. In fact, during BUD/s, he was paired with a lieutenant, I think in an attempt to make him realize he was prime officer material." "But the lieutenant quit." "Yeah. Harvard took that pretty hard. He thought he should've been able to keep his swim buddy—Matt, I think his name was—from quitting. But it was more than clear to all of us that H. had been carrying this guy right from the start. Matt would've been out weeks earlier if he hadn't been teamed up with H." "I guess even back then, Harvard was a team player," P.J. mused. The entire front of her T-shirt was drenched with sweat, and her legs and lungs were starting to burn, but the captain showed no sign of slowing down. "Exactly." Joe wasn't even slightly winded. "He hated feeling like he was letting Matt down. Except the truth was, Matt had been doing nothing but letting H. down from day one. Swim buddies have to balance out their strengths and weaknesses. It doesn't work if one guy does all the giving and the other does nothing but take. You know, even though Harvard saw Matt's ringing out as a personal failure, the rest of us recognized it for the blessing it was. God knows it's hard enough to get through BUD/s. But it's damn near impossible to do it with a drowning man strapped to your back."

She could see Harvard way up ahead on the trail, still in the lead. He'd taken off his T-shirt, and his powerful muscles gleamed with sweat. He moved like a dancer, each step graceful and sure. He made running look effortless. As Joe Cat cranked their speed up another few notches, PJ. found that it was getting harder to talk and run at the same time. The captain kept his mouth tightly shut as they raced past first Schneider and Greene, then Tim Farber, but it wasn't because he couldn't talk. Once out of the other agents' earshot, he turned to grin at her. "My grandmother could outrun those guys." "How far are we going today?" P.J. asked as they passed the five-mile mark. Her words came out in gasps. "However far H. wants to take us." Harvard didn't look as if he were planning on stopping any time soon. In fact, as PJ. watched, he punched up the speed. "'You know, I used to be faster than H.," Joe told her. "But then he went and shaved his head and cut down on all that wind resistance." PJ. had to laugh. "So I asked Ronnie, what do you think, should I shave my head, too, and she tells me no way. I say, why not? She's always talking about how sexy Harvard is—about how women can't stay away from him, and I'm thinking maybe I should go for that Mr. Clean look, too. So she tells me she likes my hair long, in what she calls romance-cover-model style. But I can't stop thinking about that wind resistance thing, until she breaks the news to me that if / shaved my head, I wouldn't look sexy. I'd look like a giant white big toe." P J. cracked up, trying to imagine him without any hair and coming up with an image very similar to what his wife had described. Joe was grinning. "Needless to say, I'm keeping my razor securely locked in the medicine cabinet." Harvard heard the melodic burst of PJ.'s laughter and gritted his teeth. It wasn't that it sounded as if she were flirting with Joe Cat when she laughed that way. It wasn't that he was jealous in any way of the special friendship she seemed to have formed with Alpha Squad's captain. It wasn't even so much that he was having one bitch of a bad day. But then she laughed again, and the truth of the matter smacked him square in the face. She did sound as if she were flirting with Joe Cat. Harvard was jealous not only of that, but of any kind of friendship she and the captain had formed, and he couldn't remember ever having had a worse day in the past year, if not the past few years. Not since that new kid who transferred from SEAL Team One had panicked during a HALO training op. The cells of his chute hadn't opened right, and he hadn't fully cut free before pulling the emergency rip cord. That second chute had gotten tangled with the first and never opened. The kid fell to his death, and Harvard had had to help search for his remains. That had been one hell of a bad day. He knew he should count his blessings. No one had died today. But thinking that way only made him feel worse. It made him feel guilty on top of feeling lousy. He took a short cut to the base, knowing he could run forever today and it wouldn't make him feel any better. He ran hard and fast, setting a pace he knew would leave the three male finks in the dust. He had no doubt that P.J. would keep up. Whenever she ran, she got that same look in her eye he'd seen in many a determined SEAL candidate who made it through BUD/s to the bitter end. Like them, she would have to be dead and buried before she would quit. If then. It was almost too bad she was a woman. As she'd pointed out to him, she was one of the best shooters in all of FInCOM. She was good, she was tough, but the fact was, she was a girl. Try as he might, he couldn't accept that there was a place for females in combat situations. The sooner she got promoted up and out of the field, the better. He ran faster, and as they reached the home stretch, Lucky was cursing him with every step. Bobby and Wes were complaining in stereo by the time Harvard slowed to a stop. Even Blue and Joe Cat were out of breath. PJ. was trying not to look as if she were gasping for air, but she doubled over, head down, hands on her knees. Harvard backtracked quickly, hoisting her into a more vertical position by the back of her T-shirt. "You know better than to stick your head down lower than your heart after running like that," he said sharply. "Sorry," she gasped. "Don't apologize to me," he said harshly. "I'm not the one whose reputation is going to suffer when you live up to everyone's expectations by blacking out and keeling over like some fainthearted little miss." Her eyes sparked. "And I'm not the great, huge, stupid he-man who had to prove some kind of macho garbage by running the entire team as hard as he possibly could." "Believe me, baby, that wasn't even half as hard as I can get." He smiled tightly to make sure she caught the double entendre, then lowered his

voice. "Just say the word, and I'll give you a private demonstration." Her eyes narrowed, her mouth tightened, and he knew he'd gone too far. "What's up with you today?" He started to turn away, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm, unmindful of the fact that his skin was slick with sweat. "Are you all right, Daryl?" she asked quietly. Beneath the flash of anger and impatience in her eyes, he could see her deep concern. He could handle fighting with her. He wanted to fight with her. The soft warmth of her dark brown eyes only made him feel worse. Now he felt bad, topped with guilt for feeling bad, and he also felt like a certified fool for lashing out at her. Harvard swore softly. "Sorry, Richards, I was way out of line. Just...go away, okay? I'm not fit to be around today." He looked up to find Joe Cat standing behind him. "I'm going to give everyone the rest of the morning free," the captain told him quietly. "Let's meet at the Quonset hut after lunch." Harvard knew Joe was giving them free time because of him. Joe knew Harvard needed a few hours to clear his head. He shouldn't have needed it—he was too experienced, too much of a professional to become a head case at this stage of his life. But before Harvard could argue, Joe Cat walked away. "You want to take a walk?" P.J. asked Harvard. He didn't get a chance to answer before she tugged at his arm. "Let's go," she said, gesturing with her chin toward the path they'd run along. She grabbed several bottles of water from her gym bag and handed one to him. Damn, it was hot. Rivers of perspiration were running down his chest, down his legs, dripping from his chin, beading on his shoulders and arms. He opened the bottle and took a long drink. "What, you want to psychoanalyze me, Richards?" "Nope. I'm just gonna listen," she said. "That is, if you want to talk." "I don't want to talk." "Okay," she said matter-of-factly. "Then we'll just walk." They walked in silence for an entire mile, then two. But right around the three-mile marker, she took the boardwalk right-of-way that led to the beach. He followed in silence, watching as she sat in the sand and began pulling off her sneakers. She looked at him. "Wanna go for a swim?" "Yeah." He sat next to her and took off his running shoes. P.J. pulled off her T-shirt. She was wearing a gray running bra underneath. It covered her far better than a bathing suit top would have, but the sight of it, the sight of all that smooth, perfect skin reminded him a hundredfold that he wasn't taking a walk with one of the boys. "Look at this,” P.J. said. "I can practically wring my shirt out." Harvard tried his best to look. He purposely kept his gaze away from the soft mounds of her breasts outlined beneath the thick gray fabric of her running top. She wasn't overly endowed, not by any means, but what she had sure was nice. Her arms and her stomach glistened with perspiration as she leaned forward to peel off her socks. It didn't take much imagination to picture her lying naked on his bed, her gleaming black skin set off by the white cotton of his sheets, replete after hours of lovemaking. He tried to banish the image instantly. Thinking like that was only going to get him into trouble. "Come on," she said, scrambling to her feet. She held out her hand for him, and he took it and let her pull him up. He wanted to hold on to her, to lace their fingers together, but she broke away, running fearlessly toward the crashing surf. She dove over the breakers, coming up to float on top of the swells beyond. Harvard joined her in that place of calm before the breaking ocean. The current was strong, and there was a serious undertow. But P.J. had proven her swimming skills many times over during the past few weeks. He didn't doubt her ability to hold her own. She pushed her hair out of her face and adjusted her po-nytail. "You know, up until last year, I didn't know how to swim." Harvard was glad the water was holding him up, because otherwise, he would have fallen over. "You're kidding!" "I grew up in D.C.," she told him matter-of-factly. "In the inner city. The one time we moved close enough to the pool at the Y, it was shut down for repairs for eight months. By the time it opened again, we were gone." She smiled. "When I was really little, I used to pretend to swim in the bathtub." "Your mother and father never took you to the beach in the summer to stay cool?" P.J. laughed as if something he'd said was extremely funny. "No, I never even saw the ocean until I went on a class trip to Delaware in high school. I meant to take swimming lessons in college, but I never got around to it. Then I got assigned to this job. I figured if I were going to be working with Navy SEALs, it'd be a good idea if I knew how to swim. I was right."

"I learned to swim when I was six," Harvard told her. "It was the summer I..." She waited, and when he didn't go on, she asked, "The summer you what?" He shook his head. But she didn't let it go. "The summer you decided you were going to join the Navy and become a SEAL," she guessed. The water felt good against his hot skin. Harvard let himself float. "No, I was certain right up until the time I finished college that I was going to be an English lit professor, just like my old man." "Really?" "Yeah." She squinted at him. "I'm trying to picture you with glasses and one of those jackets with the suede patches on the elbows and maybe even a pipe." She laughed. "Somehow I can't manage to erase the M-16 that's kind of permanently hanging over your shoulder, and the combination is making for quite an interesting image." "Yeah, yeah." Harvard treaded water lazily. "Laugh at me all you want. Chicks dig guys who can recite Shakespeare. And who knows? I might decide to get my teaching degree some day." "The M-16 will certainly keep your class in line." Harvard laughed. "We're getting off the subject here," P.J. said. "You learned to swim when you were six and it was the summer you also made your first million playing the stock market? No," she answered her own question, "if you had a million dollars gathering interest from the time you were six, you wouldn't be here now. You'd be out on your yacht, com manding your own private navy. Let's see, it must've been the summer you got your first dog." "Nope." "Hmm. The summer you had your first date?" Harvard laughed. "I was six." She grinned at him. "You seem the precocious type." They'd come a long way, Harvard realized. Even though there was still a magnetic field of sexual tension surrounding them, even though he still didn't want her in the CSF team and she damn well knew it, they'd managed to work around those issues and somehow become friends. He liked this girl. And he liked talking to her. He would've liked going to bed with her even more, but he knew women well enough to recognize that when this one shied away from him, she wasn't just playing some game. As far as P. J. Richards was concerned, no didn't mean try a little harder. No meant no. And until that no became a very definite yes, he was going to have to be content with talking. But Harvard liked to talk. He liked to debate. He enjoyed philosophizing. He was good with words, good at verbal sparring. And who could know? Maybe if he talked to P.J. for long enough, he'd end up saying something that would start breaking through her defenses. Maybe he'd begin the process that would magically change that no to a yes. "It was the summer you first—" "It was the summer my family moved to our house in Hingham," Harvard interrupted. "My mother decided that if we were going to live a block away from the ocean, we all had to learn to swim." PJ. was silent. "Was that the same house your parents are moving out of today?" she finally asked. He froze. "Where did you hear about that?" She glanced at him. "Joe Cat told me." P.J. had been talking to Joe Cat about him. Harvard didn't know whether to feel happy or annoyed. He'd be happy to know she'd been asking questions about him. But he'd be annoyed as hell if he found out that Joe had been attempting to play matchmaker. "What, the captain just came over to you and said, guess what? Hot news flash—Harvard's mom and pop are moving today?" "No," she said evenly. "He told me because I asked him if he knew what had caused the great big bug to crawl up your pants." She pushed herself forward to catch a wave before it broke and body surfed to shore like a professional—as if she'd been doing it all of her life. She'd asked Joe. Harvard followed her out of the water feeling foolishly pleased. "It's no big deal—the fact that they're moving, I mean. I'm just being a baby about it." PJ. sat in the sand, leaned back against her elbows and stretched her legs out in front of her. "Your parents lived in the same house for, what? Thirty years?"

"Just about." Harvard sat next to her. He stared at the ocean in an attempt to keep from staring at her legs. Damn, she had nice legs. It was impossible not to look, but he told himself that was okay, because he was making damn sure he didn't touch. Still, he wanted to. "You're not being a baby. It is a big deal," she told him. "You're allowed to have it be a big deal, you know." He met her eyes, and she nodded. "You are allowed," she said again. She was so serious. She looked as if she were prepared to go into mortal combat over the fact that he had the right to feel confused and upset over his parents' move. He felt his mouth start to curve into a smile, and she smiled, too. The connection between them sparked and jumped into high gear. Damn. When they had sex, it was going to be great. It was going to be beyond great. But it wasn't going to be today. If he were smart he'd rein in those wayward thoughts, keep himself from getting too overheated. "It's just so stupid," he admitted. "But I've started having these dreams where suddenly I'm ten years old again, and I'm walking home from school and I get home and the front door's locked. So I ring the bell and this strange lady comes to the screen. She tells me my family has moved, but she doesn't know where. And she won't let me in, and I just feel so lost, as if everything I've ever counted on is gone and... It's stupid," he said again. "I haven't actually lived in that house for years. And I know where my parents are going. I have the address. I already have their new phone number. I don't know why this whole thing should freak me out this way." He lay back in the sand, staring at the hazy sky. "This opportunity is going to be so good for my father," he continued. "I just wish I could have taken the time to go up there, help them out with the logistics." "Where exactly are they moving?" P.J. asked. "Phoenix, Arizona." "No ocean view there." He turned to face her, propping his head on one hand. "That shouldn't matter. I'm the one who liked the ocean view, and I don't live with them anymore." "Where do you live?" she asked. Harvard couldn't answer that without consideration. "I have a furnished apartment here in Virginia." "That's just temporary housing. Where do you keep your stuff?" "What stuff?" "Your bed. Your kitchen table. Your stamp collection. I don't know, your stuff." He lay down, shaking his head. "I don't have a bed or a kitchen table. And I used the last stamp I bought to send a letter to my little sister at Boston University." "How about your books?" P.J. ventured. "Where do you keep your books?" "In a climate-controlled self-storage unit in Coronado, California." He laughed and closed his eyes. "Damn, I'm pathetic, aren't I? Maybe I should get a sign for the door saying Home Sweet Home." "Are you sure you ever really moved out of your parents' house?" she asked. "Maybe not," he admitted, his eyes still closed. "But if that's the case, I guess I’m moving out today, huh?" P.J. hugged her legs to her chest as she sat on the beach next to the Alpha Squad's Senior Chief. "Maybe that's why I feel so bad," he mused. "It's a symbolic end to my childhood." He glanced at her, amusement lighting his eyes. "Which I suppose had to happen sooner or later, considering that in four years I'll be forty." Harvard Becker was an incredibly beautiful-looking man. His body couldn't have been more perfect if some artisan had taken a chisel to stone and sculpted it. But it was his eyes that continued to keep P.J. up at night. So much was hidden in their liquid brown depths. It had been a bold move on her part to suggest they go off alone to walk. With anyone else, she wouldn't have thought twice about it. But with everyone else, the boundaries of friendship weren't so hard to define. When it came to this man, P.J. was tempted to break her own rules. And that was a brand new feeling for her. A dangerous feeling. She hugged her knees a little tighter. "There was a lot wrong with that house in Hingham," Harvard told her. "The roof leaked in the kitchen. No matter how many times we tried to fix it, as soon as it stormed, we'd need to get out that old bucket and put it under that drip. The pipes rattled, and the windows were drafty, and my sisters were always tying up the telephone. My mother's solution to any problem was to serve up a hearty meal, and my old man was so immersed in Shakespeare most of the time he didn't know which century it was."

He was trying to make jokes, trying to bring himself out of the funk he'd been in, trying to pretend it didn't matter. "I couldn't wait to move out, you know, to go away to school," he said. He was trying to make it hurt less by belittling his memories. And there was no way she was going to sit by and listen quietly while he did that. "You know that dream you've been having?" she asked. "The one where you get home from school and your parents are gone?" He nodded. "Well, it didn't happen to me exactly like that," she told him. "But one day I came home from school and I found all our furniture out on the sidewalk. We'd been evicted, and my mother was gone. She'd vanished. She'd dealt with the bad news not by trying to hustle down a new apartment, but by going out on a binge." He pushed himself into a sitting position. "My God..." "I was twelve years old," P.J. said. "My grandmother had died about three months before that, and it was just me and Cheri—my mom. I don't know what Cheri did with the rent money, but I can certainly guess. I remember that day like it was yesterday. I had to beg our neighbors to hold onto some of that furniture for us—the stuff that wasn't already broken or stolen. I had to pick and choose which of the clothing we could take and which we'd have to leave behind. I couldn't carry any of my books or toys or stuffed animals, and no one had any room to store a box of my old junk, so I put 'em in an alley, hoping they'd still be there by the time I found us another place to live." She shot him a look. "It rained that night, and I never even bothered to go back. I knew the things in that box were ruined. I guess I figured I didn't have much use for toys anymore, anyway." She took a deep breath. "But that afternoon, I loaded up all that I could carry of our clothes in shopping bags and I went looking for my mother. You see, I needed to find her in order to get a bed in the shelter that night. If I tried to go on my own, I'd be taken in and made a ward of the state. And as bad as things were with Cheri, I was afraid that would be even worse." Harvard swore softly. "I'm not giving you the 411 to make you feel worse." She held his gaze, hoping he would understand. "I'm just trying to show you how really lucky you were, Daryl. How lucky you are. Your past is solid. You should celebrate it and let it make you stronger." "Your mother..." "Was an addict since before I can remember," P.J. told him flatly. "And don't even ask about my father. I'm not sure my mother knew who he was. Cheri was fourteen when she had me. And her mother was sixteen when she had her. I did the math and figured out if I followed in my family's hallowed tradition, I'd be nursing a baby of my own by the time I was twelve. That's the childhood / climbed out of. I escaped, but just barely." She raised her chin. "But if there's one thing I got from Cheri, it's a solid grounding in reality. I am where I am today because I looked around and I said no way. So in a sense, I celebrate my past, too. But the party in my head's not quite as joyful as the one you should be having." "Damn," Harvard said. "Compared to you, I grew up in paradise." He swore. "Now I really feel like some kind of pouting child." P.J. looked at the ocean stretching all the way to the horizon. She loved knowing that it kept going and going and going, way past the point where the earth curved and she couldn't see it anymore. "I've begun to think of you as a friend," she told Harvard. She turned to look at him, gazing directly into his eyes. "So I have to warn you—I only have guilt-free friendships. You can't take anything I've told you and use it to invalidate your own bad stuff. I mean, everyone's got their own luggage, right? And friends shouldn't set their personal suitcase down next to someone else's, size them both up and say, hey, mine's not as big as yours, or hey, mine's bigger and fancier so yours doesn't count." She smiled. "I'll tell you right now, Senior Chief, I travel with an old refrigerator box, and it's packed solid. Just don't knock it over, and I'll be all right. Yours, on the other hand, is very classy Masonite. But your parents' move made the lock break, and now you've got to tidy everything up before you can get it fixed and sealed up tight again." Harvard nodded, smiling at her. "That's a very poetic way of telling me don't bother to stage a pissing contest, 'cause you'd win, hands down." "That's right. But I'm also telling you don't jam yourself up because you feel sad about your parents leaving your hometown," P.J. said. "It makes perfect sense that you'll miss that house you grew up in—that house you've gone home to for the past thirty years. There's nothing wrong with feeling sad about that. But I'm also saying that even though you feel sad, you should also feel happy. Just think—you've had that place to call home and those people to make it a good, happy home for all these years. You've got memories, good memories you'll always be able to look back on and take comfort from. You know what having a home means, while most of the rest of the people in the world are just floating around, upside down, not even knowing what they're missing but missing it just the same." He was silent, so she kept going. She couldn't remember the last time she'd talked so much. But this man, this new friend with the whiskey-colored eyes, who made her feel like cheating the rules—he was worth the effort. "You can choose to have a house and a family someday, kids, the whole nine yards, like your parents did," she told him. "Or you can hang on to those memories you carry in your heart. That way, you can go back to that home you had, wherever you are, whenever you want." There. She'd said everything she wanted to say to him. But he was so quiet, she began to wonder if she'd gone too far. She was the queen of dysfunctional families. What did she know about normal? What right did she have to tell him her view of the world with such authority in her voice?

He cleared his throat. "So where do you live now, P.J.?" She liked it when Harvard called her PJ. instead of Richards. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did. She liked the chill she got up her spine from the heat she could sometimes see simmering in his eyes. And she especially liked knowing he respected her enough to hold back. He wanted her. His attraction was powerful, but he respected her enough to not keep hammering her with come-on lines and thinly veiled innuendos. Yeah, she liked that a lot. "I have an apartment in D.C., but I'm hardly ever there." She picked up a handful of sand and let it sift through her fingers. "See, I’m one of the floaters. I still haven't unpacked most of my boxes from college. I haven't even bought furniture for the place, although I do have a bed and a kitchen table." She shot him a rueful smile. "I don't need extensive therapy to know that my nesting instincts are busted, big-time. I figure it's a holdover from when I was a kid. I learned not to get attached to any one place because sooner or later the landlord would be kicking us out and we'd be living somewhere else." "If you could live anywhere in the world," he asked, "where would you live?" "Doesn't matter where, as long as it's not in the middle of a city," P.J. answered without hesitation. "Some cute little house with a little yard—doesn't have to be big. It just has to have some land. Enough for a flower garden. I've never lived anywhere long enough to let a garden grow," she added wistfully. Harvard was struck by the picture she made sitting there. She'd just run eight miles at a speed that had his men cursing, then walked three miles more. She was sandy, she was sticky from salt and sweat, her hair was less than perfect, her makeup long since gone. She was tough, she was driven, she was used to not just getting by but getting ahead in a man's world, and despite all that, she was sweetly sentimental as all get out. She turned to meet his gaze, and as if she could somehow read his mind, she laughed. "God, I sound like a sap." Her eyes narrowed. "If you tell anyone what I said, you're a dead man." "What, that you like flowers? Since when is that late-breaking piece of news something you need to keep hidden from the world?" Something shifted in her eyes. "You can like flowers," she told him. "You can read Jane Austen in the mess hall at lunch. You can drink iced tea instead of whiskey shots with beer chasers. You can do what you want. But if I'm caught acting like a woman, if I wear soft, lacy underwear instead of the kind made from fifty percent cotton and fifty percent sandpaper, I get looked at funny. People start to wonder if I'm capable of doing my job." Harvard tried to make her smile. "Personally, I stay away from the lacy underwear myself." "Yeah, but you could wear silk boxers, and your men would think, 'Gee, the Senior Chief is really cool.' I wear silk, and those same men start thinking with a nonbrain part of their anatomy." "That's human nature," he argued. "That's because you're a beautiful woman and—" "You know, it always comes down to sex," P.J. told him crossly. "Always. You can't put men and women in a room together without something happening. And I'm not saying it's entirely the men's fault, although men can be total dogs. Do you know that I had to start fighting off my mother's boyfriends back when I was ten? Ten. They'd come over, get high with her, and then when she passed out, they'd start sniffing around my bedroom door. My grandmother was alive then, and she'd give 'em a piece of her mind, chase 'em out of the house. But after she died, when I was twelve, I was on my own. I grew up fast, I'll tell you that much." When Harvard was twelve, he'd had a paper route. The toughest thing he'd had to deal with was getting up early every morning to deliver those papers. And the Doberman on the corner of Parker and Reingold. That mean old dog had been a problem for about a week or two. But in time, Harvard had gotten used to the early mornings, and he'd made friends with the Doberman. Somehow he doubted P.J. had had equally easy solutions to her problems. She gazed at the ocean, the wind moving a stray curl across her face. She didn't seem to feel it, or if she did, she didn't care enough to push it away. He tried to picture her at twelve years old. She must've been tiny. Hell, she was tiny now. It wouldn't have taken much of a man to overpower her and — The thought made him sick. But he had to know. He had to ask. "Did you ever... Did they ever..." She turned to look at him, and he couldn't find any immediate answers in the bottomless darkness of her eyes. "There was one," she said softly, staring at the ocean. "He didn't back off when I threatened to call my uncle. Of course, I didn't really have any uncle. It's possible he knew that. Or maybe he was just too stoned to care. I had to go out the window to get away from him—only in my panic, I went out the wrong window. I went out the one without the fire escape. Once I was out there, I couldn't go back. I went onto the ledge and I just stood there, sixteen stories up, scared out of my mind, staring at those little toy cars on the street, knowing if I slipped, I'd be dead, but certain if I went back inside I'd be as good as dead." She looked at Harvard. "I honestly think I would've jumped before I would've let him touch me." Harvard believed her. This man, whoever he'd been, may not have hurt P.J. physically, but he'd done one hell of a job on her emotionally and psychologically. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. "I don't suppose you remember this son of a bitch's name?" he asked.

"Ron something. I don't think I ever knew his last name." He nodded. "Too bad." "Why?" Harvard shrugged. "Nothing important. I was just thinking it might make me feel a little better to hunt him down and kick the hell out of him." P.J. laughed—a shaky burst of air that was part humor and part surprise. "But he didn't hurt me, Daryl. I took care of myself and...I was okay." "Were you?" Harvard reached out for her. He knew he shouldn't. He knew that just touching her lightly under the chin to turn her to face him would be too much. He knew her skin would be sinfully soft beneath his fingers, and he knew that once he touched her, he wouldn't want to let go. But he wanted to look into her eyes, so he did. "Tell me this—are you still afraid of heights?" She didn't need to answer. He saw the shock of the truth in her eyes before she pulled away. She stood up, moved toward the water, stopping on the edge of the beach, letting the waves wash over her feet. Harvard followed, waiting for her to look at him again. PJ.'s head was spinning. Afraid of heights? Terrified was more like it. She couldn't believe he'd figured that out. She couldn't believe she'd told him enough to give herself away. Steeling herself, she looked at him. "I can handle heights, Senior Chief. It's not a problem." She could tell from the look on his face he didn't believe her. "It's not a problem," she said again. Damn. She'd told him too much. It was one thing to joke around about her dream house. But telling him about her problem with heights was going way too far. It would do her absolutely no good to let this man know her weaknesses. She had to have absolutely no vulnerabilities to coexist in his macho world. She could not be afraid of heights. She would not be. She could handle it—but not if he made it into an issue. P.J. rinsed her hands in the ocean. "We better get back if we want to have any lunch." But Harvard blocked the way to where her sneakers and T-shirt were lying on the sand. "Thanks for taking the time to talk to me," he said. She nodded, still afraid to meet his eyes. "Yeah, I'm glad we're friends." "It's nice to be able to talk to someone in confidence— and know you don't have to worry about other people finding out all your deep, dark secrets," Harvard told her. P.J. did look at him then, but he'd already turned away.

Chapter 8 "Man, it's quiet around here today," Harvard said as he came into the decaying Quonset hut that housed Alpha Squad's office. Lucky was the only one around, and he looked up from one of the computers. "Hey, H.," he said with a cheerful smile. "Where've you been?" "There was a meeting with the base commander that I absolutely couldn't miss." Harvard rolled his eyes. "It was vital that I go with the captain to listen to more complaints about having the squad temporarily stationed here. This base is regular Navy, and SEALs don't follow rules. We don't salute enough. We drive too fast. We make too much noise at the firing range. We don't cut our hair." He slid his hand over his cleanly shaved head. "Or we cut our hair too short I tell you, there's no pleasing some folks. Every week it's the same, and every week we sit there, and I take notes, and the captain nods seriously and explains that the noise at the firing range occurs when we discharge our weapons and he's sorry for the inconvenience, but one of the reasons Alpha Squad has the success record it does is that each and every one of us takes target practice each day, every day, and that's not going to change. And then the supply officer steps forward and informs us that the next time we want another box of pencils, we've got to get 'em from Office Max. We appear to have used up our allotted supply." He shook his head. "We got lectured on that for ten minutes." "Ten minutes? On pencils?" Harvard grinned. "That's right." He turned toward his office. "Joe's right behind me. He should be back soon—unless he gets cornered into sticking around for lunch." Lucky made a face. "Poor Cat." "This is what you have to look forward to, O'Donlon," Harvard said with another grin. "It's only a matter of time before you make an oh-six pay grade and get your own command. And then you'll be rationing pencils, too." He laughed "It's not just a job—it's an adventure." "Gee, thanks, H. I'm all aquiver with anticipation." Harvard pushed open his office door. "Do me a favor and dial the captain's pager number. Give him an emergency code. Let's get him out of there." Lucky picked up the phone and quickly punched in a series of numbers. He dropped the receiver into the cradle with a clatter. "So where's everyone this afternoon?" Harvard called as he took off his jacket and hung it over the chair at his desk. "I stopped by the classroom on my way over, but it was empty. They're not all still at lunch, are they?" "No, they're at the airfield. I'm heading over there myself in about ten minutes." Lucky raised his voice to be heard through the open door. Harvard stopped rifling through the files on his desk. "They're where?" "At the field. It's jump day," Lucky told him. "Today?" Harvard moved to the door to stare at the younger SEAL. "No way. That wasn't scheduled until next week." "Yeah, everything got shifted around, remember? We had to move the jump up a full week." Harvard shook his head. "No. No, I don't remember that." Lucky swore. "It must've been the day you went to Boston. Yeah, I remember you weren't around, so Wes took care of it. He said he wrote a memo about it. He said he left it on your desk." Harvard's desk was piled high with files and papers, but he knew exactly what was in each file and where each file was in each pile. It may have looked disorganized, but it wasn't. He'd cleared his In basket at least ten times since he'd taken that day of personal leave. He'd caught up on everything he'd missed. There was no memo from Wesley Skelly on that desk. Or was there? Underneath the coffee mug with a broken handle that held his pens and some of those very pencils the base supply officer had been in a snit about, Harvard could see a flash of yellow paper. He lifted the mug and turned the scrap of paper over. This was it. Wes had written an official memo on the inside of an M&M's wrapper. It was documentation of the rescheduled jump date, scribbled in barely legible pencil. "I'm going to kill him," Harvard said calmly. "I'm going to find him, and I'm going to kill him." "You don't have to look far to find him," Lucky said. "He's with the finks in the classroom at the main hangar. He's helping Blue teach 'em the basics of skydiving." Harvard shook his head. "If I'd known the jump was today, I would've made arrangements to skip this morning's meeting. I wanted to be here to make it clear to the finks that participating in this exercise is optional." He looked sharply at O'Donlon. "Were you there when Blue gave his speech? Do they understand they don't have to do this?"

Lucky shrugged. "Yeah. They're all up for it, though. It's no big deal." But it was a big deal. Harvard knew that for P.J. it had to be a very, very big deal. When he'd figured out yesterday that she was afraid of heights, he'd known about the skydiving jump, but he'd thought it was a week away. If he'd known otherwise, he would've warned her then and there. He could've told her that choosing not to participate didn't matter one bit in the big picture. The purpose of the exercise was not to teach the finks to be expert sky divers. There was no way they could do that with only one day and only one jump. When they'd set up the program, the captain had thought a lesson in skydiving would give the agents perspective on the kind of skills the SEALs needed to succeed as a counterterrorist team. It was supposed to underscore the message of the entire program—let the SEALs do what they do best without outside interference. Harvard looked at his watch. It was just past noon. "O'Donlon, is the jump still scheduled for thirteen-thirty?" "It is," Lucky told him. "I'm going over to help out. You know me, I never turn down an opportunity to jump." Harvard took a deep breath. More than an hour. Good. He still had time. He could relax and take this calmly. He could change out of this blasted dress uniform instead of screaming over to the airfield in a panic. The phone rang. It had to be Joe Cat, answering his page. Harvard picked it up. "Rescue squad." Joe covered a laugh by coughing. "Sit rep, please." The captain was using his officer's voice, and Harvard knew that wherever he was, he wasn't alone. "We're having a severe pencil shortage, Captain," Harvard said rapidly, in his best imitation of a battle-stressed officer straight from Hollywood's Central Casting. "I think you better get down here right away to take care of it." Joe coughed again, longer and louder this time. "I see." "So sorry to interrupt your lunch, sir, but the men are in tears. I'm sure the commander will understand." Joe's voice sounded strangled. "I appreciate your calling." "Of course, if you'd prefer to stay and dine with the—" "No, no. No, I'm on my way. Thank you very much, Senior Chief." "I love you, too, Captain," Harvard said and hung up the phone. Lucky was on the floor, laughing. Harvard nudged him with his toe and spoke in his regular voice. "I'm changing out of this ice-cream suit Don't you dare leave for the airfield without me." The half of a chicken-salad sandwich P.J. had forced down during lunch was rolling in her stomach. Lieutenant Blue McCoy stood in front of the group of SEALs and FInCOM agents, briefing them on the afternoon's exercise. P.J. tried to pay attention as he recited the name of the aircraft that would take them to an altitude from which they'd jump out of the plane. Jump out of the plane. P.J. took a deep breath. She could do this. She knew she could do this. She was going to hate it, but just like going to the dentist, time would keep ticking, and the entire ordeal would eventually be over and done with. "We'll be going out of the aircraft in teams of two," Blue said in his thick Southern drawl. "You will stay with your jump buddy for the course of the exercise. If you become separated during landing, you must find each other immediately upon disposing of your chute. Remember, we'll be timing you from the moment you step out of that plane to the moment you check in at the assigned extraction point. If you reach the extraction point without your partner, you're automatically disqualified. Does everyone understand?" P.J. nodded. Her mouth was too dry to murmur a reply. The door opened at the back of the room, and Blue paused and smiled a greeting. "About time you boys got here." P.J. turned to see Harvard closing the door behind him. He was wearing camouflage pants tucked securely into black boots and a snugly fitting dark green T-shirt. He was looking directly at her from under the brim of his cap. He nodded just once, then turned his attention to McCoy. "Sorry to interrupt," he said. It wasn't until he moved toward the front of the room that P. J. noticed Lucky had been standing beside him. "Have you worked up the teams yet, Lieutenant?" Blue nodded. "I have the list right here, Senior Chief."

"Mind doing some quick revising so I can get in on the action?" "'Course not," Blue replied. He looked at the room. "Why don't y'all take a five-minute break?" P.J. wasn't the only one in the room who was nervous. Greg Greene went to the men's room for the fourth time in half an hour. The other men stood and stretched their legs. She sat there, wishing she could close her eyes and go to sleep, wishing that when she woke up it would be tomorrow morning and this day would be behind her, most of all wishing Harvard had given her some kind of warning that today's challenge would involve jumping out of an airplane thousands of feet above the earth. As she watched, Harvard leaned against the table to look at the list. He supported himself with his arms, and his muscles stood out in sharp relief. For once, she let herself look at him, hoping for a little distraction. The man was sheer perfection. And speaking of distractions, his shirt wasn't the only thing that fit him snugly. His camouflage pants hugged the curve of his rear end sinfully well. Why on earth anyone would want to camouflage that piece of art was beyond her. He was deep in discussion with Blue, then both men paused to glance at her, and she quickly looked away. What was Harvard telling the lieutenant? It was clear they were talking about her. Was Harvard telling McCoy all she'd let slip yesterday at the beach? Were they considering the possibility that she might freeze with fear and end up putting more than just herself in danger? Were they going to refuse to let her make the jump? She glanced at them, and Harvard was still watching her, no doubt taking in the cold sweat that was dampening her shirt and beading on her upper lip. She knew she could keep her fear from showing in her eyes and on her face, but she couldn't keep from perspiring, and she couldn't stop her heart from pounding and causing her hands to shake. She was scared to death, but she was damned if she was going to let anyone tell her she couldn't make this jump. As she watched, Harvard spoke again to Blue. Blue nodded, took out a pen and began writing on the paper. Harvard came down the center aisle and paused next to her chair. "You okay?" he asked quietly enough so that no one else could hear. She was unable to hold his gaze. He was close enough to smell her fear and to see that she was, in fact, anything but okay. She didn't bother to lie. "I can do this." "You don't have to." "Yes, I do. It's part of this program." "This jump is optional." "Not for me, it's not." He was silent for a moment. "There's nothing I can say to talk you out of this, is there?" PJ. met his gaze. "No, Senior Chief, there's not." He nodded. "I didn't think so." He gave her another long look, then moved to the back of the room. PJ. closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. She wanted to get this over with. The waiting was killing her. "Okay," Blue said. "Listen up. Here're the teams. Schneider's with Greene, Farber's with me. Bobby's with Wes, and Crash is with Lucky. Richards, you're with Senior Chief Becker." PJ. turned to look at Harvard. He was gazing at her, and she knew this was his doing. If he couldn't talk her out of the jump, he was going to go with her, to baby-sit her on the way down. "Out in the other room, you'll find a jumpsuit, a helmet and a belt pack with various supplies," Blue continued. "Including a length of rope." Farber raised his hand. "What's the rope for?" Blue smiled. "Just one of those things that might come in handy," he said. "Any other questions?" The room was silent. "Let's get our gear and get to the plane," Blue said. Harvard sat next to P.J. and fastened his seat belt as the plane carrying the team went wheels up. Sure enough, PJ. was a white-knuckle flyer. She clung to the armrests as if they were her only salvation. But her head was against the seat, and her eyes were closed. To the casual observer, she was totally relaxed and calm. She'd glanced at him briefly as he sat down, then went back to studying the insides of her eyelids. Harvard took the opportunity to look at her. She was pretty, but he'd had his share of pretty women before, many of them much more exotic-looking

than PJ. It was funny. He was used to gorgeous women throwing themselves at his feet, delivering themselves up to him like some gourmet meal on a silver platter. They were always the ones in pursuit. All he'd ever had to do was sit back and wait for them to approach him. But PJ. was different. With P.J., he was clearly the one doing the chasing. And every time he moved closer, she backed away. It was annoying—and as intriguing as hell. As the transport plane finally leveled off, she opened her eyes and looked at him. "You want to review the jump procedure again?" he asked her quietly. She shook her head. "There's not much to remember. I lift my feet and jump out of the plane. The static line opens the chute automatically." "If your chute tangles or doesn't open right," Harvard reminded her, "if something goes wrong, break free and make sure you're totally clear before you pull the second rip cord. And when you land—" "We went over all this in the classroom," PJ. interrupted. "I know how to land." "Talking about it isn't the same as doing it." She lowered her voice. "Daryl, I don't need you holding my hand." Daryl. She'd called him Daryl again. She'd called him that yesterday, too. He lowered his voice. "Aren't you just even a little bit glad I'm here?" "No." She held his gaze steadily. "Not when I know the only reason you're here is you don't think I can do this on my own." Harvard shifted in his seat to face her. "But that's what working in a team is all about. You don't have to do it on your own. You've got an issue with this particular exercise. That's cool. We can do a buddy jump—double harness, single chute. I'll do most of the work—I'll get us to the ground. You just have to close your eyes and hold on." "No. Thank you, but no. A woman in this business can't afford to have it look as if she needs help," she told him. He shook his head impatiently. "This isn't about being a woman. This is about being human. Everybody's got something they can't do as easily or as comfortably as the next man—person. So you've got a problem with heights—" "Shh," she said, looking around to see if anyone was listening. No one was. "When you're working in a team," Harvard continued, speaking more softly, "it doesn't do anybody any good for you to conceal your weaknesses. I sure as hell haven't kept mine hidden." PJ.'s eyes widened slightly. "You don't expect me to believe—" "Everybody's got something," he said again. "When you have to, you work through it, you ignore it, you suck it up and get the job done. But if you've got a team of seven or eight men and you need two men to scale the outside of a twenty-story building and set up recon on the roof, you pick the two guys who are most comfortable with climbing instead of the two who can do the job but have to expend a lot of energy focusing on not looking down. Of course, it's not al ways so simple. There are lots of other things to factor in in any given situation." "So what's yours?" P.J. asked. "What's your weakness?" From the tone of her voice and the disbelief in her eyes, she clearly didn't think he had one. Harvard had to smile. "Why don't you ask Wes or O'Donlon? Or Blue?" He leaned past PJ. and called to the other men, "Hey, Skelly. Hey, Bob. What do I hate more than anything?" "Idiots," Wes supplied. "Idiots with rank," Bobby added. "Being put on hold, traffic jams and cold coffee," Lucky listed. "No, no, no," Harvard said. "I mean, yeah, you're right, but I'm talking about the teams. What gives me the cold sweats when we're out on an op in the real world?" "SDVs," Blue said without hesitation. At PJ.'s questioning look, he explained. "Swimmer Delivery Vehicles. We sometimes use one when a team is being deployed from a nuclear sub. It's like a miniature submarine. Harvard pretty much despises them." "Getting into one is kind of like climbing into a coffin," Harvard told her. "That image has never sat really well with me." "The Senior Chief doesn't do too well in tight places," Lucky said. "I'm slightly claustrophobic," Harvard admitted, "Locking out of a sub through the escape trunk with him is also a barrel of laughs," Wes said with a snort. "We all climb from the sub into this little chamber—and I mean little, right, H.?"

Harvard nodded. "Very little." "And we stand there, packed together like clowns in a Volkswagen, and the room slowly fills with water," Wes continued. "Anyone who's even a little bit funny about space tends to do some serious teeth grinding." "We just put Harvard in the middle," Blue told P.J., "and let him close his eyes. When it's time to get going, when the outer lock finally opens, whoever's next to him gives him a little push—" "Or grabs his belt and hauls him along if his meditation mumbo jumbo worked a little too well," Wes added. "Some people are so claustrophobic they're bothered by the sensation of water surrounding them, and they have trouble scuba diving," Harvard told her. "But I don't have that issue. Once I'm in the water, I'm okay. As long as I can move my arms, I'm fine. But if I'm in tight quarters with the walls pressing in on me..." He shook his head. "I really don't like the sensation of having my arms pinned or trapped against my body. When that happens, I get a little tense." Lucky snickered. "A little? Remember that time—" "We don't need to go into that, thank you very much," Harvard interrupted. "Let's just say, I don't do much spelunking in my spare time." P.J. laughed. "I never would have thought," she said. "I mean, you come across as Superman's bigger brother." He smiled into her eyes. "Even old Supe had to deal with kryptonite." "Ten minutes," Wes announced, and the mood in the plane instantly changed. The men of Alpha Squad all became professionals, readying and double-checking the gear. Harvard could feel P.J. tighten. Her smile faded as she braced herself. He leaned toward her, lowering his voice so no one else could hear. "It's not too late to back out." "Yes, it is." "How often does your job require you to sky dive?" he argued. "Never. This is a fluke—" "Not never," she corrected him. "Once. At least once. This once. I can do this. I know I can. Tell me, how many times have you had to lock out of a sub?" "Too many times." Somehow she managed a smile. "I only have to do this once." "Okay, you're determined to jump. I can understand why you want to do it. But let's at least make this a single-chute buddy jump—" "No." PJ. took a deep breath. "I know you want to help. But even though you think that might help me in the short term, I know it'll harm me in the long run. I don't want people looking at me and thinking, 'She didn't have the guts to do it alone.' Hell, I don't want you looking at me and thinking that." "I won't—" "Yes, you will. You already think that. Just because I'm a woman, you think I'm not as strong, not as capable. You think I need to be protected." Her eyes sparked. "Greg Greene's sitting over there looking like he's about to have a heart attack. But you're not trying to talk him out of making this jump." Harvard couldn't deny that. "I'm making this jump alone," PJ. told him firmly, despite the fact that her hands were shaking. "And since we're being timed for this exercise, do me a favor. Once we hit the ground, try to keep up." PJ. couldn't look down. She stared at the chute instead, at the pure white of the fabric against the piercing blueness of the sky. She was moving toward the ground faster than she'd imagined. She knew she had to look down to pinpoint the landing zone—the LZ—and to mark in her mind the spot where Harvard hit the ground. She had little doubt he would come within a few dozen yards of the LZ, despite the strong wind coming from the west. Her stomach churned, and she felt green with nausea and dizziness as she gritted her teeth and forced herself to watch the little toy fields and trees beneath her. It took countless dizzying minutes—far longer than she would have thought—for her to locate the open area that had been marked as their targeted landing zone. And it had been marked. There was a huge bull's-eye blazed in white on the brownish green of the cut grass in the field. It was ludicrously blatant, and despite that, it had been absorbed by the pattern of fields and woods, and she nearly hadn't seen it. What would it be like to try to find an unmarked target? When the SEALs went on missions, their landing areas weren't marked. And they nearly

always made their jumps at night. What would it be like to be up here in the darkness, floating down into hostile territory, vulnerable and exposed? She felt vulnerable enough as it was, and no one on the ground wanted to kill her. The parachute was impossible for her to control. P.J. attempted to steer for the bull's-eye, but her arms felt boneless, and the wind was determined to send her to another field across the road. The trees were bigger now, and the ground was rushing up at her—at her and past her as a gust caught in the chute's cells and took her aloft instead of toward the ground. A line of very solid-looking trees and underbrush was approaching much too fast, but there was nothing PJ. could do. She was being blown like a leaf in the wind. She closed her eyes and braced herself for impact and...jerked to a stop. PJ. opened her eyes—and closed them fast. Dear, dear sweet Lord Jesus! Her chute had been caught by the branches of an enormous tree, and she was dangling thirty feet above the ground. She forced herself to breathe, forced herself to inhale and exhale until the initial roar of panic began to subside. As she slowly opened her eyes again, she looked into the branches above her. How badly was her chute tangled? If she tried to move around, would she shake herself free? She definitely didn't want to do that. That ground was too far away. A fall from this distance could break her legs—or her neck. She felt the panic return and closed her eyes, breathing again. Only breathing. A deep breath in, a long breath out. Over and over and over. When her pulse was finally down to ninety or a hundred, she looked into the tree again. There were big branches with leaves blocking most of her view of the chute, but what she could see seemed securely entangled. Sweat was dripping from her forehead, from underneath her helmet, and she wiped at it futilely. There were quick-release hooks that would instantly cut her free from the chute. They were right above her shoulders, and she reached above them, tugging first gently, then harder on the straps. She was securely lodged in the tree. She hoped. Still looking away from the ground, she brought one hand to her belt pack, to the length of lightweight rope that was coiled against her thigh. The rope was thin, but strong. And she knew why she had it with her. Without, she would have to dangle here until help arrived or risk almost certain injury by making the thirty-foot leap to the ground. She uncoiled part of the rope, careful to tie one end securely to her belt. This rope wouldn't do her a whole hell of a lot of good if she went and dropped it. She craned her neck to study the straps above her head. Her hands were shaking and her stomach was churning, but she told herself over and over again—as if it were a mantra— that she would be okay as long as she didn't look down. "Are you all right?" The voice was Harvard's, but P.J. didn't dare look at him. She felt a rush of relief, and it nearly pushed her over an emotional cliff. She took several deep, steadying breaths, forcing back the waves of emotion. God, she couldn't lose it Not yet. And especially not in front of this man. "I'm dandy," she said with much more bravado than she felt when she finally could speak. "In fact I'm thinking about having a party up here." "Damn, I thought for once you'd honestly be glad to see me." She was. She was thrilled to hear his voice, if not to actually see him. But she wasn't about to tell him that. "I suppose as long as you're here, you might as well help me figure out a way to get down to the ground." Her voice shook despite her efforts to keep it steady, giving her away. Somehow he knew to stop teasing her. Somehow he knew that she was way worse off than her shaking voice had revealed. "Tie one end of the rope around your harness," he told her calmly, his velvet voice soothing and confident. "And toss the rest of the rope up and over that big branch near you. I'll grab the end of the rope, anchoring you. Then you can release your harness from the chute and I'll lower you to the ground." PJ. was silent, still looking at the white parachute trapped in the tree. "You've just got to be sure you tie that rope to your harness securely. Can you do that for me, P.J.?" She was nauseous, she was shaking, but she could still tie a knot. She hoped. "Yes." But there was more here that had to be removed from the tree than just herself. "What about the chute?" she asked. "The chute's just fine," he told her. "Your priority—and my priority—is to get you down out of that tree safely." "I'm supposed to hide my chute. I don't think leaving it here in this tree like a big white banner fits Lieutenant McCoy's definition of hide." "P.J., it's only an exercise—" "Throw your rope up to me."

He was silent. PJ. had to go on faith that he was still standing there. She couldn't risk a look in his direction. "Throw me your rope," she said again. "Please? I can tie your rope around the chute, and then once I'm on the ground, we can try to pull it free." "You're going to have to look at me if you want to catch it." She nodded. "I know." "Tie your rope around your harness first," he told her. "I want to get you secure before we start playing catch." "Fair enough." PJ.'s hands were shaking so badly she could barely tie a knot. But she did it. She tied three different knots, and just as Harvard had told her, she tossed the coil of the rope over a very sturdy-looking branch. "That's good," Harvard said, approval heating his already warm voice. "You're doing really well." "Throw me your rope now. Please." "You ready for me?" She had to look at him. She lowered her gaze, and the movement of her head made her swing slightly. The ground, the underbrush, the rocks and leaves and Harvard seemed a terrifyingly dizzying distance away. She closed her eyes. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God..." "P.J., listen to me." Harvard's voice cut through. "You're safe, do you understand? I'm tying the end of your rope around my waist. I've got you. I will not let you fall." "These knots I tied—they could slip." "If they do, I swear, I'll catch you." P.J. was silent, trying desperately to steady her breathing and slow her racing heart. Her stomach churned. "Did you hear me?" Harvard asked. "You'll catch me," she repeated faintly. "I know. I know that." "Unhook your harness from the chute and let me get you down from there." God, she wanted that. She wanted that so badly. "But I need your rope first." Harvard laughed in exasperation. "Damn, woman, you're stubborn! This exercise is not that important. It's not that big a deal." "Maybe not to you, but it is to me!" As Harvard gazed at her, the solution suddenly seemed so obvious. "P.J., you don't have to catch my rope. You don't have to look down. You don't even have to open your eyes. I can tie mine onto the end of yours, and you can just pull it up." She laughed. It was a thin, scratchy, hugely stressed-out laugh, but it was laughter just the same. "Well, duh," she said. "Why didn't / think of that?" "It'll only work if you feel secure enough up there without me holding onto my end of your rope." "Do it," she said. "Just do it, so I can get down from here." Harvard quickly tied the coiled length of his rope to the end of PJ.'s. "Okay," he called. "Pull it up." He shaded his eyes, watching as P.J. tugged on the rope that was tied to her harness. She wrapped her rope around her arm between her elbow and her wrist as she took up the slack. He had to admire her control—she was able to think pretty clearly for someone who had been close to panic mere moments before. She worked quickly and soon tossed the ends of both ropes to the ground. Harvard looped the rope tied to her harness around his waist and tugged on it, testing the strength of the branch that would support PJ.'s weight. "Okay, I'm ready for you," he called to her. This wasn't going to be easy for her. She was going to have to release herself from the chute. She had to have absolute faith that he wouldn't let her fall. She didn't move, didn't speak. He wasn't sure she was breathing. "P.J., you've got to trust me," he said quietly, his voice carrying in the stillness of the afternoon.

She nodded. And reached up and unfastened the hooks. P.J. weighed practically nothing, even with all her gear. He lowered her smoothly, effortlessly, gently, but when her feet hit the ground, her knees gave out and she crumpled, for a moment pressing the front of her helmet to the earth. He moved quickly toward her as she pushed herself onto her knees. She looked at him as she took off her helmet, and the relief and emotion in her eyes were so profound, Harvard couldn't stop himself. He reached for her, pulling her into his arms and holding her close. She clung to him, and he could feel her heart still racing, hear her ragged breathing, feel her trembling. Harvard felt a welling of indescribable emotion. It was an odd mix of tenderness and admiration and sheer, bittersweet longing. This woman fit too damn well in his arms. "Thank you," she whispered, her face pressed against his shoulder. "Thank you." "Hey," he said, pulling back slightly and tipping her chin so she had to meet his eyes. "Don't thank me. You did most of that yourself. You did the hard part." P.J. didn't say anything. She just looked at him with those gigantic brown eyes. Harvard couldn't help himself. He lowered his mouth the last few inches that separated them and he kissed her. He heard her sigh as his lips covered hers, and it was that little breathless sound that shattered the very last of his resistance. He deepened the kiss, knowing he shouldn't, but no longer giving a damn. Her lips were so soft, her mouth so sweet, he felt his control melt like butter in a hot frying pan. He felt his knees grow weak with desire—desire and something else. Something big and frighteningly powerful. He closed his eyes against it, unable to analyze, unable to do anything but kiss her again and again. He kissed her hungrily now, and P.J. kissed him back so passionately he nearly laughed aloud. She was like a bolt of lightning in his arms—electrifying to hold. Her body was everything he'd imagined and then some. She was tiny but so perfect, a dizzying mix of firm muscles and soft flesh. He could cover one of her breasts completely with the palm of his hand—he could, and he did. And she pulled back, away from him, in shock. "Oh, my God," she breathed, staring at him, eyes wide, breaking free from his arms, moving away from him, scuttling back in the soft dirt on her rear end. Harvard sat on the ground. "I guess you were a little glad to see me after all, huh?" He meant to sound teasing, his words a pathetic attempt at a joke, but he could do little more than whisper. "We're late," PJ. said, turning away from him. "We have to hurry. I really screwed up our time." She pushed herself to her feet, her fingers fumbling as she unbuckled the harness and stepped out of the jumpsuit she wore over her fatigues and T-shirt. As Harvard watched, she took the rope attached to the chute and tried to finesse the snagged fabric and lines out of the tree. Luck combined with the fact that her body weight was no longer keeping the chute hooked in the branches, and it slid cooperatively down to the ground, covering PJ. completely. By the time Harvard stood to help her, she'd wrestled the parachute silk into a relatively small bundle and secured both it and her flight suit beneath a particularly thick growth of brambles. She swayed slightly as she consulted the tiny compass on her wristwatch. "This way," she said, pointing to the east Harvard couldn't keep his exasperation from sounding in his voice. Exasperation and frustration. "You don't really think you're going to walk all the way to the extraction site." "No," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. "I'm not going to walk, I'm going to run." PJ. stared at the list of times each of the pairs of SEALs and FInCOM agents had clocked during the afternoon's exercise. "I don't see what the big deal is," Schneider said with a nonchalant shrug. PJ. gave him an incredulous look. "Crash and Lucky took fourteen and a half minutes to check in at the extraction site— fourteen and a half minutes from the time they stepped out of the airplane to the time they arrived at the final destination. Bobby and Wes took a few seconds longer. You don't see the big difference between those times and the sixty-nine big, fat minutes you and Greene took? Or how about the forty-four minutes it took Lieutenant McCoy because he was saddled with Tim Farber? Or my score—forty-eight embarrassingly long minutes, even though I was working with the Senior Chief? Don't you see a pattern here?" Farber cleared his throat. "Lieutenant McCoy was not saddled with me—" "No?" P.J. was hot and tired and dizzy and feeling as if she might throw up. Again. She'd had to take a forced timeout during the run from the LZ to the check-in point. Her chicken-salad sandwich had had the final say in their ongoing argument, and she'd surrendered to its unconditional demands right there in the woods. Harvard had gotten out his radio and had been ready to call for medical assistance, but she'd staggered to her

feet and told him to put the damn thing away. No way was she going to quit—not after she'd come so far. Something in her eyes must have convinced him she was dead serious, because he'd done as she'd ordered. She'd made it all the way back—forty-eight minutes after she'd stepped out of that plane. "Look at the numbers again, Tim," she told Farber. "I know for a fact that if the Senior Chief had been paired with Lieutenant McCoy, they would have a time of about fifteen minutes. Instead, their time was not just doubled but tripled because they were saddled with inexperienced teammates." "That was the first time I've ever jumped out of a plane," Greg Greene protested. "We can't be expected to perform like the SEALs without the same extensive training." "But that's exactly the point," P.J. argued. "There's no way FlnCOM can provide us with the kind of training the Navy gives the SEAL teams. It's insane for them to think something like this Combined SEAL/FInCOM team could work with any efficiency. These numbers are proof. Alpha Squad can get the job done better and faster—not just twice as fast but three times faster—without our so-called help." "I'm sure with a little practice—" Tim Farber started. "We might only slow them down half as much?" P.J. interjected. She looked up to see Harvard leaning against a tree watching her. She quickly looked away, afraid he would somehow see the heat that instantly flamed in her cheeks. She'd lost her mind this afternoon, and she'd let him kiss her. No, correction—she hadn't merely let him kiss her. She'd kissed him just as enthusiastically. She could still feel the impossibly intimate sensation of his hand curved around her breast. Dear Lord, she hadn't known something as simple as a touch could feel so good. As Farber and the twin idiots wandered away, clearly not interested in hearing any more of her observations, Harvard pushed himself up and away from the tree. He took his time to approach her, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips. "You up for a ride to your hotel, or do you intend to run back?" Her lips were dry, and when she moistened them with the tip of her tongue, Harvard's gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there. When he looked into her eyes, she could see an echo of the flames they'd ignited earlier that day. His smile was gone, and the look on his face was pure predator. She didn't stand a chance against this man. The thought popped into her head, but she pushed it far away. That was ridiculous. Of course she stood a chance. She'd been approached and hit on and propositioned and pursued by all types of men. Harvard was no different So what if he was taller and stronger and ten times more dangerously handsome than any man she'd ever met? So what if a keen intelligence sparkled in his eyes? So what if his voice was like velvet and his smile like a sunrise? And so what if he'd totally redefined the word kiss—not to mention given new meaning to other words she'd ignored in the past, words like desire and want. Part of her wanted him to kiss her again. But the part of her that wanted that was the same part that had urged her, at age eleven, to let fourteenyear-old Jackson Porter steal a kiss in the alley alongside the corner market. It was the same part of her that could so easily have followed her mother's not quite full-grown footsteps. But P.J. had successfully stomped that impractical, romantically, childishly foolish side of her down before. Lord knows she could do it again. She wasn't sure she was ready yet to risk her freedom— not even for a chance to be with a man like Daryl Becker. "Come on." Harvard took her arm and led her toward the road. "I confiscated a jeep. You look as if you could use about twelve straight hours with your eyes shut." "My car's at the base." "You can pick it up tomorrow morning. I'll give you a lift back." PJ. glanced at him, wondering if she'd imagined the implication of his suggestion—that he would still be with her come morning. He opened the door of the jeep and would probably have lifted her onto the seat if she hadn't climbed in. She closed the door before he could do that for her. He smiled, acknowledging her feminist stance, and she had to look away. As Harvard climbed into the jeep and turned the key in the ignition, he glanced at her again. PJ. braced herself, waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to bring up the subject of that incredible, fantastic and absolutely inappropriate kiss. But he was silent. He didn't say a word the entire way to the hotel. And when he reached the driveway, he didn't park. He pulled up front, beneath the hotel overhang, to drop her off. PJ. used her best poker face to keep her surprise from showing. "Thanks for the ride, Senior Chief."

"How about I pick you up at 0730 tomorrow?" She shook her head. "It's out of your way. I can arrange to get to the base with Schneider or Greene." He nodded, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight as he gazed out the front windshield. "It's not that big a deal, and I'd like to pick you up. So I'll be here at 0730." He turned to look at her. "What I'd really like is to still be here at 0730." He smiled slightly. "It's not too late to invite me in." PJ. had to look away, her heart pounding almost as hard as it had been when she was hanging in that tree. "I can't do that." "That's too bad." "Yeah," she agreed, surprising herself by saying it aloud. She unlatched the door. She had to get out of there. God knows what else she might say. "I’ll see you at 0730," he said. "Right here." PJ. nodded. She didn't want to give in, but it seemed the easiest way to get him to take his bedroom eyes and those too-tempting lips and drive away. "All right." She pulled her aching body from the jeep. "I was really proud to know you today, Richards," Harvard said softly. "You proved to me that you can handle damn near anything. There're very few men—except for those in the teams—I can say that about." She looked at him in surprise, but he didn't stop. "You've done one hell of a good job consistently from day one," Harvard continued. "I have to admit, I didn't think a woman could cut it, but I'm glad you're part of the CSF team." PJ. snorted, then laughed. Then laughed even harder. "Wow," she said when she caught her breath. "You must really want to sleep with me." A flurry of emotions crossed his face. For the briefest of moments, he looked affronted. But then he smiled, shaking his head in amused resignation. "Yeah, I haven't given you much to work with here, have I? There's no real reason you should believe me." But he caught and held her gaze, his eyes nearly piercing in their intensity. "But I meant what I said. It wasn't some kind of line. I was really proud of you today, PJ." "And naturally, whenever you're proud of one of your teammates, you French kiss 'em." Harvard laughed at her bluntness. "No, ma'am. That was the first time I've ever had that experience while on an op." "Hmm," she said. "Yeah, what's that supposed to mean? Hmm?" "It means maybe you should think about what it would be like to be in my shoes. You just told me you think I'm more capable than most of the men you know, didn't you?" He held her gaze steadily. "That's right." "Yet you can't deal with me as an equal. You're impressed with me as a person, but that doesn't fit with what you know about the world. So you do the only thing you can do. You bring sex into the picture. You try to dominate and control. You may well be proud of me, brother, but you don't want those feelings to last. You want to put me back in my nice, safe place. You want to slide me into a role you can deal with—a role like lover, that you understand. So hmm means you should think about the way that might make me feel." PJ. closed the door to the jeep. She didn't give him time to comment She turned and walked into the hotel. She didn't look back, but she felt his eyes on her, watching her, until she was completely out of his line of sight. And even then, she felt the lingering power of Harvard's eyes.

Chapter 9 Harvard didn't catch up to P.J. until after lunch. She'd left messages on his voice mail—both at home and in the office— telling him not to bother giving her a ride to the base in the morning. She was going in early, and it worked for her to catch a ride with Chuck Schneider. He'd tried phoning her back, but the hotel was holding her calls. Harvard had thought about everything she said to him as she got out of the jeep last night. He'd thought hard about it well into the early hours of the morning. And he thought about it first thing when he woke up, as well. But it wasn't until they were both heading to a meeting at the Quonset hut after lunch that he was able to snatch a few seconds to talk to her. "You're wrong," he said without any ceremony, without even the civility of a greeting. P.J. glanced at him, then glanced at Farber, who was walking alongside Joe Cat. The two men were a few yards ahead of her. She slowed her pace, clearly not wanting either of them to overhear. But there was nothing to overhear. "Now's not the time to get into this discussion," Harvard continued. "But I just wanted you to know that I've thought —very carefully—about everything you said, and my conclusion is that you're totally off base." "But—" He opened the door to the Quonset hut and held it for her, gesturing for her to go in first "I’d be more than happy to sit down with you this evening, maybe have an iced tea or two, and talk this through." She didn't answer. She didn't say yes, but she didn't give him an immediate and unequivocal no, either. Harvard took that as a good sign. The main room in the Quonset hut had been set up as a briefing area. Harvard moved to the front of the room to stand next to Joe Cat and Blue. He watched as PJ. took a seat. She made a point not to look at him. In fact, she looked damn near everywhere but at him. That was, perhaps, not such a good sign. PJ. paid rapt attention to Joe Cat as he outlined the exercise that would take place over the next few days. Day one would be preparation. The CSF team would receive Intel reports about a mock hostage situation. Day two would be the first phase of the rescue—location and reconnaissance of the tangos holding the hostages. Day three would be the rescue. Harvard looked at the four finks sitting surrounded by the men of Alpha Squad. Schneider and Greene looked perpetually bored, as usual. Farber looked slightly disattached, as if his thoughts weren't one hundred percent on the project being discussed. And PJ... As the captain continued to talk, PJ. looked more and more perplexed and more and more uncomfortable. She shifted in her seat and glanced at Farber and the others but got no response from them. She risked a glance in Harvard's direction. There were about a million questions in her eyes, and he suspected he knew exactly what she wanted answered. She finally raised her hand. "Excuse me, Captain, I'm not sure I understand." "I'm afraid I can't go into any specifics at this time," Cat told her. "In order for this training op to ran effectively, I can't give you any further information than I already have." "Begging your pardon, sir," P.J. said, "but it seems to me that you've already given us too much information. That's what I don't understand. You've tipped us off as to the nature of this exercise. And what's the deal with giving us an entire day to prepare? In a real-life scenario, we'll have no warning. And everything I've learned from you to date stresses the importance of immediate action. Sitting around with an entire day of prep time doesn't read as immediate in my book." Joe Cat moved to the front of the desk he'd been standing behind, sat on the edge and looked at P.J. He didn't speak for several long moments. "Anything else bothering you, Richards?" he finally asked. As Harvard watched, P.J. nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm wondering why the location of the terrorists and the rescue attempt will take place over the course of two individual days in two different phases of activity. That also doesn't gel with a realistic rescue scenario. In the real world," she said, using the SEAL slang for genuine real-life operations, "we wouldn't go back to our hotel for a good night's sleep in the middle of a hostage crisis. I don't understand why we're going to be doing that here." The captain glanced first at Blue and then at Harvard. Then he turned to the other finks. "Anyone else have the same problems Ms. Richards is having?" he asked. "Mr. Farber? You have any problems with our procedure?" Farber straightened up, snapping to attention. As Harvard watched, he saw the FInCOM agent study the captain's face, trying to read from Joe's expression whether he should agree or disagree. "He's looking for your opinion, Mr. Farber," Harvard indicated. "There's no right answer."

Farber shrugged. "Then I guess I'd have to say no. A training exercise is a training exercise. We go into it well aware that it’s make-believe. There're no real hostages, and there's no real danger. So there's no real point to working around the clock to—" "Wrong," Harvard interrupted loudly. "There's no right answer, but there are wrong answers, and you're wrong. There's a list of reasons longer than my—" he glanced at P.J. "—arm as to why it's vitally necessary to train under conditions that are as realistic as possible." "Then why are we wasting our time with this half-baked exercise?" PJ. interjected. "Because FlnCOM gave us a rule book," Joe explained, "that outlined in pretty specific detail exactly what we could and could not subject the CSF agents to. We're limited to working within any given ten-hour period. We can't exceed that without providing you with a minimum of eight hours down time." "But that's absurd," PJ. protested. "With those restrictions, there's no way we're going to be able to set up a scenario that has any basis in reality. I mean, part of the challenge of dealing with the stress of a hostage crisis is coping with little or no sleep, of being on the job forty-eight or seventytwo or—God!—ninety hours in a row. Of catching naps in the back of a car or in the middle of the woods or... This is ludicrous." She gestured toward herself and the other FlnCOM agents. "We're big boys and girls. We've all been on assignments that have required us to work around the clock. What's the deal?" "Someone upstairs at FlnCOM is afraid of the SEAL teams," Joe said. "I think they think we're going to try to drag you through some version of BUD/s training. We've tried to assure them that's not possible or even desirable. We've been actively trying to persuade FlnCOM to revise that restrictive rule for weeks now. Months." "This is just plain stupid." PJ. wasn't mincing words. "I can't believe Kevin Laughton would agree to this." Harvard stepped forward again. "We haven't been able to reach Laughton," he told her. "Apparently the man has dropped off the face of the earth." PJ. looked at her watch, looked at the "Baywatch" calendar that was pinned to the wall near Wesley's computer. "Of course you haven't been able to reach him. Because he's on vacation," she said. "He's got a beach house on Pawley's Island in South Carolina." She stood. "Captain, if you let me use your office, I can call him right now—at least make him aware of the situation." "You have the phone number of Laughton's vacation house?" Harvard couldn't keep from asking. PJ. and Laugh-ton. There was that image again. He liked it even less today. PJ. didn't answer. Joe had already led her into his office, shutting the door behind her to give her privacy. Harvard turned to the finks and SEALs still sitting in rows. "I think we're done here for now," he said, dismissing them. He turned to find the captain and Blue exchanging a long look. "How well does she know Laughton, anyway?" Joe murmured. Blue didn't answer, but Harvard knew exactly what both men were thinking. If she knew her boss well enough to have his home phone number, she knew him pretty damn well. The call came within two hours. Harvard was surfing the net, wondering how long he'd have to wait before he could head over to PJ.'s hotel, wondering if she'd agree to have a drink with him or if she'd hide in her room, not answer the phone when he called from the lobby. Wondering exactly what her connection to Kevin Laughton was. The phone rang, and Wes scooped it up. "Skelly." He sat a little straighter. "Yes, sir. One moment, Admiral, sir." He put the call on hold. "Captain, Admiral Stonegate on line one." Joe went into his office to take the call. Blue went in with him, closing the door tightly behind them both. "That was too quick." Lucky was the first to speak, look ing up from his computerized game of golf. "He's either not calling about the FlnCOM project or he's calling to say no." "How well does PJ. know Kevin Laughton?" Bobby put down his book to voice the question they all were thinking. "How well do you have to know a girl before you give her the phone number of your beach house?" Wes countered. "I don't have a beach house," Bobby pointed out. "Suppose that you did." "I guess it would really depend on how much I liked the girl." "And what the girl looks like," Lucky added. "We know what the girl looks like," Wes said. "She looks like PJ. Exactly like PJ. She is PJ." "For PJ. I'd consider going out and buying a beach house, just so I could give her my number there," Bobby decided.

Harvard spun around in his chair, unable to listen to any more inane speculation. "The girl is a woman and her ears are probably ringing with all this talk about her. Show a little respect here. So she had her boss's phone number. So what?" "The Senior Chief is probably right," Wes said with a grin. "Laughton probably gives his vacation phone number to all the agents he works with— not just the beautiful female agents he's sleeping with." Crash spoke. He'd been so quiet, Harvard had almost forgotten he was in the room. "I've heard that Laughton just got married. He doesn't seem to be the kind of man who would cheat on his wife—let alone a bride of less than a year." "And PJ.'s not the kind of woman who would get with a married man," Harvard added, trying to convince himself as well. He'd come to know PJ. well over the past few weeks. He shouldn't doubt her, but still, there was this tiny echo of a voice that kept asking, Are you sure? "I'm friends with a guy who's working for the San Diego police," Lucky said, opening the wrapper of a granola bar. "He said working with women in the squad adds all kinds of craziness to the usual stress of the job. If you're working a case with a female partner and there's any kind of attraction there at all, it can easily get blown out of proportion. Think about it. You know how everything gets heightened when you're out on an op." Harvard kept his face carefully expressionless. He knew firsthand what that was about. He'd experienced it yesterday afternoon. The captain came out of his office, grinning. "We got it," he announced "Permission to trash the rule book and permission to take our little finks out of the country for some on-location fun and games. We're going west, guys—so far west, it's east. Whatever P.J. said to Kevin Laughton—it had an impact." "There's your proof," Lucky said. "She calls Laughton, two hours later, major policies are changed. She's doin' him. Gotta be." Harvard had had enough. He stood up, the wheels of his chair rattling across the concrete floor. "Has it occurred to you that Laughton might have responded so quickly because he respects and values PJ.'s opinion as a member of his staff?" Lucky took another bite of his granola bar, thinking for a moment while he chewed. "No," he said with his mouth full. "She's not interested in any kind of new relationship—she told me that herself. She doesn't want a new relationship because she's already got an old relationship. With Kevin Laughton." Harvard laughed in disbelief. "You're speculating." He turned to the captain. "Why are we talking about this? PJ.'s relationship with Laughton is none of our damned business— whatever it may be." "Amen to that," Joe Cat said. "The exercise start date has been pushed back two days," he announced. "Anyone on the CSF team should take a few days of leave, get some rest." He looked at Crash. "Sorry, Hawken. I know you're going to be disappointed, but apparently there are a few Marines who've been working with the locals, and they're going to be our terrorists for this exercise. You're going to have to go along as one of the good guys." Crash's lips moved into what might have been a smile. "Too bad.” The captain looked at Harvard. "We're going to have to notify PJ. and the other finks—let 'em know we're heading to Southeast Asia." "I'll take care of that," Harvard said. Joe Cat smiled. "I figured you'd want to." "Make sure you tell 'em to put their wills and personal effects in order," Wes said with a grin that dripped pure mischief. "Because from now on, there're no rules." PJ. finished the steak and baked potato she'd ordered from room service and set the tray in the hall outside her room. She showered and pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of cutoff sweatpants and then, only then, did she phone the hotel desk and ask them to stop holding her calls. There was a message on her voice mail from Kevin, telling her he'd managed to pull the necessary strings. The CSF team project would be given the elbow room it needed, without interference. There was also a message from Harvard—"Call me. It's important." He'd left his beeper number. PJ. wrote the number down. She knew he wanted to talk to her, to try to convince her he didn't want to have sex with her in an attempt to dominate and put her securely in her place as first and foremost a woman. No, his feelings of desire had grown out of the extreme respect he had for her, and from his realization that gender didn't matter in the work she did. Yeah, right. Of course, he might have asked her to call so he could give her some important work-related information. Kevin's message meant there was bound to be some news. As much as she didn't want to—and she didn't want to call Harvard, she told herself—she was going to have to. But first she had more important things to do, such as checking in with the weather channel, to see if Mr. Murphy was going to send a tropical

depression into their midst on the days they were scheduled to battle the steely-eyed Lieutenant William Hawken and his merry band of mock terrorists. The phone rang before she'd keyed up the weather channel with the remote control. PJ. hit the mute button and picked up the call. "Richards." "Yo, it's H. Did you just page me?" P.J. closed her eyes. "No. No, not yet. I was going to, but—" "Good, you got my message, at least. Why don't you come down to the bar and—" PJ. forced herself to sound neutral and pleasant. "Thanks, but no. I'm ready for bed—" "It's only twenty hundred." His voice nearly cracked in disbelief. "You can't be serious—" "I'm very serious. We've got some tough days ahead of us, starting tomorrow," she told him. "I intend to sleep as much now as I possibly—" "Starting tomorrow, we've got two days of leave," he interrupted her. Of all the things she'd expected him to say, that wasn't on the list. "We do?" "We'll be boarding a plane for Southeast Asia on Thursday. Until then we've got a break." "Southeast Asia?" PJ. laughed, tickled with delight "Kevin really came through, didn't he? What a guy! He deserves something special for this one. I'm going to have to think long and hard." On the other end of the line, Harvard was silent. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded different. Stiffer. More formal. "Richards, come downstairs. We really have to talk." Now the silence was all hers. PJ. took a deep breath. "Daryl, I'm sorry. I don't think it's—" "All right. Then I'll be right up." "No—" He'd already hung up. PJ. swore sharply, then threw the phone's handset into the cradle with a clatter. Her bed was a rumpled mess of unmade blankets and sheets, her pillow slightly indented from her late afternoon nap. She didn't want to make her bed. She wasn't going to make her bed, damn it. She'd meet him at the door, and they'd step outside into that little lobby near the elevators to talk. He'd say whatever it was he had to say, she'd turn him down one more time, and then she'd go back into her room. He knocked, and PJ. quickly rifled through the mess on the dresser to find her key card. Slipping it into the pocket of her shorts, she went to the door. She peeked out the peephole. Yeah, it was definitely Harvard. She opened the door. He wasn't smiling. He was just standing there, so big and forbidding. "May I come in?" PJ. forced a smile. "Maybe we should talk outside." Harvard glanced over his shoulder, and she realized there were people sitting on the sofa and chairs by the elevators. "I would prefer the privacy of your room. But if you're uncomfortable with that..." Admitting she had a problem sitting down and talking to Harvard in the intimate setting of her hotel room would be tantamount to admitting she was not immune to his magnetic sexuality. Yes, she was uncomfortable. But her discomfort was not because she was afraid he would try to seduce her — that was a given. Her discomfort came from her fear that once he started touching her, once he started kissing her, she wouldn't have the strength to turn him down. And God help her if he ever realized that. "I just want to talk to you," he said, searching her eyes. "Throw on a pair of shoes and we can go for a walk. I'll wait for you by the elevator," he added when she hesitated. It was a good solution. She didn't have to change out of her shorts and T-shirt to go to the bar, but she didn't have to let him into her room, either. "I’ll be right there," PJ. told him. It took a moment to find her sandals under the piles of dirty clothes scattered around the room. She finally slipped her feet into them and, taking a deep breath, left her room. Harvard was holding an elevator, and he followed her in and pushed the button for the main floor of the big hotel complex. He was silent all the way down, silent as she led the way out of the hotel lobby and headed toward the glistening water of the swimming pool.

The sky was streaked with the colors of the setting sun, and the early evening still held the muggy heat of the day. A family—mother, father, two young children—were in the pool, and several couples, one elderly, the other achingly young, sat in the row of lounge chairs watching the first stars of the evening appear. Harvard was silent until they had walked to the other side of the pool. "I have a question for you," he finally said, leaning against the railing that overlooked the deep end. "A personal question. And I keep thinking, this is not my business. But then I keep thinking that in a way, it is my business, because it affects me and..." He took a deep breath, letting it out in a burst of air. "I'm talking all around it, aren't I? I suppose the best way to ask is simply to ask point-blank." P.J. could feel tension creeping into her shoulders and neck. He wanted to ask a personal question. Was it possible he'd somehow guessed? He was, after all, a very perceptive man. Was it possible he'd figured it out from those kisses they'd shared? She took a deep breath. Maybe it was better that he knew. On the other hand, maybe it wasn't. Maybe he'd take it—and her—as some kind of a challenge. "You can ask whatever you want," she told him, "but I can't promise I'm going to answer." He turned toward her, his face shadowed in the rapidly fading light. "Is the reason you've been pushing me away—" Here it came. "—because of your relationship with Kevin Laughton?" PJ. heard the words, but they were so different from the ones she'd been expecting, it took a moment for her to understand what he'd asked. Kevin Laughton. Relationship. Relationship? But then she understood. She understood far too well. "You think because I have Kevin's home number, because I have direct access to the man when he's on vacation, that I must be getting it on with him, don't you?" She shook her head in disgust, moving away from him. "I should've known. With men like you, everything always comes down to sex." Harvard followed her. "P.J., wait. Talk to me. Are you saying no? Are you saying there's nothing going on between you and Laughton?" She turned to face him. "The only thing going on between me and Kevin—besides our highly exemplary work relationship—is a solid friendship. Kind of like what I thought you and I had going between us. The man is married to one of my best friends from college, a former roommate of mine. I introduced them because I like Kevin and I thought Elaine would like him even more, in a different way. I was right, and they got married last year. The three of us continue to be good friends. I've spent time at the beach house on Pawley's Island with the two of them. Does that satisfy your sordid curiosity?" "P.J., I'm sorry—" "Not half as sorry as I am. Let me guess—the whole damned Alpha Squad is speculating as to how many different times and different ways I've had to get it on with Kevin in order to get his home phone number, right?" P.J. didn't give him a chance to answer. "But if I were a man, everyone would've just assumed I was someone who had earned Kevin Laughton's trust through hard work." "You're right to be upset," Harvard said. "It was wrong of me to think that way. I was jealous—" "I bet you were," she said sharply. "You were probably thinking it wasn't fair—Kevin getting some, you not getting any." She turned to walk away, but he moved quickly, blocking her path. "I'd be lying if I said sex didn't play a part in the way I was feeling," Harvard said, his voice low. "But there's so much more to this thing we've got going—this friendship, I guess I'd have to call it for lack of a better name. In a lot of ways, the relationship you have with Laughton is far more intimate than any kind of casual sexual fling might be. And I’m standing here feeling even more jealous about that. I know it's stupid, but I like you too much to want to share you with anyone else." The edge on PJ.'s anger instantly softened. This man sure could talk a good game. And the look in his eyes was enough to convince her he wasn't just slinging around slick, empty words. He was confused by having a real friendship with a woman, and honest enough to admit it. "Friends don't own friends," she told him gently. "In fact, I thought the entire issue of people owning other people was taken care of a few hundred years ago." Harvard smiled. "I don't want to own you." "Are you sure about that?" Harvard was silent for a moment, gazing into her eyes. "I want to be your lover," he told her. "And maybe your experiences with other men have led you to believe that means I want to dominate and control—as you so aptly put it the other day. And while I'd truly love to make you beg, chances are if we ever get into that kind of...position, you're going to be hearing me do some begging, too." He was moving closer, an inch at a time, but P.J. was frozen in place, pinned by the look in his eyes and the heat of his soft words. He touched the

side of her face, gently skimming the tips of his fingers across her cheek. "We've played it your way, and we're friends, P.J.," he said softly. "I like being your friend, but there's more that I want to share with you. Much more. "We can go into this with our eyes open," he continued. "We can go upstairs to your room, and you can lend yourself to me tonight—and I'll lend myself to you. No ownership, no problems." Harvard ran his thumb across her lips. "We can lock your door and we don't have to come out for two whole days." He lowered his head to kiss her softly, gently. PJ. felt herself sway toward him, felt herself weakening. Two whole days in this man's arms... Never in her life had she been so tempted. "Let's go upstairs," he whispered. He kissed her again, just as sweetly, as if he'd realized that gentle finesse would get him farther than soulstealing passion. But then he stepped away from her, and PJ. realized that all around the pool, lights were going on. One went on directly overhead, and they were no longer hidden by the shadows of the dusk. Harvard still held her hand, though, drawing languorous circles on her palm with his thumb. He was looking at her as if she were the smartest, sexiest, most desirable woman on the entire planet And she knew that she was looking at him with an equal amount of hunger in her eyes. She wanted him. Worst of all, despite her words, she knew she wanted to own him. Heart, body and soul, she wanted this incredible man for herself and herself alone, and that scared her damn near witless. She turned away, pulling from his grasp, pressing the palms of her hands against the rough wood of the railing, trying to rid herself of the lingering ghost of his touch. "This is a really bad idea." She had to work hard, and even then her voice sounded thin and fluttery. He stepped closer, close enough so she could feel his body heat but not quite close enough to touch her. "Logically, yes," he murmured. "Logically, it's insane. But sometimes you've got to go with your gut—and I'm telling you, PJ, every instinct I've got is screaming that this is the best idea I've had in my entire life." All her instincts were screaming, too. But they were screaming the opposite. This may well be the right man, but was so the wrong time. Those treacherous, treasonous feelings she was having— the crazy need to possess this man—had to be stomped down, hidden away. She had to push these thoughts far from her, and even though she was by no means an expert when it came to intimate relationships, she knew that getting naked with Harvard Becker would only make things worse. She had to be able to look at him, to work with him over the next few weeks and be cool and rational. She wasn't sure she could spend two days making love to him and then pretend there was nothing between them. She wasn't that good an actor. "Daryl, I can't," she whispered. He'd been holding his breath, she realized, and he let it out in a rush that was half laughter. "I would say, give me one good reason, except I'm pretty sure you've got a half a dozen all ready and waiting, reasons I haven't even thought of." She did have half a dozen reasons, but they were all reasons she couldn't share with him. How could she tell him she couldn't risk becoming intimate because she was afraid of falling in love with him? But she did have one reason she knew he would understand. She took a deep breath. "I've never been with... anyone." Harvard didn't understand what P.J. meant. He knew she was telling him something important—he could see that in her eyes. But he couldn't make sense of her words. Never been where? "You know, I've always hated the word virgin," P.J. told him, and suddenly what she'd said clicked. "I came from a neighborhood where eleven-yearold girls were taunted by classmates for still being virgins." Harvard couldn't help laughing in disbelief. "No way. Are you telling me you're—" Damn, he couldn't even say the word. "A virgin." That was the word. Turning her to face him and searching her eyes, he stopped laughing. "My God, you're serious, aren't you?" "I used to lie about it," she told him, pulling away to look out over the swimming pool. "Even when I went to college where, you know, you'd expect people to be cool about what ever personal choices other people make in their lives, I had to lie. For some reason, it was okay to be celibate for— well, you name the reason—taking time off from the dating scene, or concentrating on grades for a while, or finding your own space—but it was only okay if you'd been sexually active in the past But as soon as people found out you were a virgin, God, it was as if you had some disease you had to be cured of as soon as possible. Forget about personal choice. I watched other girls get talked into doing things they didn't really want to do with boys they didn't really like, and so I just kept on lying."

She turned to face him then. "But I didn't want to lie to you." Harvard cleared his throat. He cleared it again. "I'm, um..." She smiled. "Look at you. I've managed to shock Alpha Squad's mighty Senior Chief." Harvard found his voice. "Yes," he said. "Shocked is a good word for it." She was standing there in front of him, waiting. For what? He wasn't quite sure of the protocol when the woman he'd been ferociously trying to seduce all evening admitted she'd never been with a man before. Some men might take her words as a challenge. Here was a big chance to boldly go where no man had gone before. The prospect could be dizzyingly exciting—until the looming responsibility of such an endeavor came lumbering into view. This woman had probably turned down dozens, maybe even hundreds of men. The fact that she clearly saw him as a major temptation was outrageously flattering, but it was frightening, too. What if he could apply the right amount of sweet talk and pressure to make her give in? What if he did go up to her room with her tonight? This would not be just another casual romantic interlude. This would be an important event. Was he ready for that? Was he ready for this woman to get caught up in the whirlwind of physical sensations and mistake a solid sexual encounter for something deeper, like love? Harvard looked into PJ.'s eyes. "What I want to know is what drives a person to keep one very significant part of her life locked up tight for so many years," he said. "An incredible, vibrant, passionate woman like you. It's not like you couldn't have your pick of men." "When I was a little girl, no more than five or six years old," she told him quietly, "I decided I was going to wait to find a man who would love me enough to marry me first, you know? I didn't really know too much about sex at the time, but I knew that both my grandmother and my mother hadn't waited—whatever that meant. I saw all these girls in the neighborhood with their big expanding bellies—girls who hadn't waited. It was always whispered. Priscilla Simons hadn't waited. Cheri Richards hadn't waited. I decided I was going to wait. "And then when I did start to understand, I was all caught up in the books I read. I was hooked on that fairy-tale myth— you know, waiting on Prince Charming. That carried me through quite a few years." Harvard stayed quiet, waiting for her to go on. P.J. sighed. "I still sometimes wish life could be that simple, though I'm well aware it's not. I may never have been with a man, but I'm no innocent. I know that no man in his right mind is going to be foolish enough to marry a woman without taking her for a test drive, so to speak. And no woman should do that, either. Sexual compatibility is important in a relationship. I do believe that. But deep inside, I've got this little girl who's just sitting there, quietly waiting." She laughed, shaking her head. "I see that nervous look in your eyes. Don't worry. I'm not hinting for a marriage proposal or anything. Being tied down is the last thing I want or need. See, as I got older, I saw more and more of the pitiful samples of men my mother collected, and I started to think maybe marriage wasn't what I wanted. I mean, who in her right mind would want to be permanently tied to one of these losers? Not me." Harvard found his voice. "But not all men are losers." "I know that. As I got older, my scope of experience widened, and I met men who weren't drug dealers or thieves. I made friends with some of them. But only friends. I guess old habits die hard. Or maybe I never really trusted any of them. Or maybe I just never met anyone I've wanted to get with." Until now. P.J. didn't say the words aloud, but they hung between them as clear as the words in a cartoon bubble. "I'm not telling you this to create some kind of challenge for you," she added, as if she'd been able to read his mind. "I'm just trying to explain where I'm coming from and why now probably isn't the best time for me and you." Probably isn't wasn't the same as just plain isn't. Harvard knew that if he was going to talk her into inviting him upstairs, now was the time. He should move closer, touch the side of her face, let her see the heat in his eyes. He should talk his way into her room. He should tell her there was so much more for them to say. But he couldn't do it. Not without really thinking it through. Instead of reaching for her, he rested his elbows on the railing. "It's okay," he said softly. "I can see how this complicates things—for me as well as for you." The look in her eyes nearly killed him. She managed to look both relieved and disappointed. They stood together in silence for several long moments. Then P.J. finally sighed. Harvard had to hold tightly to the railing to keep from following her as she backed away. "I'm, uh, I guess I'm going to go back up. To my room. Now." Harvard nodded. "Good night." She turned and walked away. He stared at the reflected lights dancing on the surface of the swimming pool, thinking about the life P.J. had had as a child, thinking about all she'd had to overcome, thinking about how strong she must've been even as a tiny little girl, thinking about her up there in that tree, getting the job done despite her fears, thinking about the sweet taste of her kisses.... And thinking that having a woman like that fall in love with him might not be the worst thing in the world.

Chapter 10 The first ring jarred her out of a deep sleep. The second ring made P.J. roll over and squint at the clock. She picked up the phone on the third ring. "It's five forty-five, I've got my first morning off in more than four weeks. This better be notification from the lottery commission that I've just won megabucks." "What if I told you I was calling with an offer that was better than winning megabucks?" Harvard. It was Harvard. PJ. sat up, instantly awake. She had been so certain her blunt-edged honesty had scared him to death. She'd been convinced her words had sent him running far away from her as fast as his legs could carry him. She'd spent most of last night wondering and worrying if the little news bomb she'd dropped on him had blown up their entire friendship. She'd spent most of last night realizing how much she'd come to value him as a friend. "I was positive you'd be awake," he said cheerfully, as if nothing even the slightest bit heavy had transpired between them. "I pictured you already finishing up your first seven mile run of the day. Instead, what do I find? You're still studying the insides of your eyelids! You're absolutely unaware that the sun is up and shining and that it is a perfect day for a trip to Phoenix, Arizona." "I can't believe you woke me up at five forty-five on one of only two days I have to sleep late for the next four weeks," P.J. complained, trying to play it cool. She was afraid to acknowledge how glad she was he'd called even to herself, let alone to him.. But she hadn't scared him away. They were still friends. And she was very, very glad. "Yeah, I know it's early," he said, "but I thought the idea of heading into the heart of the desert during the hottest part of the summer would be something you'd find irresistible." "Better than winning megabucks, huh?" "Not to mention the additional bonus—the chance to see my parents' new house." "You are such a chicken," PJ. said. "This doesn't have anything to do with me wanting to see the desert. This is all about you having to deal with seeing your parents' new house for the first time. Poor baby needs someone to come along and hold his hand." "You're right," he said, suddenly serious. "I'm terrified. I figure I could either do this the hard way and just suck it up and go, or I could make it a whole hell of a lot easier and ask you to come along." PJ. didn't know what to say. She grasped at the first thing that came to mind. "Your parents have barely moved in. They couldn't possibly be ready for extra houseguests." "I don't know how big their house is," Harvard admitted. "I figured you and I would probably just stay in a hotel. In separate rooms," he added. PJ. was silent. "I know what you're thinking," he said "Oh, yeah, what's that?" "You're thinking, the man is dogging me because he wants some." "The thought has crossed my mind—" "Well, you're both wrong and right," Harvard told her. "You're right about the fact that I want you." He laughed softly. "Yeah, you're real right about that. But I'm not going to chase or pressure you, PJ. I figure, when you're ready, if you're ever ready, you'll let me know. And until then, we'll play it your way. I'm asking you to come to Phoenix with me as friends." PJ. took a deep breath. "What time is the flight?" "Would you believe in forty-five minutes?" PJ. laughed. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'd believe that." "Meet me out front in ten minutes," he told her. "Carry-on bag only, okay?" "Daryl!" "Yeah?" "Thanks," PJ. said. "Just...thanks." "I'm the one who should be thanking you for coming with me," he said, just as quietly. He took a deep breath. "Okay," he added much more loudly. "We all done with this heartfelt mushy stuff? Good. Let's go, Richards! Clock's ticking. Downstairs. Nine minutes! Move!" "I always think about wind shear." Harvard looked over to find PJ.'s eyes tightly shut as the huge commercial jet lumbered down the runway. She had her usual death grip on the armrests. "Well, don't," he said. "Hold my hand."

She opened one eye and looked at him. "Or I think about the improbability of something this big actually making it off the ground." He held out his hand, palm up, inviting her to take it. "You want to talk physics, I can give you the 411, as you call it, complete with numbers and equations, on why this sucker flies," he said. "And then," she said, as if she hadn't heard him at all, "when I hear the wheels retract, I think about how awful it would be to fall." Harvard pried her fingers from the armrest and placed her hand in his. "I won't let you fall." She smiled ruefully, pulling her hand free. "When you say it like that, I can almost believe you." He held her gaze. "It's okay if you hold my hand." "No, it's not." "Friends can hold hands." P.J. snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure you and Joe Cat do it all the time." Harvard had to smile at that image. "If he needed me to, I'd hold his hand." "He'd never need you to." "Maybe. Maybe not." "Look, I'm really okay with flying," P.J. told him. "It's just takeoff that gets me a little tense." "Yeah," Harvard said, looking at her hands gripping the armrests. "Now that we're in the air, you're really relaxed." She had small hands with short, neat, efficient-looking nails. Her fingers were slender but strong. They were good hands, capable hands. She may not have been able to palm a basketball, but neither could most of the rest of the world. He liked the way his hand had engulfed hers. He knew he'd like the sensation of their fingers laced together. "I am relaxed," she protested. "You know, all I'd have to do is close my eyes, and I'd be asleep in five minutes. Less." "That's not relaxed," he scoffed. "That's defensive unconsciousness. You know you're stuck in this plane until we land in Phoenix. There's no way out, so your body just shuts down. Little kids do it all the time when they get really mad or upset. I've seen Frankie Catalanotto do it—he's getting into that terrible-two thing early. One second he's screaming the walls down because he can't have another cookie, and the next he's sound asleep on the living room rug. It's like someone threw a switch. It's a defense mechanism." "I love it when you compare me to a child going through the terrible twos." "You want me to buy you a beer, little girl?" She gave him something resembling a genuine smile. "On a six-thirty-in-the-morning flight...?" "Whatever works." "I usually bring my Walkman and a book on tape," P.J. told him. "And I listen to that while I catch up on paperwork. Can't do too many things and maintain a high level of terror all at the same time." Harvard nodded. "You cope. You do what you have to do when you have no choice. But every now and then you can let yourself get away with holding onto someone's hand." PJ. shook her head. "I've never felt I could afford that luxury." She looked away, as if she knew she might have said too much. And Harvard was suddenly aware of all the things he didn't know about this woman. She'd told him a little—just a little—about her wretched childhood. He also knew she had huge amounts of willpower and self-control. And drive. She had more drive and determination than most of the SEAL candidates he saw going through BUD/s training in Coronado. "Why'd you join FInCOM?" he asked. "And I'm betting it wasn't to collect all those frequent-flyer miles." That got him the smile he was hoping for. PJ. had a great smile, but often it was fleeting. She narrowed her eyes as she caught her lower lip between her teeth, pondering his question. "I don't really know why," she told him. "It's not like I wanted to be a FInCOM agent from the time I was five or anything like that. I went to college to study law. But I found that achingly boring. I had just switched to a business program when I was approached by a FInCOM recruitment team. I listened to what they had to say, taking all the glory and excitement they told me about with a grain of salt, of course, but..." She shrugged expressively. "I took the preliminary tests kind of as a lark. But each test I passed, each higher level I progressed to, I realized that maybe I was onto something here. I had these instincts—this was something I was naturally good at. It was kind of like picking up a violin and realizing I could play an entire Mozart concerto. It was cool. It wasn't long before I really started to care about getting into the FInCOM program. And

then I was hooked." She looked at him. "How about you? Why'd you decide to join the Navy? You told me you were planning to be some kind of college professor right up until the time you graduated from Harvard." "English lit," Harvard told her. "Just like my daddy." She was leaning against the headrest of her seat, turned slightly to face him, legs curled underneath her. She was wearing a trim-fitting pair of chinos and a shirt that, although similar to the cut of the T-shirts she normally wore, was made with some kind of smooth, flowing, silky material. It clung to her body enticingly, shimmering very slightly whenever she moved. It looked exotically soft, decadently sensuous. Harvard would have given two weeks' pay just to touch the sleeve. "So what happened?" she asked. "You really want to know?" he asked. "The real story, not the version I told my parents?" He had her full attention. She nodded, eyes wide and waiting. "It was about a week and a half after college graduation," Harvard told her. "I took a road trip to New York City with a bunch of guys from school. Brian Bradford's sister Ashley was singing in some chorus that was appearing at Carnegie Hall, so he was going down to see that, and Todd Wright was going along with him because he was perpetually chasing fair Ashley. Ash only got two comps, so the rest of us were going to hang at Stu Waterman's father's place uptown. We were going to spend two or three days camping out on Waterman's living room rug, doing the city. We figured we'd catch a show or two, do some club-hopping, just breathe in that smell of money down on Wall Street. We were Harvard grads and we owned the world. Or so I thought." "Uh-oh," P.J. said. "What happened?" "We pulled into town around sundown, dropped Bri and Todd off near Carnegie Hall, you know, cleaned 'em up a little, brushed their hair and made sure they had the Water-mans' address and their names pinned to their jackets. Stu and Ng and I got something to eat and headed over to Stu's place. We knew Todd and Brian weren't going to be back until late, so we decided to go out. I saw in the paper that Danilo Perez's band was playing at a little club across town. He's this really hot jazz pianist. He'd gotten pretty massive airplay on the jazz station in Cambridge, but I'd never seen him live, so I was psyched to go. But Stu and Ng wanted to see a movie. So we split up. They went their way, I went mine." PJ.'s eyes were as warm as the New York City night Harvard had found himself walking around in all those years ago. "The conceit was out of this world," he told her. "What happened after it wasn't, but I'll never regret going out there. I stayed until they shut the bar down, until Danilo stopped playing, and even then I hung for a while and talked to the band. Their jazz was so fresh, so happening. You know, with some bands, you get this sense that they're just ghosts— they're just playing what the big boys played back in the thirties. And other bands, they're trying so hard to be out there, to be on the cutting edge, they lose touch with the music." "So what happened after you left the club?" P.J. asked. Harvard laughed ruefully. "Yeah, I'm getting to the nasty part of the story, so I'm going off on a tangent—trying to avoid the subject by giving you some kind of lecture on jazz, aren't I?" She nodded. He touched her sleeve with one finger. "I like that shirt. Did I tell you I like that shirt?" "Thank you," she said. "What happened when you left the club?" "All right." He drew in a deep breath and blew it out through his mouth. "It's about two-thirty, quarter to three in the morning, and I'd put in a call to Stu at around two, and he'd told me no sweat, they were still up, take my time heading back, but I'm thinking that a considerate houseguest doesn't roll in after three. I figure I better hurry, catch a cab. I try, but after I leave the club, every taxi I see just slows, checks me out, then rolls on by. I figure it's the way I'm dressed—jams and T-shirt and Nikes. Nothing too out there, but I'm not looking too fresh, either. I don't look like a Harvard grad. I look like some black kid who's out much too late. "So okay. Cab's not gonna stop for me. It ticks me off, but it's not the end of the world. It's not like it's the first time that ever happened. Anyway, I'd spent four years on the Harvard crew team, and I'm in really good shape, so I figure, it's only a few miles. I'll run." Harvard could see from the look in PJ.'s eyes that she knew exactly what he was going to say next. "Yeah," he said. "That's right You guessed it. I haven't gone more than four blocks before a police car pulls up alongside me, starts pacing me. Seems that the sight of a black man running in that part of town is enough to warrant a closer look." "You didn't grow up in the city," P.J. said. "If you had, you would have known not to run." "Oh, I knew not to run. I may have been a suburb boy, but I'd been living in Cambridge for four years. But these streets were so empty, I was sure I'd see a patrol car coming. I was careless. Or maybe I'd just had one too many beers. Anyway, I stop running, and they're asking me who I am, where I've been, where I'm going, why I'm running. They get out of the squad car, and it's clear that they don't believe a single word I'm saying, and I'm starting to get annoyed. And righteous. And I'm telling them that the only reason they even stopped their car was because I'm an African American man. I'm starting to dig in deep to the subject of the terrible injustice of a social system that could allow such prejudice to occur, and as I'm talking, I'm reaching into my back pocket for my wallet, intending to show these skeptical SOBs my Harvard University ID card, and all of a sudden, I'm

looking down the barrel of not one, but two very large police-issue handguns. "And my mind just goes blank. I mean, I've been stopped and questioned before. This was not the first time that had happened. But the guns were new. The guns were something I hadn't encountered before. "So these guys are shouting at me to get my hands out of my pockets and up where they can see them, and I look at them, and I see the whites of their eyes. They are terrified, their fingers twitching and shaking on the triggers of hand guns that are big enough to blow a hole in me no surgeon could ever stitch up. And I'm standing there, and I think, damn. I think, this is it. I'm going to die. Right here, right now—simply because I am a black man in an American city. "I put my hands up and they're shouting for me to get onto the ground, so I do. They search me—scrape my face on the concrete while they're doing it—and I'm just lying there thinking, I have a diploma from Harvard University, but it doesn't mean jack out here. I have an IQ that could gain me admission to the damn Mensa Society, but that's not what people see when they look at me. They can't see any of that. They can only see the color of my skin. They see a six-foot-five black man. They see someone they think might be armed and dangerous." He was quiet, remembering how the police had let him go, how they'd let him off with a warning. They'd let him off. They hadn't given him more than a cursory apology. His cheek was scraped and bleeding and they'd acted as if he'd been the one in the wrong. He had sat on the curb for a while, trying to make sense of what had just happened. "I'd heard about the SEALs. I guess I must've seen something about the units on TV, and I'd read their history—about the Frogmen and the Underwater Demolition Teams in World War Two. I admired the SEALs for all the risks involved in their day-to-day life, and I guess I'd always thought maybe in some other lifetime it might've been something I would like to have done. But I remember sitting there on that sidewalk in New York City after that patrol car had pulled away, thinking, damn. The average life expectancy for a black man in an American city is something like twenty-three very short years. The reality of that had never fully kicked in before, but it did that night. And I thought, hell, I'm at risk just walking around. "It was only sheer luck I didn't pull my wallet out of my back pocket when those policemen were shouting for me to put my hands in the air. If I had done that, and if one of those men had thought that wallet was a weapon, I would've been dead. Twenty-two years old. Another sad statistic. "I thought about that sitting there. I thought, yeah, I could play it safe and not go out at night. Or I could do what my father did and hide in some nice well-to-do suburb. Or I could join the Navy and become a SEAL, and at least that way the risks I took day after day would be worth something." Harvard let himself drown for a few moments in PJ.'s eyes. "The next morning, I found a recruiting office, and I joined my Uncle Sam's Navy. The rest, as they say, is history.” P J. reached across the armrest and took his hand. He looked at her fingers, so slender and small compared to his. "This for me or for you?" "It's for you and me," she told him. "It's for both of us." Harvard's mother smelled like cinnamon. She smelled like the fragrant air outside the bakery PJ. used to walk past on her way to school in third grade, before her grandmother died. The entire house smelled wonderful. Something incredible was happening in the kitchen. Something that involved the oven and a cookbook and lots of sugar and spice. Ellie Becker had PJ. by one hand and her son by the other, giving them a tour of her new house. Boxes were stacked in all the rooms except the huge kitchen, which was pristine and completely unpacked. It was like the kitchens PJ. had seen on TV sitcoms. The floor was earth-tone-colored Mexican tile. The counters and appliances were gleaming white, the cabinets natural wood. There was an extra sink in a workstation island in the center of the room, and enough space for a big kitchen table that looked as if it could seat a dozen guests, no problem. "This was the room that sold us on this house," Ellie said. "This is the kitchen I've been dreaming about for the past twenty years." Harvard looked exactly like his mother. Oh, he was close to a foot and a half taller and not quite as round in certain places, but he had her smile and the same sparkle in his eyes. "This is a beautiful house," PJ. told Ellie. It was gorgeous. Brand-new, with a high ceiling in the living room, with thick-pile carpeting and freshly painted walls, it had been built in the singlestory Spanish style so popular in the Southwest. Ellie was looking at Harvard. "What do you think?" He kissed her. "I think it's perfect. I think I want to know if those are cinnamon buns I smell baking in the oven, and if the chocolate chip cookies cooling on the rack over there are up for grabs." She laughed. "Yes and yes." "Check this out," Harvard said, handing PJ. a cookie.

She took a bite. Harvard's mother actually baked. The cookies were impossibly delicious. She didn't doubt the cinnamon buns in the oven would taste as good as they smelled. Harvard's mother did more than bake. She smiled nearly all the time, even when she wept upon seeing her son. She was the embodiment of joy and warmth, friendly enough to give welcoming hugs to strangers her son dragged home with him. PJ. couldn't wait to meet Harvard's father. "Kendra and the twins will be coming for dinner," Ellie told Harvard. "Robby can't make it. He's got to work." She turned to PJ. "Kendra is one of Daryl's sisters. She is going to be so pleased to meet you. I'm so pleased to meet you." She hugged PJ. again. "Aren't you just the sweetest, cutest little thing?" "Careful, Mom," Harvard said dryly. "That sweet, cute little thing is a FInCOM field operative." Ellie pulled back to look at PJ. "You're one of the agents being trained for this special counterterrorist thingy Daryl's working on?" "Yeah, she's one of the special four chosen to be trained as counterterrorist thingy agents," Harvard teased. "Well, what would you call it? You have nicknames for everything—not to mention all those technical terms and ac ronyms. LANTFLT, and NAVSPECWARGRU, and…oh; I can never keep any of that Navy-speak straight." Harvard laughed. "Team, Mom. The official technical Navy-speak term for this thingy is counterterrorist team." Ellie looked at PJ. "I've never met a real FInCOM agent before. You don't look anything like the ones I've seen on TV." "Maybe if she put on a dark suit and sunglasses." PJ. gave him a withering look, and Harvard laughed, taking another cookie from the rack and holding it out to her. She shook her head. They were too damn good. "Do you have a gun and everything?" Ellie asked PJ. "It's called a weapon, Mom. And not only does she have one," Harvard told her, his mouth full of cookie, "but she knows how to use it. She's the best shooter I've met in close to ten years. She's good at all the other stuff, too. In fact, if the four superfinks were required to go through BUD/s training, I'm sure PJ. would be the last one standing." Ellie whistled. "For him to say that, you must be good." P J. smiled into those warm brown eyes that were so like Harvard's. "I am, thank you. But I wouldn't be the last one standing. I'd be the last one running." "You go, girl!" Ellie laughed in delight. She looked at Harvard. "Self-confident and decisive. I like her." "I knew you would." Harvard held out another handful of cookies to P J. She hesitated only briefly before she took one, smiling her thanks, and he smiled back, losing himself for a moment in her eyes. This was okay. This wasn't anywhere near as hard as he'd dreaded it would be. This house was a little too squeaky clean and new, with no real personality despite the jaunty angle to the living room ceiling, but his mother was happy here, that much was clear. And P J. was proving to be an excellent distraction. It was hard to focus on the fact that Phoenix, Arizona, was about as different from Hingham, Massachusetts, as a city could possibly be when he was expending so many brain cells memorizing the way PJ.'s silken shirt seemed to flow and cling to her shoulders and breasts. There was a ten-year-old boy inside him ready to mourn the passing of an era. But that boy was being shouted down by the thirty-six-year-old fullgrown man who, although desperately wanting sheer, heart-stopping, teeth-rattling sex, was oddly satisfied and fulfilled by just a smile. He couldn't wait until the flight back tomorrow afternoon. If he played his cards right, maybe P.J. would hold his hand again. The absurdity of what he was thinking—that he was wildly anticipating holding a woman's hand—made him laugh out loud. "What's so funny?" his mother asked. "I'm just...glad to be here." Harvard gave her a quick hug. "Glad to have a few days off." He looked at P.J. and smiled. "Just glad." He turned to his mother. "Where's Daddy? It's too hot for him to be out playing golf." "He had a meeting at school. He should be back pretty soon—he's going to be so surprised to see you." The oven timer buzzed, and Ellie peeked inside. Using hot mitts, she transferred the pan of fragrant buns to a cooling rack. "Why don't you bring your bags in from the car?" "We were thinking we'd get a couple hotel rooms," Harvard told her. "You don't need the hassle of houseguests right now." "Nonsense." She made a face at him. "We've got plenty of space. As long as you don't mind the stacks of boxes..." "I wasn't sure you'd have the spare sheets unpacked." Harvard leaned against the kitchen counter. "And even if you did, you surely don't need the

extra laundry. I think you've probably got enough to do around here for the next two months." "Don't you worry about that." His mother glanced quickly from him to P.J. and back. "Unless you'd rather stay at a hotel." Harvard knew the words his mother hadn't said. For privacy. He knew she hadn't missed the fact that he'd said they'd get hotel rooms, plural. And he knew she hadn't missed the fact that he'd introduced P.J. to her as his friend—the prefix girl intentionally left off. But he also knew for damn sure his mother hadn't missed all those goofy smiles he was sending in PJ.'s direction. There were a million questions in his mother's eyes, but he trusted her not to ask them in front of P.J. She could embarrass and tease him all she wanted when they were alone, but she was a smart lady and she knew when and where to draw the line. "Hey, whose car is in the drive?" Harvard couldn't believe the difference between the old man he'd seen in the hospital and the man who came through the kitchen door. His father looked fifteen years younger. The fact that he was wearing a Chicago White Sox baseball cap and a pair of plaid golfing shorts only served to take another few years off him. "Daryl! Yes! I was hoping it was you!" Harvard didn't even bother to pretend to shake his father's hand. He just pulled the old man in close for a hug as he felt his eyes fill with tears. He'd been more than half afraid that, despite his mother's optimistic reports, he'd find his father looking old and gray and overweight, like another heart attack waiting to happen. Instead, he looked more alive than he had in years. "Daddy, damn! You look good!” "I've lost twenty pounds. Thirty more to go." His father kissed him on the cheek and patted him on the shoulder, not having missed the shine of emotion in Harvard's eyes. "I'm all right now, kid," the elder Becker said quietly to his son. "I'm following the doctor's orders. No more red meat, no more pipe, no more bacon and eggs, lots of exercise—although not as much as you get, I'm willing to bet, huh? You're looking good, yourself, as usual." Harvard gave his father one more hug before pulling away. PJ.'s eyes were wide, and she quickly glanced away, as if she suddenly realized that she'd been staring. "Dad, I want you to meet P. J. Richards. She's with FInCOM. We've been working together, and we've become pretty good friends. We got a couple days of leave, so I dragged her out here with me. P.J., meet my dad, Medgar Becker." Dr. Becker held out his hand to PJ. "It's very nice to meet you—PJ. is it?" "That's right," PJ. said. "But actually, believe it or not, Dr. Becker, we've met before." She looked accusingly at Harvard. "You never told me your father was Dr. Medgar Becker." He laughed. "You know my father?" "Oh!" Ellie said. "It's the small-world factor kicking in! Everyone's connected somehow. You've just got to dig a little bit to find the way." "Well, you don't have to dig very far for this connection," PJ. said with a smile. She looked at Dr. Becker, who was still holding her hand, eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at her. "You probably don't recall—" "Washington, D.C.," he said. "I do remember you. We got into a big debate over Romeo and Juliet." "I can't believe you remember that!" she said with a laugh. "I’ve done similar lectures for years, but you're the only student who's asked a question and then stood there and vehemently disagreed with me after I gave my answer." Harvard's father kissed PJ.'s hand. "I never knew your name, kiddo, but I certainly remember you." "Dr. Becker was a guest lecturer at our university," PJ. explained to Harvard. "One of my roommates was an English lit major, and she, um, persuaded me to come along to his lecture." "I remember thinking, "This one's going to be somebody someday,'" Dr. Becker said. "Well, thank you," PJ. said gracefully. "You know, I've been thinking about everything you said for years, about wanting the language of the play to be updated and modernized," Dr. Becker said, pulling PJ. with him toward his office, "about how the play was originally written for the people, and how because the language we speak and understand has changed so much since it was writ ten, it's lost the audience that would relate to and benefit from the story the most." Harvard stood with his mother and watched as PJ. glanced at him and smiled before his father pulled her out of sight. "I love her smile." He wasn't aware he'd spoken aloud until his mother spoke. "Yeah, she's got a good one." She chuckled, shaking her head at the sound of her husband's voice, still lecturing from the other end of the house. "You know, he's been acting a little strange lately. I've chalked it up to his having a near-death experience and then losing all that weight. It's as if he's gotten a second wind. I like it. Most of the time. But I might be a little worried about his interest in that girl of yours—if it wasn't more than obvious that she's got it way bad for you."

"Oh, no," Harvard said. "We're friends. That's all. She's not mine—I'm not looking for her to become mine, either." "Bring your bags in from the car," Ellie said. "You two can have the rooms with the connecting bath." She smiled conspiratorially. "Sometimes these things need a little help." "I don't need any help," Harvard said indignantly. "And I especially don't need any help from my mother."

Chapter 11 P. J. found Harvard standing on the deck, elbows on the railing, looking at the nearly full moon. She closed the sliding doors behind her. "Hey," Harvard said without turning. "Hey, yourself," she said, moving to stand next to him. The night was almost oppressively hot. It was an odd sensation, almost like standing in an oven. Even in the sweatbox that D.C. became in the summer, there was at least a hint of coolness in the air after the sun went down. "I've been wanting to ask you about what you said tonight to your sister— to Kendra?" He looked at her. "You mean when she was making all that noise about how dangerous your job must be?" P.J. nodded. Kendra had made such a fuss over the fact that PJ.'s job put her into situations where bad guys with weapons sometimes fired those weapons at her. Her arguments why women shouldn't have dangerous jobs were the same ones Harvard had fired off at P.J. the first few times they'd gone head-to-head. But to PJ.'s absolute surprise, Harvard had stepped up to defend her. He'd told his sister in no uncertain terms that PJ. was damn good at what she did. He'd told them all that she was tougher and stronger than most men he knew. And then he'd made a statement that had come close to putting PJ. into total shock. Harvard had announced he would pick PJ. as his partner over almost any man he knew. "Did you really mean that?" PJ. asked him now. "Of course, I meant it. I said it, didn't I?" "I thought maybe you were just, you know..." "Lying?" She could see the nearly full moon reflected in his eyes. "Being polite. Being chivalrous. I don't know. I didn't know what to think." "Yeah, well, I meant what I said. I like you and I trust you." "You trust me. Enough to really believe that I'm not someone you need to protect?" He wanted to tell her yes. She could see it in his eyes. But she could also see indecision. And he didn't try to pretend he wasn't sure. "I'm still working on that," he told her. "I'll tell you this much, though—I'm looking forward to the next few days. It's going to be fun going into the field with you—even if it's only for a training scenario." PJ. met his gaze steadily, warmed by the fact that he'd been honest with her. She was also impressed that he'd confronted his prejudices about working a dangerous job alongside a woman and had managed to set his preconceived notions aside. His opinion on the subject had turned a complete one-eighty. "Senior Chief, I'm honored," she told him. Senior Chief. The title sat between them as if it were a barricade. She'd used it purposely, and she knew from the way he smiled very slightly that he knew it. The moonlight, the look in his eyes, the heat of the night and the way she was feeling were all way too intense. She looked over the railing. The Beckers' small backyard abutted a golf course. The gently rolling hills looked alien and otherworldly in the moonlight. The distant sand traps reflected the light and seemed to glitter. "They gave up an ocean view for this," Harvard said with a soft laugh. "There's still a part of me that's in shock." "You know, I spent about forty minutes in the garage tonight with your father, and he didn't mention Shakespeare once. He spent the entire time showing off his new golf clubs." PJ. turned to look at him. "I suspect he likes this view much better than the view of the ocean he had in Massachusetts. And I know your mother loves having those adorable nieces of yours within a short car ride." "You're right." Harvard sighed. "I'm the one who loves the...ocean. My father just tolerated it. My father." He shook his head. "God—I can't believe how good he looks. Last time I saw him, I was sure we'd be burying him within the next two years. But now he looks like he's ready to go another sixty." PJ. glanced at him, thinking about the way his eyes had filled with tears when his father had walked in this afternoon. She hadn't believed it at first. Tears. In Senior Chief Becker's eyes. She remembered how surprised she'd been when she'd found out Harvard had a family. A father. A mother. Sisters. He'd come across as so stern and strong, so formidable, so completely in charge. But he was more than that He listened when other people spoke.

His confidence was based on intelligence and experience, not conceit, as she'd first believed He was funny and smart and completely, totally together. And one of the things that had helped him become this completely, totally together man was his family's love and affection. It was a love and affection Harvard returned unconditionally. What would it have been like to grow up with that kind of love? What would it be like to be loved that way now? P.J. knew Harvard wanted her physically. But what if— what if he wanted more? The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. But totally absurd. He'd told her point-blank he wanted friendship. Friendship, with some sex on the side. Nothing that went any further or deeper. "Your family is really great," she told him. He glanced at her, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Ken-dra's ready to join with Mom and Daddy and become co-presidents of your official fan club. After she came at you with her antigun speech, you know, after she said the only time she could ever imagine picking up a gun was to defend her children, and then you said, 'That's what I do.'" He imitated her rather well. '"Every day when I go to work, I pick up my gun because I'm helping to defend your children.' After that, Kendra pulled me aside and gave me permission to marry you." PJ.'s heart did a flip-flop in her chest But he was teasing. He was only teasing. He was no more interested in getting married than she was. And she was not interested. She kept her voice light. "I'm too old for adoption. The way I see it, marrying you is the only way I'm going to get into this family, so watch out," she teased back. "If I could only find the time, I might consider it." Harvard laughed as he glanced over his shoulder in mock fear. "We better not joke about this too loudly. If my mother overhears, she's liable to take us seriously. And then, by this time tomorrow, our engagement picture will be in the newspaper. She'll be finalizing the guest list with one hand, signing a contract with a caterer with the other and 'helping' you pick out a wedding gown all at the same time—and by helping, I mean she'll really be trying to pick it out for you." P.J. played along. "As long as it's cut so I can wear my shoulder holster." "The bride wore Smith and Wesson. The groom preferred an HK MP5 room broom. It was a match made in hardware heaven." She laughed. "They spent their wedding night at the firing range." "No, I don't think so." Something in his voice had changed, and as PJ. glanced at Harvard, the mood shifted. Laughter still danced in his eyes, but there was something else there, too. Something hot and dangerous. Something that echoed the kiss they'd shared on jump day. Something that made her want to think, and think long and hard, about her reasons for avoiding intimate relationships. Wedding night. God, she hadn't been thinking clearly. If she had, she certainly wouldn't have brought that up. She cleared her throat. "Your mother told me to tell you she and your dad were heading to bed," she said. "She wanted me to ask you to lock up and turn out the lights when you come in." Harvard glanced at his watch as he turned to face her, one elbow still on the railing. With his other hand he reached out and lightly touched the sleeve of her shirt, then the bare skin of her arm. "It's after twenty three hundred. You want to go to bed?" It was an innocent enough question, but combined with the warmth in his eyes and the light pressure of his fingers on her arm, it took on an entirely more complicated meaning. He trailed his hand down to her hand and laced their fingers together. "I know—I promised no pressure," he continued, "and there is no pressure. It just suddenly occurred to me that I'd be a fool not to check and see if somehow between last night and tonight you've maybe changed your mind." "Nothing's changed," she whispered. But everything had changed. This man had turned her entire world upside down. More than just a tiny part of her wanted to be with him. A great deal more. And if they'd been anywhere in the world besides his mother and father's house, she might well be tempted to give in, and God knows that would be a major mistake. She couldn't let herself become involved with this man— at least not until the training mission was over. At the very least, she couldn't afford to have anyone believe she'd suc ceeded in the intensively competitive program because she'd slept with Alpha Squad's Senior Chief. Including herself. And after this project was over, she'd have to search long and hard within herself to find out what it was she truly wanted. Right now, she was almost certain what she wanted was him. Almost certain. "Nothing's changed," she said again, louder, trying to make herself believe it, too. Almost wasn't going to cut it. Harvard nodded, and then he leaned toward her.

P.J. knew he was going to kiss her. He took his time. He even stopped halfway to her lips, searched her eyes and smiled before continuing. And she—she didn't stop him. She didn't back away. She didn't even say anything like, 'Hey, Holmes, you better not be about to kiss me.' She just stood there like an idiot, waiting for him to do it. His first kiss was one of those sweet ones he seemed to specialize in—the kind that made her heart pound and her knees grow weak. But then he kissed her again, longer, deeper, possessively, sweeping his tongue into her mouth as if it were his mouth, his to do with what he pleased. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close, settling his lips over hers as if he had no intention of leaving any time soon. P.J. would have been indignant—but the truth was, she didn't want his mouth to be anywhere but where it was right that moment. She wanted him to kiss her. She loved the feel of his arms around her. His arms were so big, so powerful, yet capable of holding her so tenderly. So she stood there, in the Arizona moonlight, on the back deck of his parents' new house, and she kissed him, too. Harvard pulled away first, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out fast. "Oh, boy. That wasn't meant to be any kind of pressure," he told her. He sounded as out of breath as she felt. "That was just supposed to be a friendly reminder—like, hey, don't forget how good we could be together." "I haven't forgotten." P.J.'s mouth went dry as she looked at him, and she nervously wet her lips. "Oh, damn," he breathed, and kissed her again. This time she could taste his hunger. This time he inhaled her, and she drank him in just as thirstily. She pulled him close, her arms around his shoulders, his neck—God, there was so much of him to hold on to. She felt his hands sliding down her back, felt the taut muscles of his powerful thighs against her legs as she tried to get even closer to this man she'd come to care so much about. "Oh, God," she gasped, pulling his head down for another soul-shattering kiss when he would have stopped. She didn't care anymore. She didn't care about the fact that they were here, at his mother's house. She didn't care about the potential damage to her reputation. She didn't care that she was taking an entire lifetime of caution and restraint and throwing it clear out the window. She shook as he trailed his mouth down her neck, as his hand cupped her breast, as sensations she'd never dreamed possible made her lose all sense of coherent thought. "We should stop," Harvard murmured, kissing PJ. again. But she didn't pull away. She opened herself to him, welcoming his kisses with an ardor that took his breath away. She was on fire, and he was the man who'd started the blaze. But even as he shifted his weight slightly, subtly maneuvering his thigh between her legs, even as he ran his hands across her perfect body, he knew he shouldn't. He should be backing off, not driving this highly explosive situation dangerously close to the point of no return. But she tasted like the mocha-flavored coffee they'd shared with his parents just a short time ago, after his sister and the twins had left. And he could feel her heat through the thin cotton of her chinos as she pressed herself against his thigh. Harvard swept her into his arms, and he could see a myriad of emotions in her eyes. Fear swirled together with anticipation, both fueled powerfully by desire. She wanted him. She might be scared, but she truly wanted him. He glanced at his watch again. There was time. They still had enough time. He could carry her into the house, take her into his parents' guest room, and he could become her first lover. She could have had anyone, but she'd picked him to be her first. That knowledge was a powerful aphrodisiac, and it made a difficult decision even harder to carry out. But the truth was, he had no choice. Yeah, he could have her tonight. He could continue to sweep her off her feet, to seduce her, with her own desire and need working as his ally. She would come willingly to his bed, and he could show her everything she'd been missing all these years. He kissed her again, then set her gently in one of the deck chairs and walked all the way to the other side of the porch. Or he could keep the promise that he'd made to her this morning. "I wasn't playing fair," he said. His voice came out a husky growl—part man, part beast. "I knew if I kissed you long enough and hard enough and deeply enough, you'd go up in flames. I’m sorry." He heard her draw in a long, deep, shaky breath. She let it out in a burst of air. "That was..." She stopped, started again. "I was..." Another pause. "I wanted..." A longer pause. "I thought... I'm really confused, Daryl. What just happened here? You don't really want to be with me?" Harvard turned toward her, shocked she could think that. "No! Damn, woman, look at me. Look at just how much I allegedly don't want to be with you!"

She looked. He stepped closer, and she looked again, her gaze lingering on the front of his fatigues. His erection made an already snug pair of pants even tighter. And the fact that she was looking with such wide eyes made it even worse. "I'm trying to be a hero here," Harvard told her, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm trying to do the right thing. I want to make love to you more than you will ever know, but you know what? There's something I want even more than that. I want to be sure that when we do make love, you're gonna wake up in the morning and not have one single, solitary regret." She looked away from him, guilt in her eyes, and he knew—as hard as this was—that he was doing the right thing. "I'm not sure I'll ever be able to give you those kind of guarantees," she said quietly. "I think you will," he countered. "And I've got time. I'm willing to wait." He laughed softly. "Hopefully, it won't take you another twenty-five years." She glanced at him, then her eyes dropped again to the front of his pants. She laughed nervously. "I've never known a man well enough before to ask him this, but...doesn't that hurt?" Harvard sat carefully in the other deck chair. "It's uncomfortable, that's for damn sure." "I'm sorry." "Like hell you are. I see you over there, laughing at me." "It just seems so embarrassingly inconvenient. I mean, what happens if you're in a meeting with some admiral and you start thinking about—" "You don't," Harvard interrupted. "But what if you forget and just start daydreaming or something and, oops, there you are. Larger than life, so to speak." Harvard ran his hands down his face. "Then I guess you quickly start doing calculus problems in your head. Or you sit down fast and hope no one noticed your...situation." Her smoky laughter wrapped around him in the moonlight. He could see her watching him. She'd curled up on her side in the chair, one hand beneath her face, her legs tucked up to her chest. He could have had her. He could have carried her inside and he would be with her in his bedroom right now. That same moonlight would be streaming in through the window, caressing her naked body as he held her gaze and slowly filled her. Harvard drew in a deep breath. He couldn't let himself think about that. Not tonight. It wasn't going to happen tonight. But it was going to happen. He was going to make damn sure of that. "May I ask you something else?" she asked. "Yeah, as long as you don't ask me to kiss you again. I think I can only be strong like this once a night." "No, this is another penis question." Harvard cracked up. "Oh, good, because, you know, penis questions are my specialty." "Promise you won't laugh at me?" "I promise." "You're laughing right now," she accused him. "I'm stopping. See? I'm serious. I'm ready for this really serious penis question." He snorted with laughter. "Fine. Laugh at me." She sat up. "It's a stupid question anyway, and if I weren't so damned repressed, I'd have already learned the answer through experience." "Lady, you're not repressed. Overly cautious, maybe, but definitely not repressed." "It's about the size thing," she told him, and he realized she wasn't joking. "I mean, I know about sex. I know a lot about sex. I mean, I may be inexperienced, but I'm not exactly innocent. I know the mechanics—I've seen movies, I've read books, I've heard talk, I've certainly thought about it enough. And, you know, everyone always says size doesn't matter, but I think they're talking about when a man is small, and that's definitely not the issue here. Obviously. But I've seen small women and large men together all the time, so I know it must work, but how on earth..." She trailed off. She was serious. Harvard knew he should say something, but he wasn't sure what. "I'm only five-one-and-a-half," she continued. "I lied. I round up to make it five-two. I buy my clothes from the petite rack in the store. And petite is not the word I'd use to describe anything about you. You're huge. All of you."

Harvard couldn't keep from chuckling. She laughed, too, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, God, I knew it. You're laughing at me." "I'm laughing because I love the fact that you think of me that way. I'm laughing because this conversation is doing nothing to help reduce my, um, current tension. In fact, I think I have to go inside now so I can fill out my official application for sainthood." "Yeah, go on. Duck out. You just don't want to answer my question." He met her gaze and held it. "It's one of those things that's easier to show than tell and— You are really pushing me to the wall tonight, lady. I can't even stand next to you without getting turned on, and here we are, talking about making love. If I didn't know better, I would think you were some kind of tease, getting an evil kick out of watching me squirm." Her tentative smile vanished instantly. "Daryl, I would never do that. I—" "Whoa," Harvard said, holding up his hands. "Yo, Ms. Much Too Serious, take a deep breath and relax. I was kidding. A joke. Ha, ha. Out of all the two hundred sixty-seven billion women in the world, I'm well aware that you rate two hundred sixty-seven billionth when it comes to being a tease. Which is why I know when you start asking questions about size—" he couldn't hold back his giggle "—it's because you seriously want to know." He giggled again. She shook her head. "You know, I've seen 'Beavis and Butthead,' and I thought it was just some warped fictional exaggeration of male immaturity, but I can see now that the show is based on you." "Hey, I can't help it. The P word is a funny word. It's a friendly, happy, just plain silly word. And add on top of that the absurdity of us sitting here and discussing the additional absurdity of whether or not I would fit inside you... Damn!" He had to close his eyes at the sudden vivid visual images his words brought to mind. He had to grit his teeth as he could almost feel himself buried deep inside her satin-smooth heat. Never before had sheer paradise been so close and yet so far away. "Yes." He opened his eyes and looked straight at her. "I would. Fit. Inside you. Perfectly. You've got to trust me on this one, P.J. As much as I'd love to go into the house and prove it to you, you're just going to have to take my word for it. I've been with women who are small—maybe not as skinny as you, but close enough. It works. Nature in action, you know? When—if—when... When we get to the point where we actually get together, you don't have to worry about me hurting you—not that way." "I know it's going to hurt the first time," she told him. "At least a little bit" "Some women don't have a problem with that," he told her. "It's not uncommon for a woman's...maidenhead to be already broken—" She laughed. "Maidenhead? Have you been reading Jane Austen again?" "It's better than cherry. Or hymen. Damn, who came up with that name?" "Dr. Hymen?" Harvard laughed. "Hell of a way to gain immortality." He felt his smile soften as he gazed at her. She was sexy and bright and funny. He wanted this night to go on forever. She met his gaze steadily. "Unlike a Jane Austen heroine, I haven't had the opportunity to have many horseback riding accidents. In fact, I've been to the doctor, and at last inventory, everything's still... intact." Harvard took a deep breath. "Okay. When you're ready, we'll do it fast. I promise it won't hurt a lot, and I promise that it'll feel a whole lot better real soon after. If you only believe one thing I say, believe that, okay?" She was silent for a moment, and then she nodded. "Okay." Harvard sat back in his chair in relief. "Thank God. Now can we move on to some safer topic like birth control or safe sex." "Hmm..." "I was kidding," he said quickly. "No more penis ques tions of any kind, okay? At least not until tomorrow." He looked at his watch: 2340. "What I really want to ask you now," P.J. said, her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow on the deck chair armrest as she gazed at him, "is more personal." "More personal than..." "You know who I've been with. I'm curious about you. How many of those two hundred sixty-seven billion women in the world have you taken to bed?" "Too many when I was younger. Not enough over the past few years. When I turned thirty, I started getting really picky." Harvard shifted in his seat. "I haven't been in a relationship since this past winter. I was with a woman—Ellen—for about four months. If you can call what we had a relationship." "Ellen." PJ. rolled the name off her tongue, as if trying it out. "What was she like?"

"Smart and upwardly mobile. She was a lawyer at some big firm in D.C. She didn't have time for a husband—or even a real boyfriend, for that matter. She was totally in love with her career. But she was pretty, and she was willing—when she found the time. It was fun for a while." "So you've been with, what? Forty women? Four hundred women? More?" He laughed. "I haven't kept a count or cut notches into my belt or anything like that. I don't know. There was only one that ever really mattered." "Not Ellen." "Nope." "Someone who tragically broke your heart." Harvard smiled. "It seemed pretty tragic at the time." "What was her name? Do you mind talking about her?" "Rachel, and no, I don't mind. It was years ago. I thought she was The One—you know, capital T, capital O—but her husband didn't agree." PJ. winced. "Ouch." She narrowed her eyes. "What were you doing, messing with a married woman?" "I didn't know," Harvard admitted. "I mean, I knew she was separated and filing for a divorce. What I didn't realize was that she was still in love with her ex. He cheated on her, and she left him and there I was, ready to take up the slack. Looking back, it's so clear that she was using me as a kind of revenge relationship. It was ironic, really. First time in my life I actually get involved, and it turned out she's using me to get back at her husband." He shook his head. "I'm making her sound nasty, but she was this really sweet girl. I don't think she did any of it on purpose. She used me to feel better, and she ended up in this place where she could forgive him." He smiled, because for the first time since it had happened, he was talking about it, and it didn't hurt. "I was clueless, though. Alpha Squad got called to the Middle East—this was during Desert Shield. I didn't even get to say goodbye to her. When I came home months later, she'd already moved back in with Larry. Talk about a shock. Needless to say, the entire relationship had a certain lack of closure to it. It took me a while to make any sense of it." "Some things just never make sense." "It makes perfect sense now. If I'd hooked up with Rachel, I wouldn't be here with you." P.J. looked at her sneakers for a moment before meeting his gaze again. "You're good at sweet talk, aren't you?" "I've never had a problem with words," he admitted. "You can fly a plane. You can operate any kind of boat that floats, you jump out of planes without getting tangled in trees, you run faster and shoot better than anyone I've ever met, you graduated from Harvard at the top of your class, you're a Senior Chief in the Navy SEALs, and you're something of a poet, to boot. Is there anything you can't do?" He thought about it for only a moment. "I absolutely cannot infiltrate a camp of Swedish terrorists." P.J. stared at him. And then she started to laugh. "Larry must be something else if Rachel gave up you for him." Harvard looked at his watch, then stood and crossed the deck toward her. He pushed her legs aside with his hips as he sat on her chair, pinning her into place with one hand on either armrest. "It's nearly midnight, Cinderella," he said. "That means I can kiss you again without worrying about it going too far." Her eyes were liquid brown. "What? I don't under—" "Shh," he said, leaning forward to capture her lips with his. He could taste her confusion, feel her surprise. But she hesitated for only half a second before meeting his tongue with equal fervor, before melting into his arms. And his pager went off. Hers did, too. P.J. pulled away from him in surprise, reaching for her belt, pulling the device free and shutting off the alarm. "Both of us," she said. "At once." She searched his eyes. "What is it?" He stood up, adjusting his pants. "We have to call in to find out for sure. But I think our leave is over early." P.J. stood, too, and followed him into the kitchen. "Did you know about this?" "Not exactly." "You knew something, didn't you? You've been checking your watch all evening. That's why you kissed me," she accused, "because it was almost midnight and you knew we were going to get beeped!"

"I didn't know exactly when." He keyed the number that had flashed on both their beepers into the kitchen telephone from memory. He grinned at her. "But I guessed. I know Joe Cat pretty well, and I figured he'd try to catch as many of us off guard as he possibly could. It seemed right up his alley to give us all forty-eight hours of leave, then call us in after only twenty-four. I figured it was either going to be midnight or sometime around ohtwo-hundred." He held up one hand, giving her the signal to be quiet. P.J. watched Harvard's eyes as he spoke to Captain Catalanotto on the other end of the line. He caught her staring, and a smile softened his face. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She closed her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder, breathing in his scent. She could smell the freshness of soap and the tangy aroma of some he-man brand of deodorant. Coffee. A faint whiff of the peppermint gum he sometimes chewed. His already familiar, slightly musky and very male perfume. She still couldn't believe it was Harvard—and not her— who had kept them from making love tonight. She'd never met a man who'd say no to sex out of consideration for what she might feel. "Yeah," he said to Joe Cat. "We'll go directly to California, meet the rest of you there. I'm going to need my boots and some clothes. And, Captain? Remember the time I saved your neck, baby? I'm cashing in now. I'm going to tell you something that's for your ears only. PJ. is with me. Consider this her check-in, too." He paused, listening to Joe. "No," he said. "No, no— we're here visiting my parents. Mom and Daddy. I swear, this whole trip has been completely innocent and totally rated G, but if anyone finds out, they're going to think..." He laughed. "Yeah, we're not talking real mature. Here's the problem, boss. PJ.'s going to need some clothes and her boots. I know you don't have much time yourself, but could you maybe send Veronica out to the hotel to pack up some of her things?" "Oh, God." P.J. cringed. "My room is a mess." Harvard looked at her, pulling the phone away from his mouth. "Really?" She nodded. "Cool." He kissed her quickly before he spoke into the receiver again. "She wants you to warn Ronnie that her room is a mess. Tell Ron just to grab her boots. We'll get PJ. whatever else she needs in Coronado. We'll be there before you." Another pause, then Harvard laughed. PJ. could hear it rumbling in his chest. "Thanks, Joe. Yeah, we're on our way." He hung up the phone and kissed her hard on the mouth. "Time to wake up Mom and Daddy and tell them we're out of here. And no more kissing," he said, kissing her again and then again. "It's time to go play soldier."

Chapter 12 Harvard could feel P.J. watching him as he stood at the front of the briefing room of the USS Irvin, the Navy destroyer steaming toward their destination. They'd taken an Air Force flight all the way to South Korea. Now, by sea, they were approaching the tiny island nation where their latest in training op was to take place. P.J. had slept on the plane. Harvard had, too, but his dreams had been wildly erotic and unusually vivid. He could have sworn he still tasted the heated salt of her skin on his lips when he awoke. He could hear the echo of her cries of pleasure and her husky laughter swirl around him. He could still see the undisguised desire in her eyes as she gazed at him, feel the heart-stopping sensation as he sank into the tightness of her heat. He took a deep breath, exhaling quickly, well aware he had to stop thinking about his dream—and about P.J.—before he found himself experiencing the same discomfort he'd been in when he awoke. He held his clipboard low, loosely clasped in both hands, trying to look casual, relaxed. He was just a guy holding a clipboard—not a guy using a clipboard to keep the world from noticing that he was walking around in a state of semiarousal. When he glanced at P.J. again, she was trying hard not to smile, and he knew he hadn't managed to fool her. The captain, meanwhile, was giving a brief overview of their mission. "There's a group of six jarheads—U.S. Marines—who've been doing FID work with the locals, trying to form a combined military and law-enforcement task force to slow drug trafficking in this part of the world. Apparently; this island is used as a major port of call for a great deal of Southeast Asia's heroin trade. Lieutenant Hawken has spent more time in-country than any of us, and he'll fill us all in on the terrain and the culture in a few minutes, after we go over the setup of this op. "The jarheads are going to play the part of terrorists who've taken a U.S. official hostage. The hostage will also be played by a Marine." Joe Cat sat on the desk at the front of the room as he gazed at the FInCOM agents and the SEALs from Alpha Squad. "This CSF team's job is to insert onto the island at dawn, locate the terrorists' camp, enter the installation and extract the hostage. All while remaining undetected. We'll have paint-ball weapons again, but if the mission is carried out successfully, we won't have an opportunity to use them. "The Marines have planned and set up this entire exercise. It will not be easy. These guys are going to do their best to defeat us. In case you finks haven't heard, there's an ongoing issue of superiority between the Marines and the SEALs— between the Army and the Navy, for that matter." "I can clear that issue up right now," Wes called out. "SEALs win, hands down. We're superior. No question in my mind." "Yeah," Harvard said, "and somewhere right now some Marines are having this exact same conversation, and they're saying Marines win, hands down." He grinned. "Except, of course, in their case, they're wrong." The other SEALs laughed. "In other words, they don't like us," the captain went on, "and they're going to do everything they can—including cheat—to make sure we fail. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me to find out that the hostage has turned hostile. We've got to be prepared for him to raise an alarm and give us away." Tim Farber lifted his hand. "Why are we bothering to do this if they're going to cheat—if they're not going to follow the rules?" Harvard stepped forward. "Do you honestly think real terrorists don't cheat, Mr. Farber? In the real world, there are no rules." "And it's not unheard-of for a hostage to be brainwashed into supporting the beliefs of the men who have taken him captive. Having a hostile hostage is a situation we've always got to be prepared for," Blue added. "Alpha Squad's done training ops against the Marines before," Lucky told the FInCOM agents. "The only time I can remember losing is when they brought in twenty-five extra men and ambushed us." "Yeah, they work better in crowds. You know that old joke? Why are Marines like bananas?" Bobby asked. "Because they're both yellow and die in big bunches," Wes said, snickering. "The comedy team of Skelly and Taylor," Joe said dryly. "Thank you very much. I suggest when you take your powerhouse stand-up act on the road, you stay far from the Army bases." He looked around the room. "Any questions so far? Ms. Richards, you usually have something to ask." "Yes, sir, actually, I do," she said in that cool, professional voice Harvard knew was just part of her act. "How will we get from the ship to the island? And how many of us will actually participate in this exercise, as opposed to observe?" "Everyone's going to participate in some way," the captain told her. "And—answering your questions out of order— we'll be inserting onto the island in two inflatable boats at oh-four-hundred. Just before dawn." "Going back to your first answer..." PJ. shifted in her seat. "You said everyone would participate in some way. Can you be more specific?" Harvard knew exactly what she wanted to know. She was curious as to whether she was going to be in the field with the men or behind lines, participating in a more administrative way. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she wondered if she was going to be the one chosen to stay behind. "We're breaking the CSF team into four sub-teams," Joe Cat explained. "Three teams of three will approach the terrorist camp, and one team of

two will remain here on the ship, monitoring communications, updating the rest of us on any new satellite intel and just generally monitoring our progress." "Like Lieutenant Uhura on the Starship Enterprise." PJ. nodded slowly. Harvard could see resignation in her eyes. She was so certain it was going to be her that was left behind. "'Keeping hailing frequencies open, Captain,' and all that." "Actually," Blue McCoy cut in with his soft southern drawl, "I'm part of the team staying on board the Irvin. It'll be my voice you hear when and if there's any reason to call a cease and desist. I'll have the ultimate power to pull the plug on this training op at any time." He smiled. "Y'all can think of me as the voice of God. I say it, you obey it, or there'll be hell to pay." "Crash, why don't you share with us what you know about the island?" Joe suggested. P.J. was quiet as Lieutenant Hawken stepped forward. She was trying her best to hide her disappointment, but Harvard could see through her shield. He knew her pretty damn well by now. He knew her well enough to know that, disappointed or not, she would do her best—without complaining—wherever she was assigned. Crash described the island in some detail. It was tropical, with narrow beaches that backed up against inactive volcanic mountains. The inland roads were treacherous, the jungle dense. The most common method of transport was the goat cart, although some of the island's more wealthy residents owned trucks. He opened a map, and they all came around the desk as he pointed out the island's three major cities, all coastal seaports. The lieutenant spoke at some length about the large amounts of heroin that passed through the island on the way to London and Paris and Los Angeles and New York. The political situation in the country was somewhat shaky. The United States had an agreement with the island—in return for U.S. aid, the local government and military were helping in the efforts to stop the flow of drugs. But drug lords were more in control of the country than the government. The drug lords had private armies, which were stronger than the government's military forces. And when the drug lords clashed, which they did far too frequently, they came close to starting a commercially instigated civil war. Harvard found himself listening carefully to everything Crash said, aware of his growing sense of unease. It was an unusual sensation, this unsettling wariness. This was just a training op. He'd gone into far more dangerous situations in the past without blinking. He had to wonder if he'd feel this concern if P.J. weren't along for the ride. He suspected he wouldn't worry at all if she'd stayed stateside. Harvard knew he could take care of himself in just about any situation. He wanted to believe PJ. could do the same. But the truth was, her safety had become far too important to him. Somehow he'd gotten to the point where he cared too much. He didn't like the way that felt "Any questions?" Crash asked. "Yeah," Harvard said. "What's the current situation between the two largest hostile factions on the island?" "According to Intel, things have been quiet for weeks," Joe answered. P.J. couldn't keep silent any longer. "Captain, what are the team assignments?" "Bobby and Wes are with Mr. Schneider," Joe told her. "Lucky and I are with Mr. Greene." Harvard was watching, and he saw a flicker of disappoint ment in her eyes. Once again, she hid it well. In fact, she was damn near a master at hiding her emotions. "I’m with the Senior Chief and Lieutenant Hawken, right?" Tim Farber asked. "Nope, you're with me, Timmy boy," Blue McCoy said with a grin. "Someone's got to help me mind the store." Across the room, P.J. didn't react. She didn't blink, she didn't move, she didn't utter a single word. Apparently, she was even better at hiding her pleasure than she was at hiding her disappointment. Farber wasn't good at hiding anything. "But you can't be serious. Richards should stay behind. Not me." Joe Cat straightened up. "Why's that, Mr. Farber?" The fink realized he had blundered hip-deep into waters that reeked of political incorrectness. "Well," he started. "It's just... I thought...." P.J. finally spoke. "Just say it, Tim. You think I should be the one to stay behind because I'm a woman." Harvard, Joe Cat and Blue turned to look at P.J. "My God," Harvard said, slipping on his best poker face. "Would you look at that? Richards is a woman. I hadn't realized. We better make her stay behind, Captain. She might get PMS and go postal." "We could use that to our advantage," Joe Cat pointed out. "Put a weapon in her hands and point her in the right direction. The enemy will run in terror."

"She can outshoot just about everyone in this room." Blue couldn't keep a smile from slipping out. "She can outrun 'em and outreason 'em, too." "Yeah, but I bet she throws like a girl," Harvard said. He grinned. "Which, in this day and age, means she's just about ready for the major leagues." "Except she doesn't like baseball," Joe Cat reminded him. PJ. was laughing, and Harvard felt a burst of pure joy. He loved the sound of her laughter and the shine of amusement and pleasure in her eyes. He pushed away all the apprehension he'd been feeling. Working with her on this mission was going to be fun. And after the mission was over... Farber was less than thrilled. "Captain, this is all very amusing, but you know as well as I do that the military doesn't fully approve of putting women in scenarios that could result in front-line action." Harvard snapped out of his reverie and gave the man a hard look. "Are you questioning the captain's judgment, Mr. Farber?" "No, I'm merely—" "Good." Harvard cut him off. "Let's get ready to get this job done." P.J. felt like an elephant crashing through the underbrush. She was nearly half the size of Harvard, yet compared to her, he moved effortlessly and silently. She couldn't seem to breathe without snapping at least one or two twigs. And Crash... He seemed to have left his body behind on the USS Irvin. He moved ethereally, like a silent wisp of mist through the darkness. He was on point—leading the way— and he disappeared for long minutes at a time, scouting out the barely marked trail through the tropical jungle. P.J. signaled for Harvard to wait, catching his eye. You okay? he signaled back. She pulled her lip microphone closer to her mouth. They weren't supposed to speak via the radio headsets they wore unless it was absolutely necessary. It was necessary. "I'm slowing you down," she breathed. "And I'm making too much noise." He turned off his microphone, gesturing for her to do the same. That way they could whisper without the three other teams overhearing. "You can't expect to be able to keep up," he told her almost silently. "You haven't had the kind of training we have." "Then why am I here?" she asked. "Why are any FInCOM agents here at all? We should be back on the Irvin. Our role should be to let the SEALs do their job without interference." Harvard smiled. "I knew you were an overachiever. Two hours into the first of two training exercises, and you've already learned all you need to know." "Two training exercises?" He nodded. "This first one's almost guaranteed to go wrong. Not that we're going to try to throw it or anything. But it's difficult enough for Alpha Squad to pull off a mission like this when we're not weighed down with excess baggage—pardon the expression." P.J. waved away his less than tactful words. She knew quite well how true they were. "And the second?" "The second exercise is going to be SEALs only versus the Marines. It's intended to demonstrate what Alpha Squad can do if we're allowed to operate without interference, as you so aptly put it." P.J. gazed at him. "So what you're telling me is that the SEALs never had any intention of making the Combined SEAL/FInCOM team work." He met her eyes steadily. "It seemed kind of obvious right from the start that the CSF team was going to be nothing more than a source of intense frustration for both the SEALs and the finks." She struggled to understand. "So what, exactly, have we been doing for all these weeks?" "Proving that it doesn't work. We're hoping you'll be our link. We're hoping you'll go back to Kevin Laughton and the rest of the finks and make them understand that the only help the SEALs need from FInCOM is acknowledgment that we can best do our job on our own, without anyone getting in our way," he admitted. "So I guess what we've been doing is trying to win your trust and trying to educate you." Lieutenant Hawken drifted into sight, a shadowy figure barely discernible from the foliage, his face painted with streaks of green and brown. "So I was right about that poker game." P.J. nodded slowly, fighting the waves of disappointment and anger that threatened to drown her. Had her friendship with this man been prearranged, calculated? Was the bond between them truly little more than the result of a manipulation? She had to

clear her throat before she could speak again. "I'm curious, though. Those times you put your tongue in my mouth—was that done to win my trust or to educate?" Crash vanished into the trees. "You know me better than to think that," Harvard said quietly, calmly. Neither of them was wearing their protective goggles yet. They weren't close enough to the so-called terrorists' camp to be concerned about being struck by paint balls. The eastern sky was growing lighter with the coming sunrise, and P.J. could see Harvard's eyes. And in them she saw everything his words said, and more. "We have two separate relationships," he told her. "We have this working relationship—" he gestured between them "—this mutual respect and sincere friendship that grew from a need on both our parts to get along." He lifted his hand and lightly touched one finger to her lips. "But we also have this relationship." He smiled. "This one in which I find myself constantly wanting to put my tongue in your mouth—and other places, as well. And I assure you, my reasons for wanting that are purely selfish. They have nothing whatsoever to do with either SEAL Team Ten or FInCOM." P.J. cleared her throat. "Maybe we can discuss this later— and then you can tell me exactly what kind of relationship you want between Alpha Squad and FInCOM. If I'm going to be your liaison, you're going to have to be up-front and tell me everything. And I mean everything." She shifted the strap of her assault rifle on her shoulder. "But right now I think we've got an appointment to go get killed as part of a paint-ball slaughter to prove that the CSF team isn't going to work. Am I right?" Harvard smiled, his eyes warm in the early morning light. "We might be about to die, but you and me, we're two of a kind, and you better believe we're going to go down fighting."

Chapter 13 They're definitely not with the government," Wesley reported, his usual megaphone reduced to a sotto voce. "They're too well-dressed." "Stay low." Blue McCoy's southern drawl lost most of its molasses-slow quality as he responded to Wes from his position on the Irvin. "Stay out of sight until we know exactly who they are." Harvard rubbed the back of his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension that had settled in his shoulders. This exercise had escalated into a fullblown snafu in the blink of an eye. Wes reported that he and Bobby and Chuck Schneider were on a jungle road heading up the mountain when they'd heard the roar of an approaching truck. They'd gone into the crawl space beneath an abandoned building, purposely staying close to the road so they could check out whoever was driving by. It turned out to be not just one truck but an entire military convoy. And this convoy wasn't just riding by. They'd stopped. Six humvees and twenty-five transport trucks had pulled into the clearing. Soldiers dressed in ragged uniforms had begun to set up camp—directly around the building Bobby and Wes and Chuck were hiding in. They were pinned in place at least until nightfall. "No heroics." From the other side of the mountain, where his team was the closest to approaching the terrorist camp, Joe Cat added his own two cents to Blue's orders. "Do you copy, Skelly? Whoever they are, they've got real bullets in their weapons while you've only got paint balls." "I hear you, Captain," Wes breathed. "We're making ourselves very, very invisible." "Are the uniforms gray and green?" Crash asked. Harvard looked at him. They were laying low, hidden in the thickness of the jungle, a number of clicks downwind of Joe Cat's team. "Affirmative," Wes responded. P.J. was watching Crash, too. "Do you know who they are?" she asked. Lieutenant Hawken looked from PJ. to Harvard. Harvard didn't like the sudden edge in the man's crystal blue eyes. "Yes," Crash said. "They're the private army of Sun Yung Kim. He's known locally as the Korean, even though his mother is from the island. He's never moved his men this far north before." Harvard swore under his breath. "He's one of the drug lords you were talking about, right?" "Yes, he is." From the USS /rvm, Blue McCoy spoke. "Captain I suggest we eighty-six this exercise now before we find ourselves in even deeper—" "We're already in it up to our hips." Joe Cat's voice was tight with tension. "H., we're at the tree line near the Marines' training camp. How far are you from us?" "Ten minutes away if you don't care who knows we're coming," Harvard responded. "Thirty if you do." Joe swore. "Captain, we're on our way." Harvard gestured for Haw-ken to take the point. As much as he wanted to lead the way, this island was Crash's territory. He could get them to Joe Cat more quickly. "Joe, what's happening?" Blue demanded, his lazy accent all but gone. "Sit rep, please." "We've got five, maybe six KIAs in the clearing outside the main building," Joe Cat reported. "Four of 'em are wearing gray and green uniforms. At least one looks like one of our Marines." KIA. Killed in action. Harvard could see PJ.'s shock reflected in her eyes as she gazed at him. His tension rose. If they'd stumbled into a war zone, he wanted her out of here. He wanted her on the Irvin and heading far away, as fast as the ship could move. Unless... "Captain, could it be nothing more than an elaborate setup?" Harvard's brain had slipped into pre-combat mode, moving at lightning speed, searching for an explanation, trying to make sense of the situation. And the first thing to do was to prove that this situation was indeed real. Once he did that, then he'd start figuring out how the hell he was going to get P.J. to safety. "I wouldn't put it past the Marines to try to freak us out with fake bodies, fake blood..." "It's real, H." Joe Cat's voice left no room for doubt. "One of 'em crawled to the tree line before he died. He's not just pretending to be dead. This is a very real, very dead man. Whatever went down here probably happened during the night. The body's stone cold." Blue's voice cut in. "Captain, I got Admiral Stonegate on the phone, breathing down my neck. I'm calling y'all back to the ship. Code eighty-six, boys and girls. Dead bodies—in particular dead Marines—aren't part of this training scenario. Come on in, and let's regroup and—"

"I've got movement and signs of life inside the main building," Joe Cat interrupted. "Lucky's moving closer to see if any of our missing jarheads are being held inside. We're gonna try to ID exactly who and how many are holding 'em." "Probably not Kim's men," Crash volunteered. Over Har yard's headset, his voice sounded quiet and matter-of-fact. You couldn't tell that the man was moving at a near run up the mountain. "They wouldn't leave their own dead out at the mercy of the flies and vultures." "If not Sun Yung Kim's men, then whose?" Harvard asked, watching P.J. work to keep up with Crash. He was well aware that he was disobeying Blue's direct order. And he was taking P.J. in the wrong direction. He should be leading her down this mountain, not up it. Not farther away from the ocean and the safety of the USS Irvin. But until he knew for damn sure the captain and Lucky were safe, he couldn't retreat. "The largest of the rival groups is run by John Sherman, an American expatriate and former Green Beret," Crash said. "Captain, I know you want to locate the Marines," Blue's voice cut in. "I know you don't want to leave them stranded, but—" "Lucky's signaling," Cat interrupted. "No sign of the Marines. Looks like there's a dozen tangos inside the structure and—" Harvard heard what sounded like the beginning of an explosion. It was instantly muted, their ears protected by a gating device on one of the highquality microphones. But whose microphone? He heard Joe Cat swear, sharply, succinctly. "We've triggered a bobby trap," the captain reported. "Greene's injured—and we've attracted a whole hell of a lot of attention." Crash picked up the pace. They were running full speed now, but it still wasn't fast enough. The voices over Harvard's headset began to blur. The sound of gunfire. Joe Cat shouting, trying to pull the injured fink to safety. PJ.'s breath coming in sobs as she fought to keep up, as they moved at a dead run through the jungle. Lucky's voice, tight with pain, reporting he'd been hit. Crash's quiet reminder that although they only had rifles that fired paint balls, they should aim for the enemies' eyes. Joe Cat again—his captain, his friend—ordering Lucky to take Greene and head down the mountain while he stayed behind and held at least a dozen hostile soldiers at bay with a weapon that didn't fire real bullets. Harvard added his voice to the chaos. "Joe, hang on—can you hang on? We're three minutes away!" But what was he saying? The captain had no real ammunition, and neither did they. They were charging to the rescue, an impotent, ridiculous cavalry, unable to defend themselves, let alone save anyone else. But then Joe Cat was talking directly to him. His unmistakable New York accent cut through the noise, calm aid clear, as if he weren't staring down his own death. "H., I’m counting on you and Crash to intercept Lucky and Greene and to get everyone back to the ship. Tell Ronnie I love her and that...I'm sorry. This was just supposed to be a training op." "Joe, damn it, just hang on!" But Harvard's voice was lost in the sound of gunfire, the sound of shouting, voices yelling in a language he didn't comprehend. Then he heard the captain's voice, thick with pain but still defiant, instructing his attackers to attempt the anatomically impossible. And then, as if someone had taken Joe Cat's headset and microphone and snapped it into two, there was silence. Lucky's leg was broken. P.J. was no nurse, but it was obvious the SEAL'S leg was completely and thoroughly broken. He'd been hit by a bullet that had torn through the fleshy part of his thigh, and he'd stumbled. The fall had snapped his lower leg, right above the ankle. His face was white and drawn, but the tears in his eyes had nothing to do with his own pain. He was certain that the Alpha Squad's captain was dead. "I saw him go down, H.," he told Harvard, who was working methodically to patch up both Lucky and Greg Greene. Greg's hands and arms were severely burned from a blast that had managed to lift him up and throw him ten yards without tearing him open. It was a miracle the man was alive at all. "I looked back," Lucky continued, "and I saw Cat take a direct shot to the chest. I'm telling you, there's no way he could've survived." Harvard spoke into his lip mike. "What's the word on that ambulance? Farber, you still there?" But it was Blue's voice that came through the static. "Senior Chief, I'm sorry, an ambulance is not coming. You're going to have to get Lucky and Greene down the mountain on your own." Harvard came the closest to losing it that P.J. had seen since this mess had started. "Damn it, McCoy, what the hell are you still doing there? Get moving, Lieutenant! Get off that toy boat and get your butt onto this island. I need you here to get Cat out of there!" Blue sounded as if he were talking through tightly clenched teeth. "The local government has declared a state of emergency. All U.S. troops and officials have been ordered off the island, ASAP. Daryl, I am unable to leave this ship. And I'm forced to issue an order telling you that you must

comply with the government's request." Harvard laughed, but it was deadly. There was no humor in it at all. "Like hell I will." "It's an order, Senior Chief." Blue's voice sounded strained. "Admiral Stonegate is here. Would you like to hear it from him?" "With all due respect, Admiral Stonegate can go to hell. I'm not leaving without the captain." Harvard was serious. P.J. had never seen him more serious. He was going to go in after Joe Catalanotto, and he was going to die, as well. She put her hand on his arm. "Daryl, Lucky saw Joe get killed." Her voice shook. She didn't want it to be true. She couldn't imagine the captain dead, all the vibrance and humor and light drained out of the man. But Lucky saw him fall. "No, he didn't." Her touch was meant to comfort, but Harvard was the one who comforted her by placing his hand over hers and squeezing tightly. "He saw the captain get hit. Joe Cat is still alive. I heard him speak to the soldiers who took him prisoner. I heard his voice before they cut his radio connection." "You wanted to hear his voice." "P.J., I know he's alive." He was looking at her with so much fire in his eyes. He believed what he was saying, that much was clear. PJ. nodded. "Okay. Okay. What are we going to do about it?" Harvard released her hand. "You're going back to the Irvin with Lucky and Greene. Crash will take you there." She stared at him. "And what? You're going to go in after Joe all by yourself?" "Yes." "No." Blue's voice cut in. "Harvard, that's insanity. You need a team backing you up." "Part of my team's injured. Part's pinned down by hostile forces, and part's pinned down just as securely by friendly forces. I don't have a lot to work with here, Lieutenant. Wes, you still got batteries? You still listening in?" "Affirmative," Wesley whispered from his hiding place dead in the center of the rival army's camp. "What are your chances of breaking free come nightfall?" Harvard asked him. "Next to none. There're guards posted on all sides of this structure," Wes breathed. "Unless this entire army packs it in and moves out, there's no way we're getting out of here any time soon." P.J.'s heart was in her throat as she watched Harvard pace. She didn't know what the hell was going on, but she did know one thing for sure. There was no way she was going to walk away and leave him here. No way. "Senior Chief, I have to tell you again to bring the wounded and get back to this ship," Blue said. "I have to tell you—we have no choice in this." "What is this all about?" P.J. asked Blue. "What's happening? Why the state of emergency?" "The missing Marines turned up at the U.S. Embassy about fifteen minutes ago," he told her. "Most were wounded. Two are still missing and presumed dead. They say they were am bushed late last night. They were taken prisoner, but they managed to evade their captors and make it down to the city. "They're saying the men who attacked them are soldiers in John Sherman's private army. This is a drug war. If Joe is dead, he was killed as a result of a territorial dispute between two heroin dealers." His voice cracked, and he stopped for a moment, taking deep breaths before he went on. "So we've got John Sherman up north, and this other army—the private forces of Sherman's rival, Sun Yung Kim—mobilizing. They're moving in Sherman's direction, as Bobby and Wes have seen, up close and personal. Both factions are armed to the teeth, and the government is staring down the throat of a full-fledged civil war. Their method of dealing with the situation is to kick all the Americans out of the country. So here we are. I'm stuck on this damn ship. Short of jumping over the side and swimming for shore, I cannot help you, H. I have to tell you—bring the rest of the team and come back in." That was the third time Blue had said those words, I have to tell you. He was ordering them to come in because he had to. But he didn't want them to. He didn't want Harvard to return without the captain any more than Harvard did. PJ. looked around, realizing suddenly that Crash was nowhere to be seen. She turned off her lip mike and gestured for Harvard to do the same. He did, turning toward her, already guessing her question. "He went to the encampment," he told her. "I asked him to go—to see if Joe really is alive." PJ. held his gaze, feeling his pain, feeling her eyes fill with tears. "If Joe's dead," she said quietly, "we go back to the ship, okay?"

Harvard didn't nod. He didn't acknowledge her words in any way. He reached out and pushed an escaped strand of hair from her face. "Please, Daryl," she said. "If he's dead, getting yourself killed won't bring him back." "He's not dead." Crash materialized beside them, his microphone also turned off. P.J. jumped, but Harvard was not surprised, as if he had some sixth sense that had told him the other SEAL had been approaching. Harvard nodded at Hawken's news, as if he'd already known it. And he had, P.J. realized. He'd been adamant that Joe was still alive—and so the captain was. But for how long? Crash turned on his microphone and pulled it to his mouth. "Captain Catalanotto's alive," he told Blue and the others on the ship without ceremony. "His injuries are extensive, though. From what I could see, he was hit at least twice, once in the leg and once in the upper chest or shoulder—I'm not certain which. There was a lot of blood. I wasn't close enough to see clearly. He was unable to walk—he was on a stretcher, and he was being transported north, via truck. My bet is he has been taken to Sherman's headquarters, about five kilometers up the mountain." There was silence from the Irvin, and P.J. knew they'd temporarily turned off the radio. She could imagine Blue's heated discussion with the top brass and diplomats who cared more about the U.S.'s wobbly relationship with this little country than they did about a SEAL captain's life. Harvard gestured to Crash to turn off his microphone. "Tell me about Sherman's HQ," he demanded. "It's a relatively modern structure," Hawken told him. "A former warehouse that was converted into a high-level security compound. I've been inside several times—but only because I was invited and let in through the front door. There are only a few places the captain could be inside the building. There're several hospital rooms—one in the northeast corner, ground floor, another more toward the front of the east side of the building." He met Harvard's eyes somberly. "They may well have denied him medical care and put him in one of the holding cells in the sub-basement." "So how do I get in?" Harvard asked. "Not easily," Crash told him. "John Sherman's a former Green Beret. He built this place to keep unwanted visitors out. There are no windows and only two doors—both heavily guarded. The only possibility might be access through an air duct system that vents on the west side of the building, up by the roof. I tried accessing the building that way, back about six years ago, and the ducts got really narrow about ten feet in. I was afraid I'd get stuck, so I pulled back. I don't know if getting inside that way is an option for you, Senior Chief. You've got forty or fifty pounds on me. Of course, it was six years ago. Sherman may have replaced the system since then." "I bet I would fit." Both men looked at PJ. as if they'd forgotten she was there. "No," Harvard said. "Uh-uh. You're going back to the ship with Lucky and Greene." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why? I'm not wounded." "That's right. And you're going to stay not wounded. There are real bullets in those weapons, PJ." "I've faced real bullets before," she told him. "I've been a field agent for three years, Daryl. Come on. You know this." "Crash needs you to help get Lucky and Greene to the ship." She kept her voice calm. "Crash doesn't need me—you need me." Harvard's face was taut with tension. "The only thing I need right now is to go into Sherman's headquarters and bring out my captain." PJ. turned to face Crash. "Will I fit through the air ducts?" He was silent, considering, measuring her with his odd blue eyes. "Yes," he finally said. "You will." She turned to Harvard. "You need me." "Maybe. But more than I need your help, I need to know you're safe." He turned away, silently telling her that this conversation was over. But PJ. wouldn't let herself be dismissed. "Daryl, you don't have a lot of choices here. I know I can—" "No," he said tightly. "I choose no. You're going back to the ship-" P.J. felt sick to her stomach. All those things he'd said to his sister, to his family, to her—they weren't really true. He didn't really believe she was his equal. He didn't really think she could hold her own. "I see." Her voice wobbled with anger and disappointment. *'Excuse me. My fault. Obviously, I've mistaken you for someone else—someone stronger. Someone smarter. Someone who actually walks their talk—" Harvard imploded. His voice got softer, but it shook with intensity. "Damn it, I can't change the way I feel!" He reached for her, pulling her close, enveloping her tightly in his arms, uncaring of Lucky and Greene's curious eyes. "You matter too much to me, P.J.," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm sorry, baby, I know you think I'm letting you down." He pulled away to look into her eyes, to touch her face. "I care too much."

PJ. could feel tears flooding her eyes. Oh, God, she couldn't cry. She never cried. She refused to cry. She fiercely blinked her tears back. This wasn't just about Harvard's inability to see her as an equal. This was more important than that. This was about his survival. "I care, too," she told him, praying she could make him understand. "And if you try to do this alone, you're going to die." "Yeah," he said roughly. "That's a possibility." "No. It's more than a possibility. It's a certainty. Without me, you don't stand a chance of getting into that building undetected." He was gazing at her as if he were memorizing her face for all eternity. "You don't know what a SEAL can do when he puts his mind to it." "You've got to let me help you." Blue's voice came on over their headsets. He sounded strangled. "There is no change in orders. Repeat, no change. Senior Chief, unless you are pinned down like Bob and Wes, and are unable to move, you must return to the ship. Do you copy what I'm saying?" Harvard flipped on his microphone. "I read you loud and clear, Lieutenant." He turned it off again, still holding PJ.'s gaze. "You're going with Crash." He touched her cheek one last time before he pulled away from her. "It's time for you to get out of here." "No," she said, her voice surprisingly calm. "I'm sorry, but I'm staying." Harvard seemed to expand about six inches, and his eyes grew arctic cold. "This is not a matter of what you want or what you think is best I'm giving you a direct order. If you disobey—" PJ. laughed in his face. "You're a fine one to talk about disobeying direct orders. Look, if you can't handle this, maybe you should be the one who returns to the ship with Lucky and Greene. Maybe Crash is man enough to let me help him get Joe out of there." "Yeah," Harvard said harshly. "Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I'm not man enough to want to watch you die." His words washed her anger from her, and she took a deep breath. "I'll make a deal with you. I won't die if you don't" He wouldn't look at her. "You know it doesn't work that way." "Then we'll both do the best we can. We're two of a kind, remember? Your words." She moved toward him, touched his arm. "Please," she said softly. "I'm begging you to let me help. Trust me enough, respect me enough..." The look on his face was terrible, and she knew this was the most difficult decision he'd ever made in his life. PJ. spoke low and fast, aware he was listening, knowing that she would flat out defy him if she had to, but wanting him to choose for her to stay. "Trust me," she said again. "Trust yourself. You've stood up for me and supported me more times than I can count You told me you would choose me to be on your team anytime. Well, it's time, brother. It's time for you to put your money where your mouth is. Choose me now. Choose me for something that truly matters." She took his hands, holding onto him tightly, trying to squeeze her words, her truth, into him. "I know it's dangerous— we both know that. But I've done dangerous before. It's part of my job to take risks. Look at me. You know me—maybe better than anyone in the entire world. You know my strengths—and my limitations. I may not be a SEAL, but I'm the best FlnCOM agent there is, and I know—and you know —that I can fit through that air duct." P.J. played her trump card mercilessly, praying it would be enough to make Harvard change his mind. "Joe Cat is my friend, too," she told him. "As far as I can see, I'm his only hope. Without me, you've got no way in. Take me with you, and maybe—maybe—together we can save his life." Harvard was silent for several long moments. And then he pulled his lip mike close to his mouth and switched it on as he held PJ.'s gaze. "This is Senior Chief Becker. Lieutenant Hawken is proceeding down the mountain with Lieutenant O'Donlon and Agent Greene, as ordered. Unfortunately, Agent Richards and I have been pinned down and are unable to move. We'll report in with our status throughout the day, but at this moment, it looks as if we'll be unable to advance toward the Irvin until well after nightfall." "I copy that, Senior Chief," Blue's voice said. "Be careful. Stay alive." "Yeah." Harvard turned off his microphone, still holding PJ.'s gaze. "Why do I feel as if I've just lost my last toehold on my sanity?" He shouldered his weapon, turning his gaze toward Crash. "If I can, I'll try to drop them into friendly territory," Hawken said, referring to Lucky and Greene, "then come back to help." "Please do. It's hard to do our Mod Squad imitation without you." Harvard turned to P.J. "You ready?" She nodded. He nodded, too. "Well, that makes one of us." "Thank you," she whispered. "Hurry," he said, "before I change my mind."

Chapter 14 "What now?" PJ. asked as she and Harvard backed away from John Sherman's private headquarters. "Now we find a place to lay low until nightfall," he said tersely, stopping to secure his binoculars in the pocket of his combat vest. "We'll take turns getting some sleep." He hadn't said anything that wasn't terse since they'd split up from Hawken, five hours earlier. PJ. knew Harvard was questioning his decision to let her help him. He was angry at himself, angry at her, angry at the entire situation. They were going up against some seriously bad odds here. It was entirely possible that one or both of them could be dead before this time tomorrow. PJ. didn't want to die. And she didn't want to plan around the possibility of her death. But she was damned if she was going to spend what could well be the last hours of her life with someone who was terse. She gazed at Harvard. "I'm not sure how you're going to get any sleep with that great huge bug up your ass." He finally, finally smiled for the first time in hours, but it was rueful and fleeting. "Yeah," he said. "I'm not sure, either." He looked away, unable to hold her gaze. "Look, P.J., I've got to tell you, I feel as if I'm hurtling down a mountain, totally out of control. Your being here scares the hell out of me, and I don't like it. Not one bit." P.J. knew it hadn't been easy for him to tell her that. "Daryl, you know, I'm scared, too." He glanced at her. "It's not too late for you to—" "Don't say it," she warned him, narrowing her eyes. "Don't even think it. I'm scared, but I'm going to do what I need to do. The same way you are. You need my help getting into that place, and you know it." They'd spent most of the past five hours lying in the underbrush, watching the comings and goings of the ragtag soldiers around John Sherman's private fortress. And it was a fortress. It was a renovated warehouse surrounded by a clearing that was in constant danger of being devoured by the lushness of the jungle. Harvard had told PJ.—tersely—that the building dated from before the Vietnam War. It had been constructed by the French to store weapons and ammunition. Sherman had updated it, strengthening the concrete block structure and adding what appeared to be an extremely stateof-the-art security system. Harvard and PJ. had studied the system, had watched the pattern of the guards and had kept track of the trucks full of soldiers coining and going. They'd examined the building from all angles and sides. Harvard had paid particular attention to the air duct near the roofline on the west side of the building, staring at it for close to thirty minutes through his compact binoculars. "If I had two more SEALs—just two more—I wouldn't need to get in through the damn air duct," Harvard told her. "I'd use a grenade launcher and I'd blow a hole through the side of the building. With two more men, I could get Joe out that way." "With two more men—and an arsenal of weapons," PJ. reminded him. "You haven't got a grenade launcher. You've got a rifle that fires paint balls." "I can get the weapons we'd need," he told her, and she believed him. She wasn't sure how he'd do it—and she wasn't sure she wanted to know how. But the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice left little doubt in her mind that if he said he could get weapons, he could get weapons. "In fact, I'm planning to confiscate some equipment as soon as it's dark. No way am I letting you go in there armed only with this toy gun." He turned away, reacting to the words he'd just spoken. "I may not let you go in there, anyway." "Yes, you will," she said quietly. He glanced at her again. "Maybe by nightfall Bob and Wes will break free." PJ. didn't say anything. Harvard knew as well as she did that at last report, Wes had been close to certain the trapped SEALs wouldn't be able to move anytime soon. And he knew, too, that it was no good waiting for Crash to reappear. They'd both listened over their radio headsets three hours earlier as Crash brought Lucky and Greene to safety. Anti-American sentiment in the city was high, and he'd had to bring the wounded men all the way down to the docks. Once there, he was trapped. The soldiers who were assisting in the American evacuation of the island were adamant about Crash returning to the Irvin with the other members of the CSF team. Sure, Crash had tried to talk his way out of it. He'd tried to convince the soldiers to let him slip into the mountains, but they were young and frightened and extremely intent upon following their orders. Short of using excessive force, Crash had had no choice. At last report, he was with Blue McCoy on the USS Irvin. And Harvard and PJ. were on their own. There were no other SEALs to help Harvard rescue Joe Cat. There was only PJ. She followed Harvard from Sherman's headquarters, trying to move even half as silently as he did through the jungle.

He seemed to know where he was going. But if there was an actual trail he was following, PJ. couldn't see it He slowed as they came to a clearing, turning to look at her. "We're going to need to be extra careful crossing this field," he told her. "I want you to make absolutely sure that when you walk, you step in my footprints, do you understand?" PJ. nodded. Then she shook her head. No, she didn't really understand. Why? But Harvard had already started into the clearing, and she followed, doing as he'd instructed, stepping in the indentations he made in the tall grass. Was it because of snakes? Or was there something else— something even creepier, with even bigger teeth—hiding there? She shivered. "If you really want me to do this, you've got to shorten your stride," PJ. told him. "Although it's probably not necessary because I can see—" "Step only where I step," he barked at her. "Whoa! Chill! I can pretty much see there're no snakes, so unless there's another reason we're playing follow the leader—" "Snakes? Are you kidding? Jesus, P.J.! I thought you knew! We're walking through a field—a mine field." PJ. froze. "Excuse me?" "A minefield," Harvard said again, enunciating to make sure she understood. "P.J., this is a minefield. On the other side, across that stream, in those trees over there, there's a hut. It's kind of run-down because most folk know better than to stroll through this neighborhood to get there. Hawken told me about it—told me it was the safest place on this part of the island. He told me a way through this field, too—that's what we're doing right now." Her eyes were huge as she stared at him, as she stared at the field that completely surrounded them. "We're taking a stroll through a mine field." "I'm sorry. I thought you were listening when Crash told me about it." He tried to smile, tried to be reassuring. "It's no big deal—if you step exactly where I step. The good news is that once we get across we're not going to.have to worry about locals running into us. Crash told me people around here avoid this entire area." "On account of the minefield." "That's right" Harvard went forward, careful to step precisely where Hawken had told him to. "Has it occurred to you that this is insane? Who put these mines here? Why would they put mines here?" "The French put the mines in more than thirty years ago." Harvard glanced back to see that she was following him carefully. "They did it because at the time there was a war going on." "Shouldn't this field be cleared out—or at least fenced off? There wasn't even a sign warning people about the mines! What if children came up here and wandered into this field?" "This was one of the projects the Marine FED team was working on," Harvard told her. "But there's probably a dozen fields like this all over the island. And hundreds more—maybe even thousands—all over Southeast Asia. It's a serious problem. People are killed or maimed all the time— casualties of a war that supposedly ended decades ago." "How do you know where to step?" P.J. asked. "You are being careful aren't you?" "I'm being very careful." His shirt was drenched with sweat. "Crash drew me a map of the field in the dirt He told me the route to take." "A map in the dirt," she repeated. "So, you're going on memory and a map drawn in the dirt." "That's right" She made a muffled, faintly choking sound—a cross between a laugh and a sob. Harvard glanced at her again. Her face was drawn, her mouth tight, her eyes slightly glazed. They were almost there. Almost to the edge of the field. Once they were in the stream, they'd be in the clear. He had to keep her distracted for a little bit longer. "You okay?" he asked. "You're not going to faint on me or anything, are you?" Her eyes flashed at that, instantly bringing life to her face. "No, I'm not going to faint. You know, you wouldn't have asked that if I were a man." "Probably not." "Probably—God, you admit it?" Harvard stepped into the water, reaching back and lifting her into his arms.

"Put me down!" He carried her across the shallow streambed and set her down on the other side. "All clear." She stared at him, then she stared across the stream at the minefield. Then she rolled her eyes, because she knew exactly what he had done. "The real truth is, I've seen plenty of big, strong guys faint," he informed her. "Gender doesn't seem to play a big part in whether someone's going to freeze up and stop breathing in a tense situation." "I don't freeze up," she told him. "Yeah, I'm learning that. You did good." P.J. sat in the dirt. "We're going to have to do that again tonight, aren't we? Walk back through there? Only—God! This time we'll be in the dark." "Don't think about that now. We've got to get some rest." She smiled ruefully at him. "Yeah, I'm about ready for a nap. My pulse rate has finally dropped down to a near catatonic two hundred beats per minute." Harvard couldn't help but laugh as he held out his hand to help her up. Damn, he was proud of her. This day had been wretchedly grueling—both physically and emotionally. Yet she was still able to make jokes. "You can take the first watch if you want." "You're kidding. You trust me to stand watch?" He looked at their hands. She hadn't pulled hers free from his, and he held onto it, linking their fingers together. "I trust you to do everything," he admitted. "My problem's not with you—it's with me. I trust you to pull off your Wonder Woman act without a hitch. I trust you to go into the building through that air duct, and I trust you to find Cat. I trust you to make all the right choices and all the right moves. But I've been in this business long enough to know that sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes you do everything right and you still get killed." He swore softly. "But you know, I even trust you to die with dignity, if it comes down to that." He was silent, but she seemed to know he had more to say. She waited, watching him. "I just don't trust myself to be able to handle losing you. Not when I've just begun to find you. See, because I'm..." His voice was suddenly husky, and he cleared his throat. "Somehow I've managed to fall in love with you. And if you die.. .a part of me is going to die, too." There it was. There he was. Up on the table, all prepped and ready for a little open heart surgery. He hadn't meant to tell her. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have breathed a word. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have admitted it to himself, let alone to her. But the circumstances were far from normal. Harvard held his breath, waiting to see what she would say. There were so many ways she could respond. She could turn away. She could pretend to misunderstand. She might make light of his words—make believe he was joking. Instead, she softly touched his face. As he watched, tears flooded her beautiful eyes, and for the first time since he'd met her, she didn't try to fight them. "Now you know," she whispered, smiling so sweetly, so sadly, "why I couldn't go back with the others. Now you know why I wanted so badly to stay." Harvard's heart was in his throat. He'd heard the expression before, but he'd never experienced it—not like this. He'd never known these feelings— not with Rachel, not ever. It was twice the miracle, because although she hadn't told him she loved him, she'd made it more than clear that she felt something for him, too. He bent to kiss her, and she rose onto her toes to meet him halfway. Her lips were soft and so sweet, he felt himself sway. He could taste the salt of her tears. Her tears. Tough, stoic P.J. was letting him see her cry. He kissed her again, harder this time. But when he pulled her closer, the gear in his combat vest bumped into the gear in hers, and their two weapons clunked clumsily together. It served as a reminder that this was hardly the time and place for this. Except there was nowhere else for them to go. And Harvard was well aware that this time they had, these next few hours, could well be the only time they'd ever have. Unless they turned around and headed down the mountain. Then they'd have the entire rest of their lives, stretching on and on, endlessly into the future. He would have a limitless number of days and nights filled with this woman's beautiful smiles and passionate kisses. He could see their love affair continue to grow. He could see him on his knees, asking her to be his wife. Hell, with enough time to get used to the idea, she might even say yes. He could see babies with PJ.'s eyes and his wicked grin. He could see them all living, happily ever after, in a little house with a garden that overlooked the ocean.

Harvard nearly picked her up and carried her across that stream, through that minefield and toward the safety of the USS Irvin. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't have that guaranteed happily ever after. Because in order to have it, he'd have to leave Joe Catalanotto behind. And no matter how much Harvard wanted the chance of a future with this woman, he simply couldn't leave his captain for dead. Everything he was thinking and feeling must have been written on his face, because P.J. touched his cheek as she gazed into his eyes. "Maybe we don't have forever," she said quietly. "Maybe neither one of us will live to see the sunrise. So, okay. We'll just have to jam the entire rest of our lives into the next six hours." She stood on her toes and kissed him. "Let's go find that hut of Crash's," she whispered. "Don't let me die without making love to you." Harvard gazed at her, uncertain of what to say and how to say it. Yes. That was the first thing he wanted to say. He wanted to make love to her. As far as last requests went, he couldn't think of a single thing he'd want more. But her assumption was that they were going to die. He might die tonight, but she wasn't going to. He had very little in his power and under his control, but he could control that. And he'd made up his mind. When he left tonight, he wasn't going to take her with him. And she wouldn't follow him. He'd made certain of that by bringing her here, to this cabin alongside this minefield. She'd be safe, and he'd radio Crash and Blue and make sure they knew precisely where she was. And after he got Joe out—if he got Joe out—he'd come back for her. If not, Blue would send a chopper to pick her up in a day or so, after the trouble began to die down. She misread his silence. "I promise you," she told him, wiping the last of her tears from her eyes. "I'll have no regrets tomorrow." "But what if we live?" Harvard asked. "What if I pull this off and get Joe out and we're both still alive come tomorrow morning?" "Yeah, right, I'm really going to regret that" "That's not what I meant, and you know it, smart ass." "No regrets," she said again. "I promise." She tugged at his hand. "Come on, Daryl. The clock's running." Harvard's heart was in his throat because he knew P.J. truly believed neither of them would survive this mission. She thought she had six hours left, but she was ready and willing to share those six hours—the entire rest of her life—with him. He remembered what she'd told him, her most private, most secret childhood fantasy. When she was a little girl, she'd dreamed that someday she'd find her perfect man, and he'd love her enough to marry her before taking her to bed. "Marry me." Harvard's words surprised himself nearly as much as they did her. P.J. stared at him. "Excuse me?" Still, in some crazy way, it made sense. He warmed quickly to the idea. "Just for tonight. Just in case I—we—don't make it. You told me you'd always hoped that your first lover would be your husband. So marry me. Right here. Right now." "That was just a silly fantasy," she protested. "There's no such thing as a silly fantasy. If I'm going to be your lover, let me be your husband first." "But—" "You can't argue that you don't have the time to support that kind of commitment, to make a marriage work. There's not much that can go sour in six hours." "But it won't be legal." She liked the idea. He could see it in her eyes. But the realistic side of her was embarrassed to admit it. "Don't be so pragmatic," Harvard argued. "What is marriage, really, besides a promise? A vow given from one person to another. It'll be as legal as we want it to be." PJ. was laughing in disbelief. "But—" Harvard took her hand more firmly in his. "I, Daryl Becker, do solemnly..." She was still laughing. "Well, maybe not solemnly, but anyway, I swear to take you, PJ.—" He broke off. "You know, I don't even know what PJ. stands for." "That's probably because I've never told you." "So tell me."

PJ. closed her eyes. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" "Uh-oh. Yeah. Absolutely." She opened her eyes and looked at him. "Porsche Jane." "Portia? That's not so strange. It's pretty. Like in the Shakespeare play?" PJ. shook her head. "Nope. Porsche like in the really fast car." Harvard laughed. "I'm not laughing at you," he said quickly. "It's just... It's so cool. I've never met anyone who was named after a car before. Porsche. It suits you." "I guess it could have been worse. I could've been Mas-erati. Or even Chevrolet." "I could see you as a Spitfire," he said. "Spitfire Jane Richards. Oh, yeah." "Gee, thanks." "Why Porsche? There's a story there, right?" "Uh-huh. The nutshell version is that my mother was fourteen when I was born." P.J. crossed her arms. "So are we going to stand here talking for the next six hours, or what?" Harvard smiled. "First I'm going to marry you. Then we'll get to the or what." They were going to do this. They were going to go inside that run-down little hut that was guarded by a swamp on one side and a minefield on the other, and they were going to make love. P.J. was trying so hard not to be nervous. Still, he knew she was scared. But he couldn't help himself—he had to kiss her. As his mouth touched hers, there was an instant conflagration. His canteen collided with her first aid kit, but he didn't care. He kissed her harder, and she kissed him back just as ferociously. But then his binoculars slammed against her hunting knife, and he pulled back, laughing and wanting desperately to be free of all their gear—and all their clothes. P.J. was breathless and giddy with laughter, too. "Well, my pulse rate is back up to a healthy three hundred." Harvard let himself drown for a moment in her eyes. "Yeah. Mine, too." He cleared his throat. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. This marriage thing. I, Daryl Becker, take you, Porsche Jane Richards, to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to love you for the rest of my life—whether it's short or long." P.J. stopped laughing. "You said only for tonight." Harvard nodded. "I'm hoping that tonight will last a very long time." He squeezed her hand. "Your turn." "This is silly." "Yup. Do it anyway. Do it for me." P.J. took a deep breath. "I, P. J. Richards, take you, Daryl Becker, as my husband for tonight—or for the rest of my life. Depending. And I promise...." She promised what? Harvard was standing there, waiting for her to say something more, to say something deeply emo tional. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but she couldn't do it The words stuck in her throat. But he seemed to understand, because he didn't press her for more. Instead, he bowed his head. "Dear God, we make these vows to each other here, in Your presence," Harvard said quietly. "There are no judges or pastors or notarized papers to give our words weight or importance. Just You, me and P.J. And really, what the three of us believe is all that truly matters, isn't it?" He paused, and PJ. could hear the sound of insects in the grass, the stream gurgling over rocks, the rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze brought them a breath of cool ocean air. Harvard looked up, met her gaze and smiled. "I think that since we haven't been struck down by lightning, we can pretty much assume we've been given an affirmative from the Man." He pulled her closer. "And I don't think I'm going to wait for Him to clear His throat and tell me it's okay to kiss the bride." He lowered his mouth to hers, but stopped a mere whisper from her lips. "You belong to me now, PJ. And I’m all yours. For as long as you want me." PJ. stood in the jungle on the side of a mountain as Daryl Becker gently lifted her chin and covered her lips with his. She wasn't dressed in a white gown. He wasn't wearing a gleaming dress uniform. They were clad in camouflage gear. They were dirty and sweaty and tired. None of this should have been romantic, but somehow, someway, it was. Harvard had made it magical. And even though their vows couldn't possibly have stood up in a court of law, PJ. knew that everything he'd told her was true. She belonged to him. She had for quite some time now. She simply hadn't let herself admit it.

"Let's go inside," he whispered, tugging gently at her hand. It was then she realized they'd been standing within ten yards of the hut the entire time. It was covered almost completely by vines and plants. With the thick growth of vegetation, it was camouflaged perfectly. She could have walked within six feet of it and gone right past, never realizing it was there. Even the roof had sprouted plant life—long slender stalks with leaves on the end that grew upward in search of the sun. "You said you wanted a house with a garden," Harvard said with a smile. PJ. had to laugh. "This house is a garden." The door was hanging on only one hinge, and it creaked as Harvard pushed it open with the barrel of his rifle. PJ. held her weapon at the ready. Just because the house looked deserted, that didn't mean it was. But it was empty. Inside was a single room with a hard-packed dirt floor. There were no plants growing—probably because they died from lack of sun. It was dim inside, and cool. Harvard set down his pack, then slipped the strap of his weapon over his shoulder. "I'll be right back." He turned to look at her before he stepped out the door. "I should've carried you over this threshold." "Don't be prehistoric." "I think it's supposed to bring luck," he told her. "Or guarantee fertility. Or something. I forget." PJ. laughed as he went out the door. "In the neighborhoods / grew up in, those are two hugely different things." She set her rifle against the wall, then slipped out of her lightweight pack. It was too quiet in there without Harvard. Too dark without his light. But he was back within minutes, just after she'd taken off her heavy combat vest and put it beside her weapon and pack. He'd cut a whole armload of palm fronds and leaves, and he tossed them onto the floor. He took a tightly rolled, lightweight blanket from his pack and covered the cushion of leaves. He'd made them a bed. A wedding bed. PJ. swallowed, and she heard the sound echo in the stillness. Harvard was watching her as he unfastened the Velcro straps on his combat vest and unbuttoned the shirt underneath. His sleeves were rolled up high on his arms, past the bulge of his biceps, and PJ. found herself staring at his muscles. He had huge arms. They were about as big around as her thighs. Maybe even bigger. His shoulders strained against the seams of his shirt as he opened his canteen and took a drink, all the while watching her. He was her husband. Oh, she knew that legally what they'd done, what they'd said, wasn't real. But Harvard clearly had meant the words he'd spoken. She got a solid rush of pleasure from that now. It was foolish—she knew it was. But she didn't care. He held out his hand for her, and she went to him. Her husband. Harvard caught his breath as PJ. slipped her hands inside the open front of his shirt. It was like her to be so bold in an attempt to cover her uncertainty and fear. And she was afraid. He could see it in her eyes. But more powerful than her fear was her trust. She trusted him—if not completely, then at least certainly enough to be here with him now. He felt giddy with the knowledge. And breathless from the responsibility. A little frightened at the thought of having to hurt her this first time. And totally turned on by her touch. He slipped off his vest, turning away from her slightly to set it and the valuable equipment it held on the floor. Her hands swept up his chest to his neck. She pushed his shirt up and off his shoulders. "You're so beautiful," she murmured, trailing her lips across his chest as she ran her palms down his arms. "You don't know how long I've been wanting to touch you this way." "Hey, I think that's supposed to be my line." Harvard shook himself free from his shirt, letting it lie where it fell as he pulled her into his arms. Damn,

she was so tiny, he could have wrapped his arms around her twice. He felt the tiniest sliver of doubt. She was so small. And he...he wasn't. The sensation of her hands and mouth caressing him, kissing him, had completely aroused him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so turned on. He wanted her now. Hard and fast, right up against the cabin wall. He wanted to bury himself in her. He wanted to lose his mind in her fire. But he couldn't do that. He had to take this slow. God help him, he didn't want to hurt her any more than he had to. He was going to have to take his time, be careful, be gentle, stay completely in control. He kissed her slowly, forcing himself to set a pace that was laid-back and lazy. Because she certainly was going to be nervous and probably a little bit shy— But then he realized with a shock that she'd already unbuttoned her shirt. He tried to help her pull it off, but he only got in the way as he touched the satiny smoothness of her arms, her back, her stomach. She was wearing a black sports bra. He wanted it off her, too, but he couldn't find the fastener. But then she began unbuckling her belt, and he was completely distracted. She pulled away from him and sat on the blanket to untie her boot laces. Harvard did the same, his blood pounding through his veins. His fingers fumbled as she kicked off her boots and socks, and then she was helping him—as if she were the old pro and he the clumsy novice. She helped him get his boots off. Then, in one fluid motion, she quickly peeled off her pants and pulled her sports bra up and over her head. So much for her being shy. As she turned toward him, he wanted to stop her, to hold her at arm's length and just look at her. But his hands had other plans. He pulled her close and touched her, skimming his fingers along the softness of her skin, cupping the sweet fullness of her breasts in the palm of his hand. She was the perfect mix of lithe athletic muscles and soft curves. He kissed her, trying his damnedest not to rush. But she wasn't of the same mind. She opened her mouth to him, inviting him in, kissing him hungrily. She was an explosion of passion, a scorching embodiment of ecstasy, and he couldn't resist her. He groaned and kissed her harder, deeper, claiming her mouth with his tongue and her body with his hands. He rolled on the blanket, pulling her on top of him, letting her feel his hard desire against the softness of her belly, as he tried desperately to stay in control. "I want to touch you," she whispered as she kissed his face, his neck, his chin. She pulled away slightly to look into his eyes. "May I touch you?" "Oh, yeah." Harvard didn't hesitate. He took her hand and pressed her palm fully against him. PJ. laughed giddily. "My God," she said. "And you intend to put that where?" "Trust me," Harvard said. He drew in a breath as she grew bolder, as her fingers explored him more completely, encircling him, caressing him. "Do I look like a woman who doesn't trust you?" she asked, smiling at him. She was in his arms, wearing only her trust and a very small pair of black bikini panties. Yes, she trusted him. She just didn't trust him enough. If she had, she would have told him that she loved him, too. And she wouldn't have looked so frightened when he vowed to love her for the rest of his life. It didn't matter. Harvard told himself again that it didn't matter. Although he would have liked to hear it in words, P.J. was showing him exactly how she felt. He touched the desire-tightened tip of her bare breast with one knuckle, then ran his finger down to the elastic edge of her panties. "You look like a woman who's not quite naked enough." She shivered at his touch. "I'm more naked than you." Her hands went to his belt. "Mind if I try to even out the odds...and satisfy my raging curiosity at the same time?" "I love your raging curiosity," Harvard said as she tugged down the zipper of his pants. He hooked his thumbs in his briefs and pushed both them and his pants down his legs, and then—damn, it felt good!— she was touching him, skin against skin, her fingers curled around him. Her eyes were about the size of dinner plates, and he leaned back on both elbows, letting her look and touch to her heart's content while he silently tried not to have a pleasure-induced stroke. It was not like her to be quiet for so long, and she didn't disappoint him when she finally did speak. "Now I know," she told him, "what they mean when they talk about penis envy." Harvard had to laugh. He pulled her to him for another scorching kiss, loving the sensation of her breasts soft against his chest, their legs intertwined, her hand still touching him, gently exploring, driving him damn near wild. And as much as he loved her touch, he loved this feeling of completeness, this sense of belonging and profound joy. Nothing had ever felt so right Or felt so wrong. The clock was ticking. All too soon this pleasure was going to end. He was going to have to lie to her, and then he was going to walk away—maybe never to see her again. That

knowledge loomed over him, casting the bleakest of shadows. Harvard pushed it away, far away. Slow down. He took a deep breath. He had to slow things down for more than one reason. He wanted this afternoon to last forever. And he didn't want to scare her. But she kissed him again, and he lost all sense of reason. He took her breast into his mouth, tasting her, kissing and laving her with his tongue, and she arched against him in an explosion of pleasure so intense he nearly lost control. He drew harder, and she moaned. It was a slow, sexy noise, and it implied that whatever she was feeling, it certainly wasn't fear. He dipped his fingers beneath the front edge of her panties, and she stiffened, pulling away slightly. He slowed but didn't stop, lightly touching her most intimately as he gazed at her. "Oh!" she breathed. "Tell me if I'm going too fast for you," he murmured, searching her eyes. "That feels so good," she whispered. She closed her eyes and relaxed against him. "If you want, we can do it like this for a while," he told her. She looked at him, surprised. "But...what about you? What about your pleasure?" "This gives me pleasure. Holding you, touching you like this, watching you..." He took a moment to rid her of her panties. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. "Believe me, we could do this all afternoon, and I'd do just fine in the pleasure department." She cried out, and her grip on him tightened as his exploring fingers delved a little deeper. Her hips moved upward instinctively, pressing him inside her. She was slick and hot with desire, and he loved knowing that he'd done that to her. She was his—and his alone. No other man had touched her this way, no other man before him. No other man had heard her moan with this passion. No other man would ever have this chance to be her first lover. He kissed her possessively, suddenly dizzy from wanting and damn near aching with need, pressing the hard length of his arousal against the sweet softness of her thigh, still touching her, always touching her, harder now, but no less gently. She returned his kisses fiercely, then pulled back to laugh at him. "You are such a liar," she accused him breathlessly. She imitated his voice. "We could do this all afternoon...." "I'm not lying. It's true that I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone—I can't argue with that. But this is good, too. This is beyond good," he told her, taking a moment to draw one deliciously tempting nipple into his mouth. "I could do this for the rest of my life and die a happy man." He gently grazed her with his teeth, and she gasped, her movement opening herself to him more completely. "Please," she said. "I want..." She was breathing raggedly as she looked at him. "What?" he whispered, kissing her breasts, her collarbone, her throat. "Tell me, P.J. Tell me what you want." "I want you to show me how we can fit together. I want to feel you inside of me." He kissed her again, pushing himself off her. "I’ll get a condom." P.J. pushed herself onto her elbows. "You brought condoms on a training operation?" Harvard laughed as he opened one of the Velcro pockets of his vest. "Yeah. You did, too. You should have three or four in your combat vest. To put over our rifle barrels in case of heavy rain, remember?" She wasn't paying attention. She was watching him as he tore open the foil packet, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire. Her hair had come free from her ponytail, and it hung thickly around her shoulders. Her satin-smooth skin gleamed exquisitely in the dim light that filtered through the holes in the ancient ceiling. Harvard took his time covering himself, wanting to memorize that picture of her lying there, naked and waiting for him. He wanted to be able to call it up at will. He wanted to be able to remember this little corner of heaven when he left tonight, heading for hell. But then he could wait no longer. She held out her arms for him, and he went to her. He crawled onto the blanket and he kissed her, his body cradled between her legs. He kissed her again and again—long, slow, deep kisses calculated to leave her breathless. They worked their magic on him, as well, and he came up for air, breathing hard and half-blind with need. He reached between them, feeling her heat, knowing it was now or never. In order to give her pleasure, he first had to give her pain. But maybe he could mask that pain with the heat of the fire he knew he could light within her. He kissed her hard, launching a sensual attack against her, stroking her breasts, knowing she loved that sensation. He touched her mercilessly and kissed her relentlessly as he po sitioned himself against her, letting her feel his weight. Her hips lifted to meet him, and she rubbed herself against

his length, damn near doing him in. The wildfire he'd started was in him, as well, consuming him, burning him alive. "Please," she breathed into his mouth between feverish kisses. "Dary1, please..." Harvard shifted his hips and drove himself inside her. She cried out, but it wasn't hurt that tinged her voice and echoed in the tiny hut. She clung to him tightly, her breath coming fast in his ear. He could barely speak. He made his mouth form words. "Are you all right? Do you want to stop?" She pulled back to look at him, her dark eyes wide with disbelief. "Stop? You want to stop? Now?" He touched her face. "Just tell me you're okay." "I'm okay." She laughed. "Understatement of the year." Harvard moved. Gently. Experimentally. Holding her gaze, he filled her again, slowly this time. "Oh, my," PJ. whispered. "Would you mind doing that again?" He smiled and complied, watching her face. When P.J. wanted to, she was a master at hiding her emotions. But as he made love to her, every sensation, every feeling she was experiencing was right there on her face for him to see. Their joining was as intimate emotionally as it was physically. He moved faster, still watching her, feeling her move with him as she joined him in this timeless, ageless, instinctive dance. "Kiss me," she murmured. He loved looking in her eyes, but he would have done anything she asked, and he kissed her. And as she always did when she kissed him, she set him on fire. And he did the same to her. He felt her explode, shattering in his arms, and he spun crazily out of control. His own release ripped through him as she clung to him, as she matched his passion stroke for stroke. His heart pounded and his ears roared as he went into orbit He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. He could only love her. He rocked gently back to earth, slowly becoming aware that he was on top of her, pinning her down, crushing her. But as he began to move, she held onto him. "Stay," she whispered. "Please?" He held her close as he turned onto his back. "Is this okay?" She was on top of him, but he was still inside her. PJ. nodded. She lifted her head and met his gaze. "Good fit." Harvard had to laugh. "Yeah," he said. "A perfect fit." She tucked her head under his chin, and he held her tightly, feeling her breath, watching the dappled light stream through the holes in the roof. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such peace. And then he did remember. It was years ago. Some holiday. Thanksgiving or Christmas. His sisters were still kids—he'd been little more than a child himself. He'd been away at college, or maybe it was during one of his first years in the Navy. He'd been home, basking in the glow of being back, enjoying that sense of belonging after being gone for so long. He felt that sense of completeness now—and it certainly wasn't because there was anything special about this little barely standing hut. No, the specialness was lying in his arms. Harvard held PJ. closer, knowing he'd finally found his home. In less than six hours he was going to have to leave. It was entirely possible he was going to die. But Harvard knew that even if he lived, he'd never have this peace again. Because if he lived, P.J. was never going to forgive him.

Chapter 15 Blue McCoy paced the ready room of the USS Irvin like a caged panther. Crash set the cardboard cups of coffee he carried in down on a table and silently pushed one of them toward the other man. He went to the door and closed it in the face of the master-at-arms who'd been following him since he returned to the ship. It was obvious that everyone on board the Irvin expected him to try to get back to the island. McCoy was being watched just as closely. They'd both been warned that leaving the ship for any reason would be a court martial-able offense. "I can't stand this," McCoy said through clenched teeth. "He's alive. We should be able to go in after him now. You said yourself you don't think he's going to last more than a few days with the kind of injuries he's sustained." It was possible Joe Catalanotto was already dead. McCoy knew that as well as Crash did. But neither of them spoke the words. "Harvard's still there." Crash tried his best to be optimistic, even though experience told him reality more often than not turned out to be more like the worst-case scenario than the best. "You know as well as I do that the only thing pinning H. down is his inability to move during the daylight. He's planning to go in after the captain come nightfall." "But Bob and Wes are really pinned down." Blue McCoy sat at the table, his exhaustion evident, his Southern drawl pronounced. "Harvard's only one man." Crash sat across from him. "He's got P.J. I think between the two of them, they can get Joe out." He took a sip of coffee. "What they may not be able to do is get Joe down the mountain and safely to this ship." McCoy pulled opened the tab on the plastic cover of his coffee, staring at it sightlessly for a moment before he looked at Crash. For all his fatigue, his eyes were clear, his gaze sharp. "We need a helo. We need one standing by and ready to go in and pull them out of there the moment Harvard gives us the word." McCoy shook his head in disgust. "But I've already requested that, and the admiral's already turned me down." He swore softly. "They're not going to let an American helicopter in, not even for a medivac." McCoy looked at Crash again, and there was murder in his eyes. "If the captain dies, there's going to be hell to pay." Crash didn't doubt that one bit. "You know, now I can add 'sacrificial virgin' to the vast list of employment opportunities that will never be open to me," PJ. mused. As Harvard laughed, she felt his arms tighten around her. "Are there really that many on the list?" She turned her head to look at him in the growing twilight, loving the feeling of his powerful, muscular body spooned next to hers, her back to his front. It still astonished her that a man so strong could be so tender. "Sure. Things like professional basketball player. Not only am I too short, but now I’m too old. And sperm donor is on the list for obvious reasons. So is the position of administrative assistant to a white supremacist. And then there's professional wrestler. That's never going to happen." "Skyscraper window washer?" he suggested, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Yup. High on the list. Along with rock climber and tightrope walker. Oh, yeah—and teen singing sensation. That went on the list the year I was an angel in a Christmas pageant The singing part I could handle, but I hated the fact that everyone was looking at me. It's hard to be a sensation when you won't come out from behind the curtains." His smile made his eyes warmer. "You get stage fright, huh? I never would've thought." "Yeah, and I bet you don't get it. I bet come karaoke night at the officers' club you're the first one up on stage." "I'm not an officer," he reminded her. "But yeah, you're right. I've definitely inherited my mother's acting gene." "Your mother was an actress?" "She still is," he told her. "Although these days, she's mostly doing community theater. She's really good. You'll have to see her some day." Except it was all too likely they wouldn't have tomorrow, let alone some day. All they had was now, but the sun was sinking quickly, and now was nearly gone. Harvard must have realized what he'd said almost as soon as the words had left his lips, because his smile quickly faded. Still, he tried to force a smile, tried to ignore the reality of their nonexistent future, tried to restore the light mood. He cupped his hand around her bare breast. "You might want to put nun at the bottom of your list." "Nun's been on the list for a while," she admitted, shivering at his touch, making an effort, too, to keep her voice light. "I say for too many bad words to ever have a shot at being a nun. And then, of course, there's all my impure thoughts." "Ooh, I'd love to hear some of those impure thoughts. What are you thinking right now?" His smile was genuine, but she could still see the glimmer of a shadow in his eyes.

"Actually, I'm wondering why you're not an officer," she told him. He made a face at her. "That's an impure thought?" "No. But it was what I was thinking. You asked." P.J. turned to face him. "Why didn't you become an officer, Daryl? Joe told me you were approached often enough." "The chiefs run the Navy," he told her. "Everyone thinks the officers do—including most of the officers—but it's really the chiefs who get things done." "But you could've been a captain by now. You could've been the man leading Alpha Squad," she argued. Harvard smiled as he ran one hand across her bare torso, from her breast to her hip and then back up, over and over, slowly, deliciously, hypnotically. "I'm one of the men leading Alpha Squad," he told her. "Cat's a good captain. But he's a mustang—an enlisted man who made the switch to officer. He's had to fight like hell for every promotion. In some ways, that's good. He knows he's not randomly going to get bumped any higher into some job he's not suitable for. What he does best is right here, out in the real world." "But you would be a maverick, too." "I would be a maverick who'd attended Harvard University," he countered. "Every time I was approached by folks who wanted me to go to officer's training, I could see my future in their eyes. It involved spending a lot of time behind a desk. I don't know if the reason they wanted me so badly was to fill a quota, or what, but..." "You don't really think that, do you?" she asked. Harvard shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. All my life, I watched my father struggle. He was one of the top—if not the top—English lit professors in the northeast. But he wasn't known for that. He was 'that black English lit professor.' He was constantly being approached to join the staff of other colleges, but it wasn't because of his knowledge. It was because he would fulfill a quota. It was a constant source of frustration for him. I'm sure, particularly as a woman, you can relate." "I can," she told him. "I don't know how many times I've been called in to join a task force and then told to take a seat at the table and look pretty. No one wanted my input. They wanted any news cameras that might be aimed in their direction to see that they had women on staff. Like, 'Look, y'all. We're so politically correct, we've got a woman working with us.'" "That's why I didn't want to become an officer. Maybe I was just too leery, but I was afraid I'd lose my identity and become 'that black officer.' I was afraid I'd be a figurehead without any real power, safely stashed behind a desk for show." He shook his head. "I may not make as much money, and every now and then a smart-ass lieutenant who's nearly half my age comes along and tries to order me around, but other than that, I'm exactly where I want to be." P.J. kissed him. His mouth was so sweet, so warm. She kissed him again, lingering this time, touching his lips with the tip of her tongue. She could feel his mouth move into a smile. "I know you're thinking something impure now." She was, indeed. "I'm thinking that if you only knew what I was thinking, you'd discover my awful secret." He caught her lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently before he let go. "And what awful secret might that be?" "The fact that no matter what I do, I can't seem to get enough of you." His eyes turned an even warmer shade of whiskey brown as he bent to kiss her. "The feeling is definitely mutual." She reached between them, searching for him—and found him already aroused. Again. "You want to go four for four, my man?" "Yes." He kissed her again, a sweet kiss. "And no. And this time, no wins. You're going to be sore enough as it is." His gaze flickered to the drying bloodstains on the blanket. He'd been so gentle and tender after the first time they'd made love. He'd helped her get cleaned up, and he'd cleaned her blood off himself, as well. P.J. knew he hated the idea that he'd caused her any pain at all, and the blood proved he'd hurt her. Unintentionally. And necessarily, of course. But he had hurt her. Still, he'd also made her feel impossibly good. Harvard propped himself on one elbow and looked at her in the dwindling light. "Besides, my sweet Porsche Jane, it's time to think about heading out." The fear P.J. had buried inside her exploded with a sudden rush. Their time was up. It was over. They had a job to do. A man's life to save. Their own lives to risk. Harvard gently extracted himself from her arms and stood up. He gathered her clothes and handed them to her, and they both quietly got dressed.

Before they went to John Sherman's stronghold, Harvard was determined to find them some real weapons. He'd told her earlier he intended to do that alone. PJ. broke the silence. "I want to go with you." Harvard glanced up from tying his bootlaces. He'd propped opened the rickety door to the hut to let in the last of the fading evening light. His face was in the shadows, but PJ. knew that even if he'd been brightly illuminated, she wouldn't have been able to read his expression. It didn't seem possible that this was the man who'd spent the afternoon with her, naked and laughing in her arms. "You know for a fact that I'll be able to do this faster— cleaner—without you." His voice was even, matter-of-fact. Yeah, she did know that. It took him more than twice as long to move quietly through the jungle when she was with him. And quietly was a relative term. Her most painstakingly silent version of quiet was much noisier than his. Without her, he could approach the fringes of the armed camp where Wes and Bobby were pinned down and he could appropriate real weapons that fired real, live ammunition. Harvard straightened, pulling the edges of his shirt together. PJ. watched his fingers fastening the buttons. He had such big hands, such broad fingers. It seemed impossible that he should be able to finesse those tiny buttons through their tiny buttonholes, but he did it nimbly—faster even than she could have. Of course, she was far more interested in undressing the man than putting his clothes back on him. "If something happens," he said, his voice velvety smooth like the rapidly falling darkness as he shrugged into his combat vest, "if I'm not back before sunup, get on the radio and tell Blue where you are." He took several tubes of camouflage paint from his pocket and began smearing black and green across his face and the top of his head. "Crash will know how to get here." P.J. couldn't believe what she was hearing. "If you're not back before sunup?" "Don't be going into that minefield on your own," he told her sternly, mutating into Senior Chief Becker. "Just stay right here. I'm leaving you what's left of my water and my power bars. It's not much, but it'll hold you for a few days. I don't expect it'll be too much longer before Blue can get a helicopter up here to extract you." She pushed herself to her feet, realization making her stomach hurt. "You're not planning to come back, are you?" "Don't be melodramatic. I'm just making provisions for the worst-case scenario." He didn't look her in the eye as he fastened his vest. PJ. took a deep breath, and when she spoke, her voice sounded remarkably calm. "So what time do you really expect to be back? Much earlier than sunrise, I assume." He set his canteen and several foil-wrapped energy bars next to her vest, then looked straight at her and lied. She knew him well enough by now to know that he was lying. "I'll be back by ten if it's easy, midnight if it's not" PJ. nodded, watching as Harvard checked his rifle. Even though the only ammunition he had was paint balls, it was the only weapon he had, and he was making sure it was in working order. "You said you loved me," she said quietly. "Did you really mean it?" He turned to look at her. "Do you really have to ask?" "I have trust issues," she told him bluntly. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "I love you." "Even though I'm a FInCOM agent? A fink?" He blinked and then laughed. "Yeah. Even though you're a fink." "Even though you know that I get up and go to work every day, and sometimes that work means that people fire their weapons at me?" He didn't try to hide his exasperation. "What does that have to do with whether or not I love you?" "I have a very dangerous job. I risk my life quite often. Did you know that?" "Of course I—" "And yet, you claim you fell in love with me." "I'm not just claiming it." "Would you describe me as brave?" she asked. "P.J., I don't understand what you're—"

"I know," she said. "I'm trying to make you understand. Just answer my questions. Would you describe me as someone who's brave?" "Yes." "Strong?" "You know you are." "I know exactly who and what I am," P.J. told him. "I'm trying to find out if you know." "Yes, you're strong," he conceded. "You might not be able to bench press a lot of weight, but you can run damn near forever. And you have strength of character. Stamina. Willpower. Call it whatever you want, you've got it." "Do you respect me for that?" "Of course I do." "And maybe even admire me a little?" "P.J.—" "Do you?" she persisted. "You know it." "As far as finks go, do you think I'm any good?" He smiled. "At my job," she clarified. "You're the best," he said simply. "I'm the best," she repeated. "At my dangerous job. I'm strong, and I'm brave, and you respect and admire me for that—maybe you even fell in love with me for those reasons." "I fell in love with you because you're funny and smart and beautiful inside as well as out." "But I'm also those other things, don't you think? If I weren't strong, if I didn't have the drive to be the best FInCOM agent I could possibly be, I probably wouldn't be the person I am right now, and you probably wouldn't have fallen in love with me. Do you agree?" He was silent for a moment. "Yeah," he finally said. "You're probably right." "Then why," PJ. asked, "are you trying to change who I am? Why are you trying to turn me into some kind of romantic heroine who needs rescuing and protecting? Why are you trying to wrap me in gauze and keep me safe from harm when you know damn well one of the reasons you fell in love with me is that I don't need any gauze wrapping?" Harvard was silent, and PJ. prayed her words were sinking in. "Go and get the weapons you think we'll need," she told him. "And then come back so we can go about bringing Joe home. Together." She couldn't read the look in his eyes. She pulled him close and kissed him fiercely, hoping her kiss would reinforce her words, hoping he'd understand all she'd left unsaid. He held her tightly, then he stepped toward the door. "I'll be waiting for you," PJ. told him. But he was already gone. Across the room, Blue McCoy shot out of his seat as if someone had fired a rocket under his chair. He swore sharply. "That's it!" Crash leaned forward. "What's it?" "The solution to getting Joe out. I said it myself. They're not going to let an American helicopter fly into the island's airspace." Crash laughed softly. "Of course. Let's go find a radio. I know who we can call. This could actually work." Blue McCoy wasn't ready to smile yet. "Provided Harvard can get the job done on his end." P.J. paced in the darkness.

She stopped only to flip up the cover of her waterproof watch and glance at the iridescent hands. As she watched, the minute hand jerked a little bit closer to midnight. Harvard wasn't coming back. She sank onto the cool dirt floor of the hut and sat leaning against the rough wooden wall, her rifle across her lap, trying to banish that thought. It wasn't midnight yet. And until it was after midnight, she was going to hang on tight to her foolhardy belief that Daryl Becker was going to return. Any minute now he was going to walk in that door. He would kiss her and hand her a weapon that fired bullets made of lead rather than paint, and then they would go find Joe. Any minute now. The minute hand moved closer to twelve. Any minute. From a distance, she heard a sound, an explosion, and she sprang to her feet. She crossed to the open doorway and looked out. But the hut was in a small valley, and she could see no further in the otherworldly moonlight than the immediate jungle that surrounded her. The explosion had been from beyond the minefield—of that much she was certain. She heard more sounds. Distant gunfire. Single shots, and the unforgettable double bursts of automatic weapons. P.J. listened hard, trying to gauge which direction the gunfire was coming from. John Sherman's home base was to the north. This noise was definitely coming from the south. From the direction Harvard had headed to acquire his supply of weapons. Cursing, P.J. switched on her radio, realizing she might be able to hear firsthand what the hell was going on. She'd turned the radio on now and then in the hours Harvard had been gone, but there was nothing to hear, and she'd kept turning it off to save batteries. She could hear Wesley Skelly. "Some kind of blast on the other side of the camp," he said sotto voce. "But the guards around this structure have not moved an inch. We are unable to use this diversion to escape. We remain pinned in place. Goddamn it." P.J. held her breath, hoping, praying to hear Harvard's voice, as well. She heard Blue McCoy telling Wes to stay cool, to stay hidden. Intel reports had come in informing them that Kim's army was rumored to be heading north. Maybe even in as few as three or four hours, before dawn. P.J. made certain her mike was off before she cursed again. Dear Lord Jesus, the news kept getting worse. They would have to try to rescue Joe Catalanotto knowing that in a matter of hours Sherman's installation was going to be under attack from opposing forces. That is, if Harvard weren't already lying somewhere, dead or dying. And even if he weren't, she'd only been kidding herself all evening long. He wasn't going to come back. He couldn't handle letting her face the danger. He may well love her, but he didn't love her enough to accept her as she was, as an equal. She was a fool for thinking she could convince him otherwise. Then she heard another noise. Barely discernible. Almost nonexistent. Metal against metal. Someone was coming. P.J. faded into the hut, out of range of the silvery moonlight, and lifted the barrel of her rifle. Aim for the eyes, Crash had advised her. Paint balls could do considerable damage to someone not wearing protective goggles. Then, as if she'd conjured him from the shadows, tall and magnificent and solidly real, Harvard appeared. He'd come back. He'd actually come back! P.J. stepped farther into the darkness of the hut. The hot rush of emotion made her knees weak, and tears flooded her eyes. For the briefest, dizzying moment, she felt as if she were going to faint.

"P.J." He spoke softly from outside the door. She took a deep breath, forcing back the dizzyness and the tears, forcing the muscles in her legs to hold her up. She set down her weapon. "Come in," she said. Her voice sounded only a tiny bit strained. "Don't worry, I won't shoot you." "Yeah, I didn't want to surprise you and get a paint ball in some uncomfortable place." He stepped inside, pausing to set what looked like a small arsenal—weapons and ammunition—on the floor. "Was that you? All that noise from the south?" she asked, amazed that she could stand there and ask him questions as if she had expected him to return, as if she didn't desperately want to throw her arms around him and never let go. "How did you get here so fast?" He was organizing the weapons he'd stolen, putting the correct ammunition with the various guns. Altogether, there looked to be about six of them, ranging from compact handguns to several HK MP5 submachine guns. "I cut a long fuse. And I ran most of the way here." P.J. realized his camouflaged face was slick with perspiration. "I tried to create a diversion so Bob, Wes and Chuck could escape," he told her. He laughed, but without humor. "Didn't happen." "Yeah," she said. "I heard." God, she wanted him to hold her. But he kept working, crouched close to the ground. He glanced at her in the darkness. She asked, "Are you sure you're all right?" "I had hardly any trouble at all. The outer edges of the camp aren't even patrolled. The place should've had a sign saying Weapons R Us. I walked in and helped myself to what I wanted from several different tents. The irony is that the only real guards in the area are the ones standing by the structure where the CSF team is hiding." He straightened and held a small handgun—a Browning—and several clips of ammunition out to her. "Here. Sorry I couldn't get you a holster." That was when she saw it—the streak of blood on his cheek. "You're bleeding." He touched his face with the back of his hand and looked at the trace of blood that had been transferred to it. "It's just a scratch." She worked to keep her voice calm. Conversational. "Are you going to tell me what happened? How you got scratched?" He met her eyes briefly. "I wasn't as invisible as I'd hoped to be. I had to convince someone to take a nap rather than report that I was in the neighborhood. He wasn't too happy about that. In the struggle, he grabbed my lip mike and snapped it off—tried to take out my eye with it, too. That's what I get for being nice. If I'd stopped him with my knife right from the start, I wouldn't be out a vital piece of equipment right now." "You can use my headset," P.J. told him. "No. You're going to need it. I can still listen in, but I'm not going to be able to talk to you unless I can get this thing rewired." He laughed again, humorlessly. "This op just keeps getting more and more complicated, doesn't it?" She nodded. "I take it you heard the news?" "About Sun Yung Kim's sunrise attack? Oh, yeah. I heard." "And still you came back," she said softly. "Yeah," he said. "I lost my mind. I came back." "I guess you really do love me," she whispered. He didn't say anything. He just stood there looking at her. And P. J. realized, in the soft glow of the moonlight, that his eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. She stepped toward him as he reached for her and then, God, she was in his arms. He held her tightly, tucking her head under his chin. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for listening to what I told you." "This is definitely the hardest thing I've ever done." His voice was choked. "But you were right. Everything you said was too damn right. I was trying to change who you are, because part of who you are scares the hell out of me. But if I'd wanted a lady who needed to be taken care of, someone who was happier sitting home watching TV instead of chasing bad guys across the globe, I would've found her and married her a long time ago." He drew in a deep breath. "I do love who you are. And right now, God help me, who you are is the FInCOM agent who's going to help me save the captain." "I know we can pull this off," she told him, believing it for the first time. With this man by her side, she was certain she could do anything. "I think we can, too." He pushed her hair from her face as he searched her eyes. "You're going to go in that air duct and—with stealth—you're going to locate the captain and then you're going to come out. You find him, we pinpoint his location and then we figure out the next step once you're safely out of there. Are we together on this?" She nodded. "Absolutely, Senior Chief."

"Good." He kissed her. "Let's do this and go home." P.J. had to smile. "This is going to sound weird, but I feel kind of sad leaving here—kind of like this place is our home." Harvard shook his head. "No, it's not this place. It's this thing—" he gestured helplessly between the two of them "—this thing we share. And that's going to follow wherever we go." "You mean love?" He traced her lips with his thumb. "Yeah," he said. "I wasn't sure you were quite ready to call it that, but...yeah. I know it's love. Gotta be. It's bigger than anything I've ever felt before." "No, it's not," P.J. said softly. "It's smaller. Small enough to fill all the cracks in my heart. Small enough to sneak in when I wasn't looking. Small enough to get under my skin and into my blood. Like some kind of virus that's impossible to shake." She laughed softly at the look on his face. "Not that I'd ever want to shake it." The tears were back in his beautiful eyes, and P.J. knew that as hard and as scary as it was to put what she was feeling into words, it was well worth it. She knew that he wanted so badly to hear the things she was saying. "You know, I expected to live my entire life without knowing what love really is," she told him quietly. "But every time I look at you, every time you smile at me, I think, Oh! So that's love. That odd, wonderful, awful feeling that makes me both hot and cold, makes me want to laugh and cry. For the first time in my life, Daryl, I know what the fuss is all about. "I was hoping you'd understand when I gave you my body today that my heart and soul were permanently attached. But since you like to talk—you do like your words—I know you'd want to hear it in plain English. I figured since we weren't going to get much of a chance to chat after we leave this place, I better say this now. I love you. All of you. Till death do us part, and probably long after that, too. I was too chicken to say that when we were...when I—" "When you married me," Harvard said, kissing her so sweetly on the lips. "When we got back to the States, I was going to make you realize just how real those vows we made were. I was going to wear you down until you agreed to do an encore performance in front of the pastor of my parents' new church." When we get back. Not if. But marriage? "Marriage takes so much time to make it work," P.J. said cautiously. "We both have jobs that take us all over the country—all over the world. We don't have time—" Harvard handed her one of the submachine guns. "We don't have time not to spend every minute we can together. I think if I learned only one thing in these past few hours, it's that." He looped the straps of the other weapons over his shoulders. "So what do you say? Are you good to go?" PJ. nodded. "Yes," she said. It didn't matter if he were talking about this mission or their future. As long as he was with her, she was definitely good to go.

Chapter 16 You have an hour, ninety minutes tops," Harvard told P.J., "before the guards' shift changes." P.J. had made the climb to the roof of Sherman's headquarters with no complaining. And now she was going to have to dangle over the edge of the roof while she squeezed herself into an air vent in which Harvard couldn't possibly fit. He'd taken several moments in the jungle to try to rewire his microphone. He got a connection, but it was poor, at best, coming and going, crackling and weak. It was held together by duct tape and a prayer, but it was better than nothing. They'd also switched to a different radio channel from the one being monitored by the USS Irvin.. P.J. stripped off her pack and combat vest to make herself as small as possible for her trip through the ventilation system. She tucked the handgun into her pants at the small of her back and carried the MP5 and a small flashlight. She took a deep breath. "I'm ready," she said. She was cool and calm. He was the one having the cold sweats. "The clock's running," she reminded him. "Yeah," he said. "Talk to me while you're in there." "I will—if I can." He couldn't ask for anything more. They'd been over this four hundred times. There wasn't much else he could say, except to say again, "If something goes wrong, and you do get caught, tell me where you are in the building. Which floor you're on, which corner of the building you're closest to. Because I'll come and get you out, okay? I'll figure out a way." He removed the grille from the vent and lifted P.J. in his arms. "Don't look down." "I won't. Oh, God." She had to go into the vent headfirst. Weapon first. "Be careful," he told her. "I promise I will." Bracing himself, Harvard took a deep breath, then lowered the woman he loved more than life itself over the edge of the roof. It was hot as hell in there. PJ. had imagined it would be cool. It was part of the air-conditioning system, after all. But she realized the duct she was in was the equivalent of a giant exhaust pipe. It was hot and smelled faintly of human waste. It was incredibly close, too. Small places didn't bother her, thank God. But Harvard would've hated it. He certainly would have done it if he had to, but he would have hated it the entire time. Of course, the point was moot. He would never fit. She barely fit herself. Her shirt caught on another of the metal seams, and she impatiently tugged it free. It caught again ten feet down the vent, and she wriggled out of it. She checked it quickly, making sure it was sanitized—that there was nothing on it, no marks or writing that would link it to her or to anyone American. But it was only a green and brown camouflage shirt High fashion for the well-dressed guerrilla in jungles everywhere. P.J. left it behind and kept going. She concentrated on moving soundlessly. Moving forward was taking her longer than she'd anticipated. She had to exert quite a bit of energy to remain silent in the boomy metal air duct. Unless she was very, very careful, her boots could make a racket, as could the MP5. She pulled herself along on her elbows, weapon in front of her, praying this duct would lead her straight to Captain Joe Catalanotto. As Harvard attached the grille to the air duct, he had to be careful. The mortar between the concrete blocks was crumbling. He didn't want a pile of fine white dust gathering on the ground to catch some alert guard's eye and tip him off to the activity on the roof. Up close, it was clear the entire building was in a more pronounced state of decay than he'd thought. Harvard felt a tug of satisfaction at that No doubt the past few years' crackdown on the local drug trade had had an effect in John Sherman's bank accounts. If they were lucky—if they were really lucky—he and P. J. would pull the captain out, and then these two warring drug lords would efficiently proceed

to wipe each other out "Approaching a vent." PJ.'s voice came over his headset and he gave her his full attention. "It's on the left side of the air duct," she continued almost soundlessly. "Much too small to use as an exit, even for me." Harvard found himself praying again. Please, God, keep her safe. Please, God, don't let anyone hear her. More minutes passed in silence. "Wait a minute," he heard her say. "There's something, some kind of trapdoor above me." Harvard held his breath. He had to strain to hear her voice, she was speaking so quietly. "It opens into some kind of attic," she reported. "Or least part of it is an attic. I’m going up to take a look." For several moments, Harvard heard only her quiet breathing, then, finally, she spoke again. "The building's actually divided into thirds. The two outer thirds have this atticlike loft I'm standing in. They're clearly being used for storage. The edges—the loft—overlooks the center of the building, which is open from the roof all the way down to the ground floor. There are emergency lights — dim yellow lights—by the main doors. From what I can see, it looks big enough to house half a dozen tanks." Her voice got even lower. "Right now it's being used as sleeping quarters for what's got to be five hundred men." Five hundred... "Here are my choices," she continued. "Either I take a set of stairs down and tiptoe across a room filled with sleeping soldiers—" "No," Harvard said. "Do you copy, P.J.? I said, no." "I copy. And that was my first reaction, too. But the only other way to the northeast section of the building—where Crash thought Joe might be held— is a series of catwalks up by the roof." Harvard swore. "Yeah, I copy that, too," she said. "Come back," he said. "We'll figure out another way in." "Can't hear you, Senior Chief," she told him. "Better fix that mike again. Your message is breaking up." "You heard me and you damn well know it." "I can do this, Daryl." Her voice rang with conviction. "I know I can. All I have to do is think of you, and it's like you're right here with me. Holding my hand, you know?" He knew. He opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it. He took a deep breath before he spoke. "Just don't look down." P.J. had to look down. She had to make sure none of the men sleeping below had awakened and spotted her. There were no guards in the room, at least. That was a lucky break. She moved silently and very, very slowly along the catwalk. Of course, even taking that one lucky break into account, this was about as bad as it could be. The catwalk swayed slightly with every step she took. It was metal and ancient and didn't even give the illusion of being solid. The part she was walking on was like a grille. She could see through the strips of metal, past her feet, all the way down to the concrete floor. Adrenaline surged through her, making her ears roar. What she needed most was a clear head and total silence to hear the slight movement that would indicate one of the five hundred men was rolling over, temporarily awake and staring at the ceiling. Still, being up here was better than walking through a minefield, of that she was certain. P.J. took another step. She could feel Harvard's presence. She could sense him listening to her breathing. She could feel him with her, every step she took. She clutched her weapon—the Browning he'd risked his life to get for her—and took another step forward. And another step. And another. Crash leaned over Blue McCoy's shoulder. "Harvard's not responding," Blue said grimly. "Either his radio's off or he's switched to another channel." They both knew there was another possibility. He could be dead. "I'll start looking for him." The look in Blue's eyes told Crash he would not consider that third possibility.

Crash keyed the thumb switch to his radio and spoke in rapid French. He turned to Blue. "Let's keep that original channel open, too." "Already doing that." Harvard sat on the roof, watching for an unexpected guard and listening to P.J.'s steady breathing as she walked across a flimsy catwalk two stories above five hundred sleeping enemy soldiers. She was doing okay. He could tell from the way she was breathing that she was doing okay. He was the one who was totally tied in knots. "I'm still here with you, baby," he murmured, hoping his microphone worked well enough for her to hear him. She didn't answer. That didn't necessarily mean she couldn't hear him. After all, she was trying to be silent. He tried to listen even harder, tried to hear the sound of her feet, but all he could hear was the desperate beating of his own heart. Finally, she spoke. "I'm across," she said almost silently, and Harvard drew in the first breath he'd taken in what seemed like hours. There was more silence as one minute slipped into two, two into three. He tried to visualize her moving down metal stairs, slowly, silently, moving through corridors where there was no place to hide. Damn, this was taking too long. PJ. had been inside for close to twenty-five minutes already. She only had five more minutes before she'd reach the halfway point as far as time went. She had only five minutes before she would have to turn around and come back—or risk certain discovery when the guards' shift changed and the men they'd temporarily put out of action were discovered. "I've found the first of the hospital rooms," PJ. finally said. "The one in the northeast corner is dark and empty. Moving to the next area, toward the front and middle of the building." He heard her draw in her breath quickly, and his heart rate went off the chart. "Situation report!" he ordered. "P.J., what's happening?" "The other room has a guard by the door. He's sitting in a chair—asleep," she breathed. "But the door's open. I'm going to go past him." Harvard sat up straight. "Go inside and close and lock the door after you. Do whatever you can to keep them from getting in behind you, do you understand?" P.J. pulled her lip mike closer to her mouth. "Harvard, you're breaking up. I heard you tell me to lock the door behind me, but I lost the rest. Come back." Static. Damn. What had he been trying to tell her? What good would locking herself into a room with the captain do? And she didn't even know if Joe was in that room. She moved slowly, soundlessly toward the sleeping guard. She could do this. She could be as invisible and silent as Harvard was—provided she was on a city street or inside a building. The guard's slight snoring stopped, and she froze, mere feet away from the man. But then he snorted, and his heavy breathing resumed. She slipped through the door. And found Captain Joe Catalanotto lying on the floor. It was obvious he'd started out on a hospital bed. He'd been cuffed to the bed. The opened cuffs were still attached to the railing. Somehow he'd managed to get himself free. But he hadn't had the strength to make it more than a few steps before he'd collapsed, apparently silently enough not to alert the guard. PJ. quietly closed the door, locking it as Harvard had instructed. It was dark without the dim glow from the emergency lights in the hallway. She took her flashlight from her pocket and switched it on, checking quickly around the room to make sure there was no other door, no other way in or out There wasn't. This was definitely insane. She'd locked the door, but someone on the other side surely had a key. Holding her breath, she knelt next to Joe and felt for a pulse. Please, God... His skin was cool and clammy, and her stomach lurched. Dear Lord Jesus, they'd come too late. But wait—he did have a pulse. It was much too faint, far too slow, but the man was still alive.

"Daryl, I found him," P.J. whispered into her mike. "He's alive, but he won't be for long if we don't get him out of here now." Static. Harvard's voice was there, but she couldn't make out what he was telling her. "...scribe...cation..." Scribe? Cation? Describe her location! She did that quickly, telling him in detail how many meters away from the northeast corner room she and Joe were. She gave him an approximation of the room's dimensions, as well as a list of all the medical equipment, the counters and sinks, even the light fixtures on the ceiling. She also told him, in detail, about Joe's condition as she quickly examined the captain's wounds. "He's got both an entrance and an exit wound in his upper right leg," she reported. "And he wasn't shot in the chest, thank God. He took a bullet in his left shoulder—no exit wound, it's still in there. As far as I can tell, there was only the vaguest effort made to stop his bleeding—as a result he's lost a lot of blood. His face looks like hell—his eyes are swollen and bruised, and his lip's split. It looks like the bastards gave him one hell of a beating. God only knows if he's got internal injuries from that. Daryl, we've got to get him to the sick bay on the Irvin. Now." Static, "...backup...ready for me!" God knows they needed backup, but she knew for damn sure it wasn't coming. As far as getting ready for him went, get ready for him to do what? "Please repeat," she said. Static. "I don't copy you, Senior Chief! Repeat!" More static. PJ. flashed her light around the room. The beam came to rest against the concrete blocks of the wall. She flashed her light around the room again. Only one wall was made of concrete blocks, the outer wall. PJ. remembered Harvard telling her that all he'd need were two more SEALs and a grenade launcher and... Back up. Harvard wasn't talking about backup. He was telling her to back up. To move back, away from the outer wall. The captain was much too close to it. PJ. grabbed him under both arms and pulled. Joe groaned. "Ronnie?" he rasped. "No, I'm sorry, Joe, it's only me. P. J. Richards," she told him. "I know I'm hurting you, sweetie, but Harvard's coming, and we've got to move you out of his way." "That's Captain Sweetie," he said faintly. "Gonna have to...help me. Don't seem to have muscles that work." God, he was big. But somehow, between the two of them, they moved him into the corner farthest from the outside wall. PJ. quietly pulled the mattress from the hospital bed and set it in front of them—a better-than-nothing attempt to shield them from whatever was coming. This was definitely insane. Even if they made it out by blowing a hole through the wall, the noise was going to raise a few eyebrows. Wake up a few hundred sleeping soldiers. And then what? Then they'd be screaming down the mountain—provided Harvard could hotwire one of those trucks out front—with five hundred of Sherman's soldiers on their tail, and God knows how many of Sun Yung Kim's men advancing toward them. If they were going to get out of here, there was only one way they could go without getting caught. And that was straight up. PJ. flipped to the main channel on her radio. "Blue, are you there?" Please, God, please be there. "P.I? Lord, where have you been!" The taciturn SEAL sounded nearly frantic. "I'm with Joe right now. He's alive, but just barely." Blue swore. "You said you were the voice of God," PJ. told him, "and I hope you're right. We need you to make us a miracle, Lieutenant. We need a chopper, and we need it now." "I copy that, PJ.," Blue's voice said. "We've got—"

He kept talking, but she didn't hear what he had to say, because, with a thundering crash, the wall in front of her collapsed. She shielded Joe with her body as alarms went off and dust and light filled the air. But it wasn't light from a fire. It was light from the headlights of a truck. Harvard had driven one of Sherman's armored trucks right through the wall! The man himself appeared through the flying dust like some kind of wonderful superhero. "I've got Cat." He picked up the captain effortlessly as if he weighed nothing at all. "Drive or shoot?" he asked. PJ. didn't hesitate as she scrambled into the truck. "Shoot." She did just that, aiming over the heads of the soldiers and guards who were coming to investigate the crash. Harvard was behind the wheel in an instant, the captain slumped on the bench seat between them. "I can shoot, too," Joe Cat gasped as Harvard spun the wheels, backing them up and out of the rubble. "Yes, sir," PJ. said. "I don't doubt that you can. But right now, Captain, your job is to keep your head down." She squeezed the trigger of an HK MP5, firing through a special slot in the side of the vehicle. All around them, soldiers scattered. Harvard put the track in gear. Tires screaming, they headed down the mountain. "I had time to disable all but one other truck," Harvard announced. "And we got it right on our tail." He swore. "We've also got an entire army advancing toward us," P.J. reminded him. "I'm well aware of that," he said grimly. He was driving with two hands tight on the steering wheel as he negotiated the steep, curving mountain roads. There was a jolt as the truck behind them rammed them. Clearly the driver knew the roads better than Harvard did. Harvard punched the truck into overdrive and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. They shot forward. "Get this guy off my butt," he told P.J. "The windshield's bulletproof—don't aim for him. Shoot out his tire." She held up her submachine gun. "This thing isn't exactly a big favorite among sharpshooters," she told him. "I'll be lucky if I can—" "There's a rifle on the floor. Use it." P.J. lifted her feet. Sure enough, there was a small arsenal stored there. She grabbed the rifle, checked that it was loaded and opened the window that looked out onto the open back of the truck. It wasn't an easy shot—not with both trucks moving. She sighted the front left tire. Before she could squeeze the trigger, a helicopter appeared, roaring above them, tracking them down the jungle road. There was a red cross on its underside, clearly visible even in the predawn, along with a painting of the French flag. Blue McCoy had come through with that miracle. P.J. took careful aim at the other truck and fired the rifle. The truck jerked, skidded and careened off the road and into the trees. "Nice shot," Harvard said matter-of-factly. "For a girl." P.J. laughed as she pulled her lip microphone closer to her mouth. "This is FInCOM agent P. J. Richards, hailing the French medivac chopper. Captain Catalanotto and Senior Chief Becker and I are traveling south, currently without immediate pursuit, in the armored vehicle you are tracking. The captain is in need of immediate medical attention. Let's find a place we both can stop so we can get him on board." "This is Captain Jean-Luc Lague," a heavily accented voice informed her. "There is a clearing half a kilometer down the road." "Good," P.J. said as she put her arms around Joe, cradling him against the jostling of the truck. His shoulder had started bleeding again, and she used a scrap of his shirt to lightly apply pressure to the wound. "We'll stop there. But you'll have to take us on board without landing, Captain Lague. There are minefields all over this island." "I can hover alongside the road." "Great," PJ. told him. She glanced over to find Harvard smiling at her. "I'm sorry," she said, suddenly self-conscious. She turned off her mike. "It's just...I figured I was the only one of us who had a microphone that worked, and..." "You did great," Harvard said. "And you're right. My mike's not working, Joe's mike is gone. Who else was going to talk to Captain Lague?"

"But you're sitting there laughing at me." "I'm just smiling. I'm really liking the fact that we're all still alive." His smile broadened. "I'm just sitting here absolutely loving you." "Uh, H.?" Blue's voice cut in. "Your mike's working again." Harvard laughed as he pulled up next to the open field. "Is there anyone out there who doesn't know that I'm crazy about this woman?" "Admiral Stonegate probably didn't know," Blue drawled. The chopper hovered, and Harvard lifted the captain in his arms. Several medics helped Joe into the helicopter, then Harvard gave PJ. a boost before he climbed in himself. The door was shut, and the medics immediately started an IV on Joe. The chopper lifted and headed directly for the ocean and the USS Irvin. The captain was fighting to stay awake as the medics cut his clothing away from his wounds. "H.!" he rasped. Harvard reached out and took his friend's hand, holding onto it tightly. "I'm here, Joe." "Tell Ronnie I'm sorry..." "You're going to get a chance to do that yourself," Harvard told him. "You're going to be okay." As he looked at P.J., she wasn't at all surprised to see tears in his eyes. "We're going home."

Epilogue The entire rest of the United States was having a wretchedly awful heat wave, but San Diego remained a perfect seventy-five degrees. P.J. glanced at Harvard as he slowed his truck to a stop at a traffic light. He turned and smiled at her, and the last of the tension from the plane flight floated away. God, she hated flying. But this trip was definitely going to be worth the anxiety she'd suffered. This was day one of a greatly needed two-week vacation. And she was spending every single minute of those two weeks with Daryl Becker. It had been close to three weeks since she'd seen him last, since they'd returned to the USS Irvin on board a French medical helicopter. Bobby and Wes had arrived at the ship several hours later, dragging Chuck Schneider along behind them. They'd spent the next three days in debriefings—all except Joe Cat, Lucky and Greg Greene, who had been sent to a hospital in California. PJ. had slept in Harvard's arms each of those nights. They'd been discreet, but the truth was, she really didn't care what people thought. Not anymore. She would have walked naked through the enlisted mess if that was the only way she could have been with him. When the debriefings were over, Harvard had flown to Cor-onado, while she'd been summoned for a series of meetings in Kevin Laughton's office in Washington, D.C. Kevin had been sympathetic about her need to take some time off, but he'd talked her into writing up her reports on the failed Combined SEAL/FInCOM team project first. And that had taken much longer than she'd hoped. But now she was free and clear for two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Harvard had met her at the gate, kissed her senseless and whisked her immediately into his truck. "How's Joe?" she asked. "Great," he told her. "He's been home from the hospital for about a week. Lucky's doing really well, too." "I'd like to visit them." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "But definitely not until after we get naked—and stay naked for about three days straight." He laughed. "Damn, I missed you," he told her, drinking her in with his gaze. She knew she was looking at him just as hungrily. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and even dressed in civilian clothes, he was impossibly handsome. "I missed you, too." Her voice was husky with desire. As he gazed into her eyes, she let him see the fire she felt for him. "Hmm," he said. "Maybe we should go straight to my apartment." "I thought you said there was something important you wanted to show me," she teased. "Its importance just dropped a notch or two. But since we're already here..." "We are?" PJ. looked out the window. They were on a quiet street in a residential neighborhood overlooking the ocean. "I want you to check this out," Harvard said. He climbed out of the truck, and PJ. joined him. It was only then that she noticed the For Sale sign on the lawn of the sweetest-looking little adobe house she'd ever seen in her entire life. It was completely surrounded by flower gardens. Not just one, but four or five of them. "Come on," Harvard said. "The real-estate agent is waiting for us inside." PJ. went through the house in a daze. It was bigger than she'd thought from the outside, with a fireplace in the living room, a kitchen that rivaled Harvard's mom's and three good-size bedrooms. There was a deck off the dining room, and as she stepped outside, she realized the house overlooked the ocean. Harvard leaned on the rail, gazing at the changing colors of the sea. "I've already qualified for a mortgage, so if you like it, we should make an offer today," he told her. "It's not going to be on the market too much longer." P J. couldn't speak. Her heart was in the way, in her throat. He misinterpreted her silence. "I like it," he said. "But if you don't think so, that's okay. Or maybe I'm moving too fast—I have the tendency to do that, and—" He broke off, swearing. "I am moving too fast. We haven't even talked about getting married—not since we were out in the real world. For all I know, you weren't

really serious and..." PJ. finally found her voice. "I was dead serious." Harvard smiled. "Yeah?" he said. "Well, that's good, because I was, too, you know." PJ. looked pointedly around. "Obviously." He pulled her closer. "Look, whether it's this house we share or some other—or none whatsoever, hell, we could live in hotels for the rest of our lives —that's not important. What's important is that we're together as often as we can be." He looked around and shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what I was thinking. Your office is in D.C. Why would you want a house in San Diego?" "I might want one in San Diego if I'm going to work in San Diego. I found out there's an opening in the San Diego field office." "Really?" P.J. laughed at his expression. "Yeah. And don't worry— I'll still be able to work as Kevin Laughton's official SEAL liaison and adviser." She turned to look at the house. "So you really love this place, huh? You think we could make it into a real home?" He wrapped his arms around her. "I really love you, and like I said, it honestly doesn't matter to me where we live. Whenever I'm with you, I feel as if I've come home." P.J. looked at the house, at the ocean, at the flowers growing everywhere in the little yard, at the man who was both warrior and poet who stood before her. Her lover. Her husband. Her life. "This'll do just about perfectly." She smiled at him. "Welcome home." END

6 - It Came Upon A Midnight Clear (1998)

For Tom Magness (1960-1979) I never had the chance to tell you that I'm glad I didn't miss the dance.

Prologue Crash Hawken shaved in the men's room. He'd been keeping vigil at the hospital in Washington, D.C., for two days running, and his heavy stubble, along with his long hair and the bandage on his arm, made him look even more dangerous than he usually did. He'd left only to change the shirt he'd been wearing— the one that had been stained with Admiral Jake Robinson's blood—and to access a computer file that Jake had sent him electronically, mere hours before he had been gunned down in his own home. Gunned down in his own home... Even though Crash had been there, even though he'd taken part in the firefight, even though he'd been wounded himself, it still seemed so unbelievable. Crash had thought that last year's dismal holiday season had been about as bad as it could get. He'd been wrong. He was going to have to call Nell, tell her Jake had been wounded. She'd want to know. She deserved to know. And Crash could use a reason to hear her voice again. Maybe even see her. With a rush of despair, he realized something he'd been hiding from himself for months—he wanted to see her. God, he wanted so badly to see Nell's smile. The men's room door opened as Crash rinsed the disposable razor he'd picked up in the hospital commissary. He glanced into the mirror, and directly into Tom Foster's scowling face. What were the odds that the Federal Intelligence Commission commander had only come in to take a leak? Slim to none. Crash nodded at the man. "What I don't understand," Foster said, as if the conversation they'd started two nights ago had never been interrupted, "is how you could be the last man standing in a room with five-and-a-half dead men, and not know what happened." Crash put the plastic protective cap on over the razor's blade. "I didn't see who fired the first shot," he said evenly. "All I saw was Jake getting hit. After that, I know exactly what happened." He turned to face Foster. "I took out the shooters who were trying to finish Jake off." Shooters. Not men. They'd lost their identities and become nothing more than targets when they'd opened fire on Jake Robinson. And like targets in a shooting range, Crash had efficiently and methodically taken them out. "Who would want to assassinate the admiral?" Crash shook his head and gave the same answer he'd given Tom two days earlier. "I don't know." It wasn't a lie. He didn't know. Not for sure. But he had a file full of information that was going to help him find the man who had orchestrated this assassination attempt. Jake had fought both pain and rapidly fading consciousness to make sure he had understood there was a connection between this attempt on his life and that top-secret, encoded file Crash had received that very same morning. "Come on, Lieutenant. Surely you can at least make a guess." "I'm sorry, sir, I've never found it useful to speculate in situations like this." "Three of the men you brought into Admiral Robinson's house were operating under false names and identifications. Were you aware of that?" Crash met the man's angry gaze steadily. "I feel sick about that, sir. I made the mistake of trusting my captain." "Oh, so now it's your captain's fault." Crash fought a burst of his own anger. Getting mad wouldn't do anyone any good. He knew that from the countless times he'd been in battle. Emotion not only made his hands shake, but it altered his perceptions as well. In a battle situation, emotion could get him killed. And Foster was clearly here to do battle. Crash had to detach. Separate. Distance himself. He made himself feel nothing. "I didn't say that." His voice was quiet and calm. "Whoever shot Robinson wouldn't have gotten past his security fence without your help. You brought them in, Hawken. You're responsible for this." Crash held himself very still. "I'm aware of that." They—whoever they were—had used him to get inside Jake's home. Whoever had set this up had known of his personal connection to the admiral. He'd barely been three hours stateside, three hours off the Air Force transport he'd taken back to D.C. when Captain Lovett had called him into his office, asking if he'd be interested in taking part in a special team providing backup security at Admiral Robinson's request. Crash had believed this team's job was to protect the admiral, when in fact there'd been a different, covert goal. Assassination.

He should have known something was wrong. He should have stopped it before it even started. He was responsible. "Excuse me, sir." He had to check on Jake's condition. He had to sit in the waiting area and hope to hear continuous reports of his longtime mentor's improvement, starting with news of the admiral finally being moved out of ICU. He had to use the time to mentally sort through all the information Jake had passed to him in that file. And then he had to go out and hunt down the man who had used him to get to Jake. But Tom Foster blocked the door. "I have a few more questions, if you don't mind, Lieutenant. You've worked with SEAL Team Twelve for how long?" "On and off for close to eight years," Crash replied. "And during those eight years, you occasionally worked closely with Admiral Robinson on assignments that were not standard SEAL missions, did you not?" Crash didn't react, didn't blink, didn't move, carefully hiding his surprise. How had Foster gotten that information? Crash could count the number of people who knew he'd been working with Jake Robinson on one hand. "I'm afraid I can't say." "You don't have to say. We know you worked with Robinson as part of the so-called Gray Group." Crash chose his words carefully. "I don't see how that has any real relevance to your investigation, sir." "This is information FInCOM has received from naval intelligence," Foster told him. "You're not giving away anything we don't already know." "FInCOM takes part in its share of covert operations," Crash said, trying to sound reasonable. "You'll understand that whether I am or am not a part of the Gray Group is not something I'm able to talk freely about." Reasonable wasn't on the list of adjectives Tom Foster was working with today. His voice rose and he took a threatening step forward. “An admiral has been shot. This is not the time to conceal any information whatsoever." Crash held his ground. "I'm sorry, sir. I've already given you and the other investigators all the information I'm able to provide. The names of the deceased, as I knew them. An account of my conversation with Captain Lovett that afternoon. An account of the events that led to one of the men in the team opening fire upon the admiral—" "What exactly is your reason for concealing information, Lieutenant?" Foster's neck was turning purple. "I'm concealing nothing." Except for the shocking information Jake had sent him in a top-secret, high-level security-clearance file. If Crash wanted to get to the bottom of this—and he did—it wouldn't help to go public with all that Jake had told him. Besides, Crash had to treat the information in that file with exactly the same care and secrecy as he treated every other file Jake had ever sent him. And that meant that even if he wanted to, he couldn't talk about it with anyone—except his Commander-in-Chief, the President of the United States. "We know that Jake Robinson sent you some kind of information file on the morning of the shooting," Foster informed him tightly. "I will need you to turn that file over to me as soon as possible." Crash met the man's gaze steadily. "I'm sorry, sir. You know as well as I do that even if I did have access to this alleged file from Admiral Robinson, I wouldn't be able to reveal its contents to you. The status of all of the work I did for the admiral was 'need to know.' My orders were to report back to Jake and to Jake only." "I order you to hand over that file, Lieutenant." "I'm sorry, Commander Foster. Even if I had such a file, I'm afraid you don't have the clearance rating necessary to make such a demand." He stepped dangerously close to the shorter man and lowered his voice. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to see how Jake's doing." Foster stepped aside, pushing open the door with one hand. "Your concern for Robinson is heartwarming. At least, it would be if we didn't have indisputable evidence that proves you were the man who fired those first shots into Admiral Robinson's chest." Crash heard the words Foster said, but they didn't make sense. The crowd of men standing outside the bathroom door didn't make sense, either. There were uniformed cops, both local and state police, as well as dark-suited FInCOM agents, and several officers from the shore patrol. They were obviously waiting for someone. Him. Crash looked at Foster, the meaning of his words becoming clear. "You think I'm—" "We don't think it, we know it." Foster smiled tightly. "Ballistic reports are in." "Are you Lt. William R. Hawken, sir?" The shore-patrol officer who stepped forward was tall and young and hu-morlessly earnest. "Yes," Crash replied. "I'm Hawken."

"By the way, the bullet taken from your arm was fired from Captain Lovett's weapon," Foster told him. Crash felt sick, but he didn't let his reaction show. His captain had tried to kill him. His captain had been a part of the conspiracy. "Lt. William R. Hawken, sir," the shore-patrol officer droned, "you are under arrest." Crash stood very, very still. "The ballistic report also shows that your weapon fired the bullets that were found in four of the five other dead men, as well as those removed from the admiral," Foster told him tightly. "Does that information by any chance clear up your foggy memory of who fired the first shots?" "You have the right to remain silent," the shore-patrol officer chanted. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—" This was impossible. Bullets from his weapon...? That wasn't the way it had happened. He looked into the blandly serious eyes of the young officer. “What exactly am I being charged with?" The young officer cleared his throat. "Sir. You have been charged with conspiracy, treason, and the murder of a United States Navy Admiral." Murder? Crash's entire world tilted. "Admiral Robinson's wounds proved fatal one hour ago," Tom Foster announced. "The admiral is dead." Crash closed his eyes. Jake was dead. Disassociate. Detach. Separate. The shore-patrol officer slipped handcuffs onto Crash's wrists, but Crash didn't feel a thing. "Aren't you going to say anything to defend yourself?" Foster asked. Crash didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Jake was dead. He was completely numb as they led him from the hospital, out to a waiting car. There were news cameras everywhere, aimed at him. Crash didn't even try to hide his face. He was helped into the car, someone pushing down his head to keep him from hitting it on the frame. Jake was dead. Jake was dead, and Crash should have been able to prevent it. He should have been faster. He should have been smarter. He should have paid attention to the feeling he'd had that something wasn't right. Crash stared out through the rain-speckled window of the car as the driver pulled out into the wet December night. He tried to get his brain to work, tried to start picking apart the information Jake had sent him in that file—the information that was recorded just as completely and precisely in his head. Crash was no longer simply going to find the man responsible for shooting and killing Jake Robinson. He was going to find him, hunt him down and destroy him. He had no doubt he'd succeed—or die trying. Dear, sweet Mary. And he'd thought last Christmas had been the absolute pits.

Chapter 1 One year earlier It was only two days after Thanksgiving, but the city streets were already decked with wreaths and bows and Christmas lights. The cheery colors and festive sparkle seemed to mock Nell Burns as she drove through the city. She'd come into Washington, D.C. that morning to do a number of errands. Get a new supply of watercolor paper and paint for Daisy. Stop at the health food store and get more of that nasty seaweed stuff. Pick up the admiral's dress uniform from the dry cleaners near the Pentagon. It had been a week since Jake had been in to town, and it looked as if it would be a while before he returned. Nell had saved the hardest, most unpleasant task for last. But now there was no avoiding it. She double-checked the address she'd scribbled on a Post-it note, slowing as she drove past the high-rise building that bore the same number. There was a parking spot open, right on the street, and she slipped into it, turning off her engine and pulling up the brake. But instead of getting out of her car, Nell sat there. What on earth was she going to say? It was bad enough that in just a few minutes she was going to be knocking on William Hawken's door. In the two years since she'd started working as Daisy Owen's personal assistant, she'd met the enigmatic Navy SEAL that her boss thought of as a surrogate son exactly four times. And each time he'd taken her breath away. It wasn't so much that he was handsome.... Actually, it was exactly that he was handsome. He was incredibly, darkly, mysteriously, broodingly, gorgeously handsome. He had the kind of cheekbones that epic poems were written about and a nose that advertised an aristocratic ancestry. And his eyes... Steely gray and heartstoppingly intense, the force of his gaze was nearly palpable. When he'd looked at her, she'd felt as if he could see right through her, as if he could read her mind. His lips reminded her of those old gothic romances she'd read when she was younger. He had decidedly cruel lips. Upon seeing them, she'd suddenly realized that rather odd descriptive phrase made perfect sense. His lips were gracefully shaped, but thin and tight, particularly since his default expression was not a smile. In fact, Nell couldn't remember ever having seen William Hawken smile. His friends, or at least the members of his SEAL team— she wasn't sure if a man that broodingly quiet actually had any friends—called him "Crash." Daisy had told her that Billy Hawken had been given that nickname when he was training to become a SEAL. His partner in training had jokingly started calling him Crash because of Hawken's ability to move silently at all times. In the same manner in which a very, very large man might be nicknamed "Mouse" or "Flea," Billy Hawken had ever after been known as Crash. There was no way, no way, Nell would ever consider becoming involved with a man—no matter how disgustingly handsome and intriguing—whose work associates called him "Crash." There was also no way she would ever consider becoming involved with a Navy SEAL. From what Nell understood, SEAL was synonymous with superman. The acronym itself stood for Sea, Air and Land, and SEALs were trained to operate with skill and efficiency in all three environments. Direct descendants from the UDTs or Underwater Demolition Teams of World War II, SEALs were experts in everything from gathering information to blowing things up. They were Special Forces warriors who used unconventional methods and worked in small seven- or eight-man teams. Admiral Jake Robinson had been a SEAL in Vietnam. The stories he'd told were enough to convince Nell that becoming involved with a man like Crash would be sheer insanity. Of course, she was failing to consider one important point as she made these sweeping statements. The man in question had barely even said four words to her. No wait— he'd said five words the first time they'd met. "Pleased to meet you, Nell." He had a quiet, richly resonant voice that matched his watchful demeanor damn near perfectly. When he'd said her name, she'd come closer to melting into a pathetic pool of quivering protoplasm at his feet than she'd ever done in her life. The second time they'd met, that was when he'd said four words. "Nice seeing you again." The other times, he'd merely nodded. In other words, it wasn't as if he was breaking down her door, trying to get a date. And he certainly wasn't doing anything as ridiculous as not only counting the number of times they'd met, but adding up the total number of words she'd ever said to him. With any luck, he wouldn't even be home. But then, of course, she'd have to come back.

Daisy and her longtime, live-in lover, Jake Robinson, had invited Crash out to the farm for dinner several times over the past few weeks. But each time he'd cancelled. Nell had made this trip into the city to tell him that he must come. Although he wasn't their child by blood, Crash was the closest thing to a son both Daisy and Jake had ever had. And from what Daisy had told her, Nell knew that Crash considered them his family, too. From the time he was ten, he'd spent every summer and winter break from boarding school with the slightly eccentric pair. From the time his own mother had died, Daisy had opened her home and her heart to him. But now Daisy had been diagnosed with an inoperable cancer, and she was in the very late stages of the disease. She didn't want Crash to hear the news over the phone, and Jake was refusing to leave her side. That had left Nell volunteering to handle the odious task. Damn, what was she going to say? "Hi, Billy, um, Bill, how are you? It's Nell Burns... remember me?" Crash stared at the woman standing out in the hallway, aware that he was wearing only a towel. He held the knot together with one hand while he pushed his wet hair up and out of his eyes with the other. Nell laughed nervously, her eyes skimming his near-naked body before returning to his face. "No, you probably don't know who I am, especially out of context this way. I work for—" "My cousin, Daisy," he said. "Of course I know who you are." "Daisy's your cousin?" She was so genuinely surprised, she forgot to be nervous for a moment. "I didn't realize you were actually related. I just though she was...I mean, that you were..." The nervousness was back, and she waved her hands gracefully, in a gesture equivalent to a shrug. "A stray she and Jake just happened to pick up?" he finished for her. She tried to pretend that she wasn't fazed, but with her fair coloring, Crash couldn't miss the fact that she was blushing. Come to think of it, she'd started blushing the minute she'd realized he was standing there in only a towel. A grown woman who still could blush. It was remarkable, really. And it was reason number five thousand and one on his list of reasons why he should stay far away from her. She was too nice. The very first time they'd met, the very first time Crash had looked into her eyes, his pulse had kicked into high gear. There was no doubt about it, it was a purely physical reaction. Jake had introduced him to Nell at some party Daisy had thrown. The instant he'd walked in, Crash had noticed Nell's blond hair and her trim, slender figure, somehow enhanced by a fairly conservative little black dress. But up close, as he'd said hello, he'd gotten caught in those liquid, blue eyes. The next thing he knew, he was fantasiz ing about taking her by the hand, pulling her with him up the stairs, into one of the spare bedrooms, pinning her against the door and just... The alarming part was that Crash knew the physical attraction he felt was extremely mutual. Nell had given him a look that he'd seen before, in other women's eyes. It was a look that said she wanted to play with fire. Or at least she thought she did. But there was no way he was going to seduce this girl that Jake and Daisy had spoken so highly of. She was too nice. He couldn't see more than a trace of that same look in her eyes now, though. She was incredibly nervous—and upset, he realized suddenly. She was standing there, looking as if she was fighting hard to keep from bursting into tears. "I was hoping you'd have a few minutes to spare, to sit down and talk," she told him. For someone so slight of build, she had a deceptively low, husky voice. It was unbelievably sexy. "Maybe go out and get a cup of coffee or...?" "I'm not exactly dressed for getting coffee." "I could go." She motioned over her shoulder toward the bank of beat-up elevators. "I can wait for you downstairs. Outside. While you get dressed." "This isn't a very good neighborhood," he said. "It'd be better if you came inside to wait." Crash opened the door wider and stepped back to let her in. She hesitated for several long seconds, and he crossed the idea that she was here to seduce him off his list of possible reasons why she'd come. He wasn't sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. She finally stepped inside, slipping off her yellow, flannel-lined slicker, hanging it by the hood on the doorknob. She was wearing jeans and a longsleeved T-shirt with a low, scooped collar that accentuated her honey-blond chin length hair and her long, elegant neck. Her features were delicate —tiny nose, perfectly shaped lips—with the exception of her jawline, which was strong and stubbornly square.

She wasn't conventionally beautiful, but as far as Crash was concerned, the intelligence and the sheer life in her eyes pushed her clear off the scope. As he watched, she looked around his living room, taking in his garish purple-and-green-plaid sofa and the two matching easy chairs. She tried to hide her surprise. "Rented furniture," he informed her. She was startled at first, but then she laughed. She was outrageously pretty when she laughed. "You read my mind." "I didn't want you thinking I was a purple-and-green-plaid furniture type by choice." There was a glimmer of amusement in Crash's eyes, and his mouth quirked into what was almost a smile as Nell gazed at him. God, was it possible that William Hawken actually had a sense of humor? "Let me get something on," he said as he vanished silently down a hallway toward the back of the apartment. "Take your time," she called after him. The less time he took, the sooner she'd have to tell him the reason she'd come. And she'd just as soon put that off indefinitely. Nell paced toward the picture window, once again fighting the urge to cry. All of the furniture in the room was rented, she could see that now. Even the TV had a sticker bearing the name of a rental company. It seemed such a depressing way to live—subject to other people's tastes. She looked out at the overcast sky and sighed. There wasn't much about today, or about the entire past week and a half, that hadn't been depressing. As she watched, the clouds opened and it started to rain. "Do you really want to go out in that?" Crash's voice came from just over her shoulder and Nell jumped. He'd put on a pair of army pants—fatigues, she thought they were called, except instead of being green, these were black—and a black T-shirt. With his dark hair and slightly sallow complexion, he seemed to have stepped out of a black-and-white film. Even his eyes seemed more pale gray than blue. "If you want, I could make us some coffee," he continued. "I have beans." "You do?" The amused gleam was back in his eyes. "Yeah, I know. You think, rented furniture—he probably drinks instant. But no. If I have a choice, I make it fresh. It's a habit I picked up from Jake." "Actually, I didn't really want any coffee," Nell told him. His eyes were too disconcertingly intense, so she focused on the plaid couch instead. Her stomach was churning, and she felt as if she might be sick. "Maybe we could just, you know, sit down for a minute and...talk?" "Okay," Crash said. "Let's sit down." Nell perched on the very edge of the couch as he took the matching chair positioned opposite the window. She could imagine how dreadfully awful it would be if some near stranger came to her apartment to tell her that her mother had only a few months left to live. Nell's eyes filled with tears that she couldn't hold back any longer. One escaped, and she wiped it away, but not before Crash had noticed. "Hey." He moved around the glass-topped coffee table to sit beside her on the couch. "Are you okay?" It was like a dam breaking. Once the tears started, she couldn't make them stop. Silently, she shook her head. She wasn't okay. Now that she was here, now that she sitting in his living room, she absolutely couldn't do this. She couldn't tell him. How could she say such an awful thing? She covered her face with her hands. "Nell, are you in some kind of trouble?" She didn't answer. She couldn't answer. "Did someone hurt you?" he asked. He touched her, then. Tentatively at first, but then more firmly, putting his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "Whatever this is about, I can help," he said quietly. She could feel his fingers in her hair, gently stroking. "This is going to be okay—I promise." There was such confidence in his voice. He didn't have a clue that as soon as she opened her mouth, as soon as she told him why she'd come, it wasn't going to be okay. Daisy was going to die, and nothing ever was going to be okay again. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he said softly. He was so warm, and his arms felt so solid around her. He smelled like soap and shampoo, fresh and innocently clean, like a child. This was absolutely absurd. She was not a weeper. In fact, she'd held herself together completely over the past week. There had been no time to fall apart. She'd been far too busy scheduling all those second opinions and additional tests, and cancelling an entire three-week Southwestern book-signing tour. Cancelling—not postponing. God, that had been hard. Nell had spent hours on the phone with Dexter Lancaster, Jake and Daisy's lawyer, dealing with the legal ramifications of the cancelled tour. Nothing about that had been easy. The truth was, Daisy was more than just Nell's employer. Daisy was her friend. She was barely forty-five years old. She should have another solid forty years of life ahead of her. It was so damned unfair. Nell took a deep breath. "I have some bad news to tell you." Crash became very still. He stopped running his fingers through her hair. It was entirely possible that he stopped breathing. But then he spoke. "Is someone dead? Jake or Daisy?" Nell closed her eyes. "This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do." He pushed her up, away from him, lifting her chin so that she had to look directly into his eyes. He had eyes that some people might have found scary—eyes that could seem too burningly intense, eyes that were almost inhumanly pale. As he looked at her searchingly, she felt nearly seared, but at the same time, she could see beneath to his all-too-human vulnerability. "Just say it," he said. "Just tell me. Come on, Nell. Point-blank." She opened her mouth and it all came spilling out. "Daisy's been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. It's malignant, it's metastasized. The doctors have given her two months, absolute tops. It's more likely that it will be less. Weeks. Maybe even days." She'd thought he'd become still before, but that was nothing compared to the absolute silence that seemed to surround him now. She could read nothing on his face, nothing in his eyes, nothing. It was as if he'd temporarily vacated his body. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, reaching out to touch his face. Her words, or maybe her touch, seemed to bring him back from wherever it was that he'd gone. "I missed Thanksgiving dinner," he said, talking more to himself than to her. “I got back into town that morning, and there was a message from Jake on my machine asking me to come out to the farm, but I hadn't slept in four days, so I crashed instead. I figured there was always next year." Tears welled suddenly in his eyes and pain twisted his face. "Oh, my God. Oh, God, how's Jake taking this? He can't be taking this well...." Crash stood up abruptly, nearly dumping her onto the floor. "Excuse me," he said. "I have to... I need to..." He turned to look at her. "Are they sure?" Nell nodded, biting her lip. "They're sure." It was amazing. He took a deep breath and ran his hands down his face, and just like that he was back in control. "Are you going out to the farm right now?" Nell wiped her own eyes. "Yeah." "Maybe I better take my own car, in case I need to get back to the base later on. Are you okay to drive?" "Yeah. Are you?" Crash didn't answer her question. "I'll need to pack a few things and make a quick phone call, but then I'll be right behind you." Nell stood up. "Why don't you take your time, plan to come out a few hours before dinner? That'll give you a chance to—" Again, he ignored her. "I know how hard this must've been for you." He opened the door to the hallway, holding her jacket out for her. "Thank you for coming here." He was standing there, so distant, so unapproachable and so achingly alone. Nell couldn't stand it. She put her jacket down and reached for him, pulling him close in a hug. He was so stiff and unyielding, but she closed her eyes, refusing to be intimidated. He needed this. Hell, she needed this. "It's okay if you cry," she whispered. His voice was hoarse. "Crying won't change anything. Crying won't keep Daisy alive." "You don't cry for her," Nell told him. "You cry for you. So that when you see her, you'll be able to smile." "I don't smile enough. She's always on my case because I don't smile enough." His arms suddenly tightened around her, nearly taking her breath away.

Nell held him just as tightly, wishing that he was crying, knowing that he wasn't. Those tears she'd seen in his eyes, the pain that had been etched across his face had been a slip, a fluke. She knew without a doubt that he normally kept such emotions under careful control. She would have held him all afternoon if he'd let her, but he stepped back far too soon, his face expressionless, stiff and unapproachable once again. "I'll see you back there," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. Nell nodded, slipping into her raincoat. He closed the door quietly behind her, and she took the elevator down to the lobby. As she stepped out into the grayness of the early afternoon, the rain turned to sleet. Winter was coming, but for the first time Nell could remember, she was in no real hurry to rush the days to spring.

Chapter 2 What you want to do," Daisy was saying, "is not so much draw an exact picture of the puppy—what a camera lens might see—but rather to draw what you see, what you feel" Nell looked over Jake's shoulder and giggled. "Jake feels an aardvark." "That's not an aardvark, that's a dog." Jake looked plaintively at Daisy. "I thought I did okay, don't you think, babe?" Daisy kissed the top of his head. "It's a beautiful, wonderful ... aardvark." As Crash watched from the doorway of Daisy's studio, Jake grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap, tickling her. The puppy started barking, adding canine chaos to Daisy's shouts of laughter. Nothing had changed. Three days had passed since Nell had told Crash about Daisy's illness and he'd gone out to the farm, dreading facing both Daisy and Jake. They'd both cried when they saw him, and he'd asked a million questions, trying to find what they might have missed, trying to turn it all into one giant mistake. How could Daisy be dying? She looked almost exactly the same as she ever had. Despite being given a virtual death sentence by her doctors, Daisy was still Daisy—colorful, outspoken, passionately enthusiastic. Crash could pretend that the dark circles under her eyes were from the fact that she'd been up all night again, painting, caught in one of her creative spurts. He could find an excuse for her sudden, sharp drop in weight—it was simply the result of her finally finding a diet that she stuck to, finally finding a way to shed those twenty pounds that she always complained were permanently attached to her hips and thighs. But he couldn't ignore the rows of prescription medicines that had appeared on the kitchen counter. Painkillers. They were mostly painkillers that Crash knew Daisy resisted taking. Daisy had told Crash that he and Jake and Nell would all have to learn to grieve on their own time. She herself had no time to spare for sad faces and teary eyes. She approached each day as if it were a gift, as if each sunset were a masterpiece, each moment of shared laughter a treasure. It would only be a matter of time, though, before the tumor affected her ability to walk and move, to paint and even to speak. But now, as Crash watched, Daisy was the same as always. Jake kissed her lightly, sweetly on the lips. "I'm going to take my aardvark into my office and return Dex's call." Dexter Lancaster was one of the few people who actually knew of Daisy's illness. Dex had served in Vietnam when Jake had, but not as part of the SEAL units. The lawyer had been with the Marines, in some kind of support-services role. “I’ll see you later, babe, all right?" Jake added. Daisy nodded, sliding off his lap and straightening his wayward dark curls, her fingers lingering at the gray at his temples. Jake was the kind of man who just kept getting better-looking as he got older. He'd been incandescently, gleam-ingly handsome in his twenties and rakishly handsome in his thirties and forties. Now, in his fifties, time had given his face laugh lines and a craggy maturity that illustrated his intense strength of character. With deep blue eyes that could both sparkle with warmth and laughter or penetrate steel in anger, with his upfront, in-yourface, honestly sincere approach and his outrageous sense of humor, Crash knew that Jake could have had any woman, any woman he wanted. But Jake had wanted Daisy Owen. Crash had seen photos of Daisy that Jake had taken back when they'd first met—back when he was a young Navy SEAL on his way to Vietnam, and she was a teenager dressed in cotton gauze she'd tie-dyed herself, selling her drawings and crafts on the streets of San Diego. With her dark hair cascading down her back in a wild mass of curls, her hazel eyes and her bewitching smile, it was easy to see how she'd caught Jake's eye. She was beautiful, but her beauty was far more than skin-deep. And at a time when the people of the counterculture were spitting on the boots of men in uniform, at a time when free love meant that strangers could become the most intimate of lovers, then part never to meet again, Daisy gave Jake neither disdain nor a one-night stand. The first few times they'd met, they'd walked the city streets endlessly, sharing cups of hot chocolate at the all-night coffeehouses, talking until dawn. When Daisy finally did invite Jake into her tiny apartment, he stayed for two weeks. And when he came back from Vietnam, he moved in for good. During their time together, at least during all the summer vacations and winter breaks Crash had spent with the two of them, he had only heard Daisy and Jake argue about one thing. Jake had just turned thirty-five, and he'd wanted Daisy to marry him. In his opinion, they'd lived together, unwed, for long enough. But Daisy's views on marriage were unswerving. It was their love that bound them together, she said, not some foolish piece of paper. They'd fought bitterly, and Jake had walked out—for about a minute and a half. It was, in Crash's opinion, quite possibly the only battle Jake had ever lost.

Crash watched them now as Jake kissed Daisy again, longer this time, lingeringly. Over by the window, Nell's head was bent over her sketch pad, her wheat-colored hair hiding her face, giving them privacy. But as Jake stood, Nell glanced up. "Is it my turn or yours to make lunch, Admiral?" "Yours. But if you want I can—" "No way am I giving up my turn," Nell told him. "You get a chance to make those squirrely seaweed barf-burgers every other day. It's my day, and I'm making grilled cheese with Velveeta and bacon." "What?" Jake sounded as if she'd said "arsenic" instead of bacon. "Vegetarian bacon," Daisy told him, laughter in her voice. "It's not real." "Thank God," Jake clutched his chest. "I was about to have a high-cholesterol-induced heart attack just from the thought." Crash took a deep breath, and went into the room. "Hey," Jake greeted him on his way out the door. "You just missed the morning art lesson, kid. Check this out. What do you think?" Crash had to smile. Calling the object Jake had drawn an aardvark was too generous. It looked more like a concrete highway divider with a nose and ears. "I think you should leave the artwork to Daisy from now on." "Tactfully put." Jake blew Daisy a kiss, then disappeared. "Billy, are you here for the day or for longer?" Daisy asked as Crash gave her a quick hug. She was definitely much too skinny. Focus on the positive. Stay in the moment. Don't project into the future—there would be time enough for that when it arrived. Crash cleared his throat. "I had the last of my debriefings this morning. My schedule's free and clear until the New Year, at least." Scooping the puppy into his arms, he glanced at Nell, changing the subject, not wanting to talk about the reasons why he'd arranged an entire month of leave. "Is this guy yours?" Nell was smiling at him, approval warming her eyes as she put away her sketch pad and pencils and stood up. "This guy is a girl, and she's only here on loan from Esther, the cleaning lady, unfortunately." Nell reached out and scratched the puppy's ears. She moved closer—close enough that he could smell the fresh scent of her shampoo, and beneath it, the subtle fragrance of her own personal and very feminine perfume. "Jake was afraid that you were going to be sent on another assignment right away." "I was asked, but I turned it down," Crash told her. "It's been over a year since I've taken any leave. My captain had no problem with that." Especially considering the circumstances. Nell gave the puppy a final pat and her fingers accidentally brushed his hand. "I better go get lunch started. You're joining us, right?" “If you don't mind." Nell just smiled as she left the room. The puppy struggled in Crash's arms, and when he put her onto the floor, she scampered after Nell. He looked up to find Daisy watching him, a knowing smile on her face. '"If you don't mind,'" she said, imitating him. "You're either disgustingly coy or totally dense." "Since I don't know what you're talking about—" “Totally dense wins. Nell. I'm talking about Nell." Daisy kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs up so that she was sitting tailor-style. "She's giving you all the right body-language signals. You know, the ones that say she wants you to jump her bones." Crash laughed as he sat down on the window seat. "Daisy." She leaned forward. "Go for it. She spends far too much time with her head in a book. It'll be good for her. It'll be good for you, too." Crash looked at her. "You're actually serious." "How old are you now?" "Thirty-three." She grinned. "I'd say it's definitely time for you to lose your virginity." He couldn't help but smile. "You're very funny." "It's not entirely a joke. For all / know, you haven't been with a woman. You've never brought anyone home. You've never mentioned so much as a name."

"That's because I happen to value my privacy—as well as respecting the privacy of the woman I'm seeing." "I know you're not seeing anyone right now," Daisy said. “How could you be? You were away for four months, you got back for two days, and then you were gone again for another week. Unless you have a girlfriend in Malaysia or Hong Kong, or wherever it is you're sent..." "No," Crash said, "I don't." "So what do you do? Stay celibate? Or pay for sex?" That question made Crash laugh out loud. "I've never paid for sex in my life. I can't believe you're asking me about this." Daisy had always been outrageous and shockingly direct, but she'd always steered clear from the subject of his sex life in the past. Some subjects were too personal—or at least they had been, before. "I'm no longer worried about shocking anyone," she told him. "I've decided that if I want to know the answer to a question, dammit, I'm going to ask it. Besides, I love you, and I love Nell. I think it would be really cool if the two of you got together." Crash sighed. "Daisy, Nell's great. I like her and I...think she's smart and pretty and...very nice." He couldn't help but remember how perfectly she had fit in his arms, how soft her hair had felt beneath his fingers, how good she'd smelled. "Too nice." "No, she's not. She's sharp and funny and tough and she's got this real edge to her that—" "Tough?" Daisy lifted her chin defensively. "She can be, yeah. Billy, if you'll just take some time and get to know her, I know you'll fall in love with her." "Look, I'm sorry, but I don't do 'in love.'" Crash wanted to stand up and pace, but there was no room. Besides, he knew without a doubt that Daisy would read some deep meaning into his inability to sit still. "The truth is, I don't even do long-term or permanent. I couldn't even if I wanted to—and I don't want to. You know that I'm never around for more than a few weeks at a time. And because I'm aware of those realities, I don't ever give anyone false hope by bringing them here to meet you." “All those don'ts are so negative. What do you do?" Daisy asked. "One-night stands? You know, that's dangerous these days." Crash looked out the window. The sky was overcast again. December in Virginia was wet and dreary and utterly depressing. "What I do is, I walk into a bar," he told her, "and I look around, see who's looking back at me. If there are any sparks, I approach. I ask if I can buy her a drink. If she says yes, I ask her to take a walk on the beach. And then, away from the noise of the bar, I ask her about her life, about her job, her family, her last scumbag of a boyfriend— whatever—and I listen really carefully to what she tells me because not many people bother to listen, and I know I'll win big points if I do. And by the time we've walked a quarter mile, I've listened so well, she's ready to make it with me." Daisy was silent, just watching him. Her expression was sad, as if what he was telling her wasn't what she'd hoped to hear. Still, there was no judgment and no disapproval in her eyes. "Instead, I take her home and I kiss her good-night," Crash continued, "and I ask her if I can see her again— take her to dinner the next night, take her someplace nice. She always says yes, so the next night we go out and I treat her really well. And then I tell her over dessert, right up front, that I want to sleep with her but I'm not going to be around for long. I lay it out right there, right on the table. I'm a SEAL, and I could be called away at any time. I tell her I'm not looking for anything that's going to last. I've got a week, maybe two, and I want to spend that time with her. And she always appreciates my honesty so much that she takes me home. For the next week or however long it is until I get called out on some op, she cooks for me, and she does my laundry, and she keeps me very warm and very, very happy at night. And when I leave, she lets me go, because she knew it was coming. And I walk away— no guilt, no regrets." "Didn't you learn anything from me at all? All those summers we spent together..." Crash looked up. Daisy's eyes were still so sad. "I learned to be honest," he told her. "You taught me that." "But what you do seems so...cold and calculated." He nodded. "It's calculated. I don't pretend it's not. But I'm honest about it—to myself and to the woman I'm with." "Haven't you ever met anyone that you burn for?" she asked. "Someone you just want to lie down in front of and surrender to? Someone you absolutely live and die for?" Crash shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm not looking for that, and I don't expect to find it, either. I think most people go through life without that kind of experience." "That is so sad." There were tears in her eyes as she looked up at him. "It's crazy, too. I'm the one who's dying, but right now I feel so much luckier than you." Nell was moving at a dead run as she rounded the corner by the stairs and plowed smack into Crash. Somehow he managed to catch her and keep them both from landing on the ground in a tangled pile of arms and legs. "Sorry." Nell felt herself blushing as he made sure she was steadily on her feet again.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, finally letting go of her arms. "Is Daisy...?" "She's fine," Nell said. "But she said yes" He didn't bother to ask. He just waited for her to explain. He was dressed all in black again today, but because the chill of winter was in the air, he wore a turtleneck instead of his usual T-shirt. Most men managed to look good in a simple black turtleneck. William Hawken looked incredible. It hugged his shoulders and arms, accentuating his streamlined muscles. It was funny, Nell had always thought of him as somewhat thin—more lean and wiry than muscular—because most of the time he wore clothes that were just a little too large. His T-shirts were never tight and he always wore his pants just a little low on his hips and slightly loose. But the truth was, he was built as solid as a rock. Nell felt herself flush again as she realized she was standing there, staring at the man. "You look really good today," she admitted. "I like that shirt." "Thank you," he said. If she'd surprised him, he didn't show it. But then again, he didn't show much of anything. With the exception of that one time in his apartment, he played all of his emotional cards extremely close to his chest. "I'm going to need your help," Nell started toward the second-floor office she'd shared with Daisy. "What do you know about swing bands and health-food caterers? Or how about where I can find a florist specializing in poinsettias and holly?" "Any florist should be able to handle a Christmas-style arrangement," Crash said, keeping pace. "Health-food caterers—I'm not the one to ask about that. As for swing bands, I've always preferred Benny Goodman." "Benny Goodman's great, but unfortunately he's dead." Nell turned on the office lights and sat down at the desk with the computer, using the mouse and the keyboard to sign on to the Internet. "I need to find someone good who's alive, and ready to be booked for the evening before Christmas eve." She looked back at Crash. "Any idea where we can get a half dozen twelve-foot Christmas trees with root balls attached—delivered? And then there's lights and decorations... But we can't hire a decorator, because they do that 'monochromatic garbage'—that's a direct quote—all silver or all red, and that's not any good. We need real ornaments, all different colors and sizes." Crash sat down on the other side of the desk. “Are we having a Christmas party?" Nell laughed. And then, to her horror, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, but she knew he saw them, because for a fraction of a second, a very peculiar mix of trepidation and an answering flash of pain crossed his face. "I'm not going to cry," she told him, fiercely willing herself to do just that. "I'm just..." She forced a smile. "I feel so bad for Jake, you know? In a way, Daisy's got it easier, because Jake's the one who's going to have to go on living. And sometimes, when Daisy's not around, I see him, and he has this look in his eyes that just breaks my heart." Nell sank down, resting her head on top of her desk. Crash knew she was fighting tears again, and she didn't want him to see. Nell's loyalty impressed him. He understood loyalty. It was the one strong emotion he could relate to—and could allow himself to feel. "You don't have to be here," he said. She lifted her head and looked at him through a curtain of rumpled hair, her expression aghast. "Yes, I most certainly do. Daisy needs me now more than ever." "This wasn't what you were hired to do." "I was hired as her personal assistant." "You were hired to take care of all the business aspects of Daisy's career," Crash pointed out, "so that she would have more time to paint." "A good personal assistant does whatever's needed," Nell argued. "If the dishes need washing, I'll do the dishes. Or I'll clean the fish tank, or—" "Most people would've given their notice weeks ago. Instead of that, you moved in." "Yeah, well, the idea of Daisy having to go into a hospice was unacceptable." Nell swept her hair out of her face as she reached for a tissue and briskly blew her nose. "And she hated the thought of hiring some stranger to provide round-the-clock personal care. But she didn't want to dump all that responsibility on Jake, so..." She shrugged. "So you volunteered." "I haven't had any medical training, so when the time comes that she needs a nurse, someone's still going to have to come in, but at least she'll know I'll be there, too." Nell tossed the crumpled tissue across the room, sinking it expertly into the wastebasket. "It's no big deal." She took a deep breath and pretended to look at the computer screen. "That's not true and you know it."

She looked up at him, gazing directly into his eyes. "Are you going to help me, Hawken, or what?" Crash had to smile. He liked her direct approach. He liked her. He was definitely going to help with whatever it was that she was doing, but first he had to make something clear to her. "I know we're all trying to be as upbeat as Daisy is," he said quietly, "but that gets hard sometimes. I don't want you to have to worry about what I'll say or do if you need to cry. You don't need that weighing you down, too. We're living with a lot of emotional upheaval here. There's nothing normal about this, and we can't expect each other to behave normally. So, let's make a deal, okay? You can cry whenever you want, but you can't hold it against me if I stand up and walk away when you do, because... every thing that you're feeling...I'm fighting it, too." Nell just sat there, looking at him. Her eyes were rimmed with red, she wore no makeup, and she looked as if she'd slept about as much as he had in the past few days—which wasn't much at all. Maybe they 'd both sleep better if they shared a bed. Crash gently pushed that thought away. He knew it would be true, but he also knew that the absolute, absolute last thing Nell needed in her life right now was to become intimately entangled with him. She was the kind of woman he avoided like the plague when he walked into a bar. He'd recognized her on sight that first time they'd met. She was too sweet, too smart, too innocently full of life and hope and promise. She was the kind of woman who wouldn't believe him when he said he wasn't looking for long-term or permanent. She was the kind of woman who would think that she could change him. She was the kind of woman who would cry great big, silent tears as he packed his bag—the kind of woman who would beg him to come back. No, under completely normal conditions, Crash wouldn't allow himself to get close to Nell. And right now she was a bubbling caldron of high-octane emotions. He knew—not with any sense of ego, but from that same flatly factual voice of experience—that it wouldn't take very much for her to fancy herself in love with him. He knew because he was experiencing the very same highs and lows himself. But, like he'd told Daisy, he didn't do "in love" and he knew himself well enough to recognize that the rush of emotions he was feeling wasn't real. It couldn't possibly be real. And giving in to this powerful physical temptation would be the worst thing he could do to this woman, no matter how badly he longed for something—for someone— to hold on to. No matter how badly he longed for the distraction of sexual release. He liked Nell too much to use her that way. And knowing what he knew about her, he would be using her. Crash forced himself to take a step back, to separate a little bit more from his emotions. He'd file his red-hot attraction for Nell in that mental holding area he'd created, right next to all the anger and grief and pain he felt over Daisy's impending death. All he needed was just a little more distance, a little more detachment. But Nell finally moved, holding out her hand to him, stretching her arm across her desk. "I'll accept your deal," she said. "I want to state for the record, though, that I don't usually cry at the drop of a hat." He took her hand. It was so much smaller than his, her fingers slender and cool. Her grip was firm, and that, along with the crooked smile she gave him, almost made him toss his resolve out the window. He nearly asked her, point-blank, if she wanted to try to release some tension with him tonight. Daisy had purposely put them in bedrooms right next to each other. It wouldn't be difficult for him to slip into her room and... Nell was looking at him, her eyes wide, as if she knew what he was thinking. But then he realized that he was still holding her hand. Quickly, he let it go. Detach. He cleared his throat. This entire conversation had started with evergreen trees, swing bands and poinsettias. "So, are Jake and Daisy throwing a Christmas party?" Nell lifted an eyebrow. "Do you really think they'd do something that mundane or predictable—or easy to plan? No, this is not your average Christmas party. I was just up in the studio while Daisy was painting," she told him, "and Jake came in and asked her what she wanted to do tonight. He thought maybe she'd want to go to a movie. And she said that lately they only did what she wanted to do, and that wasn't fair. She thought that tonight they should do something that Jake wanted. And they got into this discussion about Daisy's list—the list of all the things she wants to do before...you know." Crash nodded. He knew. "So Daisy said she thought it would be fair if Jake made a similar list, and he said that he didn't need to. He said there was only one thing on his wish list—a wish that she would get well and live with him for another twenty years. And if he couldn't have that, then his only other wish would be for her to marry him." Crash felt a lump forming in his throat. After all this time, Jake still wanted Daisy to marry him. "So she said yes," Nell continued softly.

He tried to clear it, but it wouldn't go away. "Just like that?" Nell nodded. "Yeah. She's finally giving in." Poor Jake. He'd wanted forever, but all he was getting was a cheap illusion. Crash felt helplessness and rage churning inside of him, fighting to break free and sweep him away like a tidal wave. It wasn't fair. He had to look away from the gentle blue of Nell's eyes, or, dammit, he was going to start to cry. And once he started, he'd never be able to stop. "Maybe," Nell said quietly, "maybe knowing that Daisy loved him enough to give in and marry him will help. Maybe someday Jake will find some comfort in that." Crash shook his head, still unable to meet her gaze. He stood up, knowing that if he just walked away, she would understand. But she'd also asked for his help. He sat back down, willing himself to detach even more, to stop feeling so damn much. He took a deep breath and let it slowly out. And when he spoke, his voice was even. "So now we're planning a wedding." "Yup. Daisy said yes, and then turned to me and asked if I could take care of the details—in exactly three weeks. Of course, I said yes, too." She laughed, and it came out sounding just on the verge of hysterical, just a little bit giddy. "Please, please say that you'll help me." “I’ll help you." She briefly closed her eyes. "Thank God." "But I don't have a lot of experience with weddings." "Neither do I." "In fact, I tend to avoid weddings like the plague," he admitted. "All of my college friends who are married either eloped or got married on the other coast," Nell said. "I've never even been to a real wedding. The closest I've ever gotten was watching the TV broadcast of Princess Diana's wedding to Prince Charles when I was little." "That probably had just a little bit more flash and fanfare than Daisy and Jake are going to want." Nell laughed, and then stopped short. He'd just made a joke. That had been a joke, hadn't it? He wasn't smiling, but there definitely was a glint of something in his eyes. Amusement. Or was it tears? Crash turned his head and examined the toe of his boot. With his lids lowered, Nell couldn't see his eyes, and when he looked up again, he was carefully devoid of all expression. "We should probably make a list of all the essential supplies for a wedding," he suggested. "We've got the bride and the groom. They're pretty essential, and we can already cross them off the list." "But they'll need clothes." "A wedding gown—something funky that'll make Daisy feel as if she's still thumbing her nose at convention." Nell started an Internet search. "There must be some kind of wedding checklist somewhere that we can use—so we don't forget something important." "Like wedding rings." "Or—God!—someone to perform the ceremony." She looked up, pushing the phone and the yellow pages toward him. "Trees," she said. "A half a dozen twelve-foot Christmas trees. Live." "Delivered ASAP," he said. "You can already cross it off your list." He reached for the phone, but she didn't let it go, and he looked up at her. "Thanks," she said quietly. They both knew she was talking about more than just his help with this project. Crash nodded. "You can cross that off your list, too." "A prenuptial agreement?" Nell's voice was loaded with disbelief. Crash paused in the kitchen doorway, looking in to find her sitting at the table across from Dexter Lancaster, Jake and Daisy's lawyer. She'd made them both tea, and she sat with her hands wrapped around her cup, as if she were cold. Lancaster was a big man. He had at least five inches and seventy pounds on Crash, but most of those pounds were the result of too many doughnuts and Danishes in the morn ing and too many servings of blueberry cheesecake at night. Age and a sweet tooth had conspired to take the sharp edges off Lancaster's WASP-y good looks and as a result, somewhat ironically, he was probably more handsome at age forty-nine than he'd been at thirty.

He was a friendly-looking bear of a man, with warm blue eyes that actually twinkled behind round, wire-framed glasses. His hair was sandy-blond and still thick and untouched by gray. He sighed as he answered Nell. "Yeah, I know, it sounds crazy, but in a way, it'll clarify exactly which parts of Daisy's estate she wishes to leave to persons other than Jake. If it's in both the prenup and the will, it'll speed the process along after she's..." He shook his head, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes with both hands. "Sorry." Nell took a deep breath. "Don't be. It's coming, you know. Daisy faces it. She talks about it matter-of-factly. We should be able to do that, too." She made a sound that was half laughter, half sob. "Easier said than done, though, huh?" Dex Lancaster set his glasses down and reached across the table to cover her hand with his. "You know, your being here is a godsend to both of them." The exact same thought had crossed Crash's mind at least three times a day. But he'd never said it aloud. He'd figured that Nell surely knew. She smiled at Lancaster. "Thanks." The lawyer smiled back at her, still holding her hand. The man liked her. He more than liked her. Dexter Lancaster had a thing for Nell. The man was twenty years her senior, at least, but Crash knew from his subtle body language and from the way he was looking at her that he found her undeniably attractive. Lancaster was no fool. And judging from the fact that his law firm had one of the best reputations in the country, he also was not an underachiever. Any second now, he was going to ask Nell out to dinner. "I was wondering..." Lancaster started. Crash coughed and stepped into the room. Nell slipped her hand out from beneath Lancaster's as she turned to look up at him. "You're back," she said, giving him a smile. It was a bigger smile than the one she'd given Dex Lancaster. "Did you have any problem getting the rings?" Crash took the two jewelers' boxes from the inside pocket of his jacket and set them on the table in front of her. "None whatsoever." "You know Dex, don't you?" she asked. "We've met a few times," Crash said. The lawyer stood up as he held out his hand, and the two men shook. But their handshake wasn't a greeting. It was a not-so-subtle sizing up. It was more than obvious, from the onceover Lancaster was giving him, that he was trying to figure out what claim—if any—Crash had already staked out. Crash met the older man's gaze steadily. And after the handshake was done, he moved slightly to stand closer to Nell, putting one hand on the back of her chair in a gesture that was clearly possessive. What the hell was he doing? He didn't want this girl. He'd resolved to stay away from her, to keep his distance, both physically and emotionally. But as much as he didn't want her, he didn't want to see her taken for a ride, either. Crash didn't trust lawyers any farther than he could throw them, and Dexter Lancaster was no exception to his rule, despite the fact that his eyes twinkled like Santa Claus's. Lancaster checked his watch. "I have to get going." He twinkled at Nell. "I'm sure I'll talk to you soon." He nodded at Crash as he slipped on his overcoat. "Nice seeing you again." Like hell it was. "Take care," Crash lied in return. "What was that all about?" Nell turned to ask as the door closed behind Dexter Lancaster. Crash opened the refrigerator and pretended to be engrossed by its contents. "Just a little Army/Navy rivalry." Nell laughed. "You're kidding. All that tension just because you're in the Navy and he was in the Army?" Crash took a can of soda out and shut the refrigerator door. "Crazy, huh?" he said as he escaped into the other room.

Chapter 3 Nell glanced up from her computer to see Crash standing in her office. She jumped, nearly knocking over her cup of tea, catching it with both hands, just in time. "God!" she said. "Don't do that! You're always sneaking up on me. Make some noise when you come in, will you? Try stomping your feet, okay?" "I thought I'd made noise when I opened the door. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." She took a deep breath, letting it slowly out. "No, I'm sorry. I've been...feeling sideways all day. There must be a full moon or something." She frowned at the half-written letter on her computer screen. "Of course, now I've got so much adrenaline raging through my system, I'm not going to be able to concentrate." "Next time, I'll knock." Nell looked up at Crash in exasperation. "I don't want you to knock. You've been working as hard as I have— this is your office, too. Just...clear your throat or play the bagpipes or whistle, or something." She turned back to the letter. Crash cleared his throat. "I've been ordered to tell you that after two days of rain, the sky's finally clear, and the sun's due to set in less than fifteen minutes," he said. Sunset. Nell glanced at her watch, swearing silently. Was it really that time already? "I'm waiting for a fax from the caterer, and Dex Lancaster's supposed to call me right back to tell me if Friday is okay to come out and discuss some changes Daisy wants to make to her will, but I guess he can leave a message on the machine," she told him, thinking aloud. "I'm almost done with this letter, but I'll hurry. I'll be there. I promise." Crash stepped closer. "I've been ordered to make sure you arrive on time, not five minutes after the sun has gone down, like last Monday. Daisy said to tell you that the rest of the week's forecast calls for total cloud coverage. In fact, the prediction is for snow—maybe as much as two or three inches. This could be the last sunset we see for a while." The last sunset. Every sunset they saw was one of Daisy's very last sunsets. Every clear day for the past two weeks, Daisy had brought Nell's work to a screeching halt as they'd all met in the studio to watch the setting sun. But now there was less than a week before the wedding, and the list of things that needed to be done was still as long as her arm. On top of that, the sun was setting earlier and earlier as midwinter approached, cutting her workday shorter and shorter. It was also reminding her that the passage of time was bringing them closer and closer to the end of Daisy's life. Nell looked at her watch again, then up into the steely gray of Crash's eyes. To her surprise, there was amusement gleaming there. "I've been ordered not to fail," he told her, giving her an actual smile, "which means I'm going to have to pick you up and carry you downstairs to the studio if you don't get out of that chair right now." Yeah, sure he was. Nell turned back to the computer. "Just let me save this file. And wait—here comes that fax from the caterer now. I just have to— Hey!" Crash picked her up, just as he'd said he would, throwing her over his shoulder in a fireman's hold as he carried her out of the door. "Okay, Hawken, very funny. Put me down." Nell's nose bumped his back and her arms dangled uncomfortably. She wasn't sure where to put her hands. He seemed to have no problem figuring out where to put his hands. He held her legs firmly with one arm, and anchored her in place by resting his other hand squarely on the seat of her jeans. Yet despite that, his touch seemed impersonal—further proof that the man was not even remotely interested in her. And after two weeks of living in the same house, sleeping in a room one door down the hall from his, and working together twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, on this wedding that had somehow grown from a small affair with forty guests into a three-hundred-person, Godzilla-sized event, Nell probably didn't need any further proof. William Hawken wasn't interested. Nell had given him all the full-speed-ahead signs—body language, lingering eye contact, subtle verbal hints. She'd done damn near everything but show up naked in his room at night. But he'd kept at least three feet of air between them at all times. If he was sitting on the couch and she sat down next to him, he soon stood up on the pretense of getting something from the kitchen. He was always polite, always asking if he could get her a soda or a cup of tea, but when he came back, he was careful to sit on the opposite side of the room. He never let her get too close emotionally, either. While she had babbled on about her family and growing up in Ohio, he had never, not even once,

told her anything about himself. No, he was definitely not interested. Except whenever she turned around, whenever he thought she wasn't looking, he was there, looking at her. He moved so soundlessly, he just seemed to appear out of thin air. And he was always watching. It was enough to keep alive that little seed of hope. Maybe he was interested, but he was shy. Shy? Yeah, right. William Hawken might've been quiet, but he didn't have a shy bone in his body. Try again. Maybe he was in love with someone else, someone far away, someone he couldn't be with while he was here at the farm. In that case, the careful distance that he kept between them made him a gentleman. Or maybe he simply wasn't interested, but he didn't have anything better to look at, so he stared at her. And maybe she should stop obsessing and get on with her life. So what if the most handsome, attractive, fascinating man she'd ever met only wanted to be friends? So what if every time she was with him, she liked him more and more? So what? She'd be friends with him. No big deal. Nell closed her eyes, miserably wishing that he were carrying her to his room. Instead, he took her all the way down the stairs and into Daisy's art studio. Jake had set up the beach chairs in front of the window that faced west. Daisy was already reclining, hands lazily up behind her head as Jake gently worked the cork free from a bottle of wine. The last sunset. Crash's words rang in Nell's ears. One of these evenings, Daisy was going to watch her last sunset. Nell hated that idea. She hated it. Anger and frustration boiled in her chest, making it hard to breathe. "Better lock the door before you put her down,” Daisy told Crash. "She might run away." "Just throw her down fast and sit on her," Jake recommended. But Crash didn't throw her down. He placed her, gently, on one of the chairs. "Watch her," Daisy warned. "She'll try to squeeze in just one more call." Nell looked at the other woman in exasperation. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, okay? But I'm not going to drink any wine. I still have too much work to—" Jake put a wineglass in her hand. "How can you make a toast if you don't have any wine?" Daisy sat up to take a glass from Jake, who took the chair next to her. She leaned forward slightly to look across him to Nell. "I have an idea. Let's just let this wedding happen. No more preparations. We've got the dress, the rings, the band's set to come and nearly all the guest have been called. What else could we possibly need?" "Food would be nice." "Who eats at weddings, anyway?" Daisy said. Her cat-green eyes narrowed as she looked at Nell. "You look exhausted. I think you need a day off. Tomorrow Jake and I are going skiing over in West Virginia. Why don't you come along?" Skiing? Nell snorted. "No thanks." "You'd love it," Daisy persisted. "The view from the ski lift is incredible, and the adrenaline rush from the ride down the mountain is out of this world." "It's really not my style." She preferred curling up in front of a roaring fire with a good book over an adrenaline rush. She smiled tightly at Crash. "See, I'm one of those people who ride the Antique Cars in the amusement park instead of the roller coaster." He nodded, pouring soda into the delicate wineglass Jake had left out for him. "You like being in control. There's nothing wrong with that." He sat down next to her. "But skiing's different from riding a roller coaster. When you ski, you've still got control." "Not when / ski," Daisy said with a throaty chuckle. Crash glanced at her, his mouth quirking up into one of his near smiles. "If you had bothered to learn how to do it instead of just strapping the skis on for the first time at the top of a mountain—" "How could I waste my time on the bunny slope when that great huge mountain was sitting there, waiting for me?" Daisy retorted. "Billy, talk Nell into coming with us." Crash's eyes met Nell's, and she wondered if he could tell just from looking how brittle she felt today. She'd been tense and out of sorts just a few minutes ago, but now she felt as if she were going to snap. Crash on the other hand, looked exactly as he always did. Slightly remote, in careful control. That was how he did it, Nell realized suddenly. He stayed in control by distancing himself from the situation and the people involved.

He'd cut himself off from all his emotions. Sure, he probably didn't feel as if his rage and grief were going to come hurtling out of him in some terrible projectile vomit of emotion. But on the other hand, he didn't laugh much, either. Oh, occasionally something she or Daisy said would catch him off guard, and he'd chuckle. But she'd never seen him laugh until tears came. He'd protected himself from the pain, but he'd cut himself off from the joy as well. And that was another desperate tragedy. Daisy, so full of life, was dying while Crash willingly chose to go through life emotionally half-dead. Nell was clinging to the very edge of the cliff that was her control, and the sheer tragedy of that thought made her fingernails start slipping. Crash leaned slightly toward her. "I can teach you to ski, if you want," he said quietly. "I'd take it as slowly as you like—you'd be in control, I promise." He lowered his voice even further. "Are you all right?" Nell shook her head quickly, jerkily, like a pitcher shaking off a catcher's hand signal. "I can't go skiing. I have way too much to do." She turned toward Daisy, unable to meet the other woman's eyes. "I'm sorry." Daisy didn't say it in front of Jake and Crash, but Nell could see what she was thinking—it was clearly written on her face. She thought Nell was missing out. She thought Nell was letting her life pass her by. But life was about making choices, dammit, and Nell was choosing to stay home, to stay warm instead of strapping slabs of wood onto her feet and risking broken arms and legs by sliding at an alarming speed down an icy slope covered with artificial snow. The only thing Nell was missing was fear, discomfort and the chance for a trip to the hospital. She sat back in her chair, feeling as if the sudden silence in the room was the fault of her bitchiness. Her chest got even tighter and the suffocating feeling she was fighting threatened to overwhelm her. She looked at Crash. He was watching the sky begin to change colors as he sipped soda from his wineglass. What did it look like to him? Did he look at the beautiful pink and reddish-orange colors with as much detachment as he did everything else? Did he see the fragile lace of the high clouds only as a meteorological formation, only as cirrus clouds? And instead of the brilliant colors, did he see only the dust in the atmosphere, bending and distorting the sun's light? "How come you're not required to drink wine?" Her words came out sounding belligerent, nearly rude. But if he noticed, he didn't take offense. "I don't drink alcohol," he told her evenly, "unless I absolutely have to." That didn't make sense. Nothing about her life right now made any sense at all. "Why would you have to?" "Sometimes, in other countries, when I meet with...certain people, it would be considered an insult not to drink with them." That was it. Nell boiled over. She stood up and set down her glass, sloshing the untouched contents on the tablecloth. "Could you possibly be any more vague when you talk about yourself? I mean, don't bother adding a single detail, please. It's not as if I give a damn." Nell was furious, but Crash knew that her anger wasn't aimed at him. He'd just been caught in her emotional crossfire. For the past two weeks, she had been in as carefully tight control as he was. But for some reason—and it didn't really matter what had triggered it— she'd reached her limit tonight. She was staring at him now, her face ashen and her eyes wide and filled with tears, as if she'd realized just how terribly un-Nell-like she'd just sounded. Crash got to his feet slowly, afraid if he moved too quickly she'd run for the door. But she didn't run. Instead, she forced a tight smile. "Well, I sure am the life of the party tonight, huh?" She glanced at the others, still trying hard to smile. "I'm sorry, Daisy. I think I have to go." “Yeah, I have to go, too," Crash said, hoping that if he sounded matter-of-fact, Nell might let him walk with her. The stress she'd been under for the past few weeks had been hellishly intense. She didn't deserve to be alone, and he, God help him, was the only candidate available to make sure that she wasn't. He took her arm and gently pulled her with him toward the door. She didn't say a word until they reached the stairs that led to the second floor of the rambling modern farmhouse. But then, with the full glory of the pink sky framed by the picture window in the living room, she spoke. “I ruined a really good sunset for them, didn't I?" Crash wished that she would cry. He would know what to do if she cried. He'd put his arm around her and hold her until she didn't need him to hold her anymore. But he didn't know what to do about the bottomless sorrow that brimmed like the tears in her eyes—brimmed, but wasn't released. "There'll be other sunsets," he finally said. "How many will Daisy get to see?" She turned to him, looking directly into his eyes as if he might actually know the answer to that question. "Probably not a hundred. Probably not even fifty. Twenty, do you think? Twenty's not very many."

"Nell, I don't—" She turned and started quickly up the stairs. "I have to do better than this. This cannot happen again. I'm here to help her, not to be more of a burden." He followed, taking the steps two at a time to catch up to her. "You're human," he said. "Give yourself a break." She stopped, her hand on the knob of the door that led to her room. "I'm sorry I said...what I said." Her voice shook. "I didn't mean to take it out on you." He wanted to touch her, and knew that she wanted him to touch her, too. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't take that risk. Not without the excuse of her tears. And she still wasn't crying. "I'm sorry I...frustrate you." It was a loaded statement—one that was true on a multitude of levels. But she didn't look up. She didn't acknowledge it at all, in any way. "I think I have to go to sleep now," she whispered. "I'm so tired." "If you want, I'll..." What? What could he possibly do? "I'll sit with you for a while." At first he wasn't sure she heard him. She was silent for a long time. But then she shook her head. "No. Thanks, but..." "I'll be right next door, in my room, if you need me," he told her. Nell turned and looked up at him, then. "You know, Hawken, I'm glad we're friends." She looked exhausted, and Crash was hit with a wave of the same fatigue. It was a nearly overwhelmingly powerful feeling, accompanied by an equally powerful sense of irrationality. It was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out and cupping the softness of her face, and lowering his lips to hers. Instead, he stepped back, away from her. Detach. Separate. Distance. And Nell slipped into her room, shutting the door tightly behind her. At two in the afternoon, the trees were delivered. As the huge truck rolled into the driveway, Nell pulled her brown-leather bomber jacket on over her sweater and, wrapping her scarf around her neck, went out to meet it. She stopped short before she reached the gravel of the drive. Crash was standing next to one of the trucks. What was he doing there? He was wearing one of his disgustingly delicious-looking black turtlenecks, talking to the driver and gesturing back toward the barn. It was starting to snow, just light flurries, but the delicate flakes glistened and sparkled in his dark hair and on his shirt. What was he doing there? The driver climbed back into the cab of the truck, and Crash turned as Nell came toward him. "I thought you went skiing." She had to raise her voice to be heard over the sound of the revving engine and the gasping release of the air brakes. "No," he said, watching as the truck pulled around the house, in the direction he had pointed. "I decided to stay here." He started following the truck, but Nell stood still, glancing back at the house. "You should get a jacket." She was suddenly ridiculously nervous. After last night, he must think her an idiot. Or a fool. Or an idiotic fool. Or... "I'm fine." He turned to face her, but he didn't stop walking. "I want to make sure the barn is unlocked." Nell finally followed. "It is. I was out there earlier. I picked up the decorations in town this morning." "I figured that's where you went. You left before I could offer to help." Nell couldn't stand dancing around the subject of the night before one instant longer. "You didn't go skiing to day because you thought I might still need a baby-sitter," she said, looking him straight in the eye. He smiled slightly. "Substitute friend for baby-sitter, and you'd be right." Friend. There was that word again. Nell had used it herself last night. I'm glad we're friends. If only she could convince herself that friendship was enough. That was not an easy thing to do when the very sight of this man made her heart beat harder, when the fabric of his turtleneck hugged the hard muscles of his shoulders and chest, clinging where she ached to run her hands and her mouth and...

And there was no doubt about it. She had it bad for a Navy SEAL who called himself Crash. She had it bad for a man who had cleanly divorced himself from all his emotions. "I want to apologize," she started to say, but he cut her off. "You don't need to." "But I want to." "All right. Apology accepted. Daisy called while you were out," he said, changing the subject deftly. They walked around the now idling truck toward the outbuilding that Jake and Daisy jokingly called the barn. But with its polished wood floors, one wall of windows that overlooked the mountains and another of mirrors that reflected the panoramic view, this "barn" wasn't used to hold animals. Equipped with heating and central air conditioning, with a full kitchen attached to the ballroom-sized main room, it was no ordinary stable. Even the rough, exposed beams somehow managed to look elegant. The previous owners had used the place as a dance studio and exercise room. Crash swung open the main doors. "Daisy said she and Jake were getting a room at a ski lodge, and that they wouldn't be back until tomorrow afternoon, probably on the late side." She and Crash would be alone in the house tonight. Nell turned away, afraid he would read her thoughts in her eyes. Not that it mattered particularly. He probably already knew what she was thinking—he had to be aware of what she wanted. She'd been far less than subtle over the past few weeks. But he didn't want the same thing. Friends, she reminded herself. Crash wanted them to be friends. Being friends was safe, and God forbid he should ever allow anything to shake him up emotionally. Crash stepped to the side of the room, gently pulling Nell with him as three workmen carried one of the evergreen trees into the building. She moved out of his grasp, but not because she didn't want him to touch her. On the contrary. She liked the sensation of his hand on her arm too much. But she was afraid if she stood there like that, so close to him, it wouldn't be long before she sank back so that she was leaning against him. But friends didn't do that. Friends kept their distance. And there was no need to embarrass herself in front of this man two days in a row.

Chapter 4 Crash held the stepladder while Nell positioned the angel on the top of one of the trees. She'd brought a portable CD player into the barn, and Bing Crosby sang "White Christmas" over remarkably natural-sounding speakers. Nell sang along, right in Bing's octave, her voice a low, throaty alto. She looked out the window as she came down the ladder. The snow was still falling. "I can't remember the last time it snowed for Christmas. Certainly not since I've lived in Virginia. And last year, I visited my parents in Florida. I was on the beach on Christmas Eve. The sand was white, but it just wasn't the same." Crash was silent as he carried the stepladder to the last tree, as Nell removed the plastic wrapping from the final angel. "You didn't make it out here to the farm last Christmas, did you?" "No." Nell glanced at him and he knew what she was looking for. She'd tossed him the conversational ball, and wanted him to run with it. She wanted him to tell her where he 'd spent last Christmas. He cleared his throat. "Last December, I was on a covert military op that is still so top secret, I can't even tell you which hemisphere of the globe I was in." "Really?" Her eyes were wide. And very blue. Ocean blue. But not the stormy blue of the Atlantic, or even the turquoise of the Caribbean. Nell's eyes were the pure blue of the South China Sea. In fact, there was a beach there that— He cut his thought off abruptly. What was he doing? Allowing himself to submerge in the depths of this woman's eyes? That was insanity. He turned away, making sure the stepladder was close enough to the tree. "Most of what I do, I can't talk about. Not to anyone." "God, that must be really tough—considering the way you love to run off at the mouth." She'd caught him off guard, and he laughed. "Yeah, well... What can I say?" "Exactly." Nell paused on the rung of the ladder that brought them eye to eye. "Actually, I shouldn't be making jokes. It's probably really hard for you, isn't it?" Malaysia. The beach was in Malaysia, and the ocean had been an impossibly perfect shade of blue. He'd sat there in the sand for hours, drinking it in, watching the sunlight dance across the water. "It's my job," he said quietly. Unlike in Malaysia, Crash forced himself to look away. He could feel her gazing at him for several long moments before continuing on up the stepladder. She set the angel on the top branch of the tree, carefully adjusting its halo. "I know that part of what Jake does has to do with these...covert ops you're sent on. Although...they were called something else, weren't they? Black ops?" Crash waited several beats before speaking. "How do you know about that?" Something in his voice must have been different, because she glanced down at him. "Uh-oh. I wasn't supposed to know, was I? Now you're going to have to kill me, right?" He didn't laugh at her joke. "Technically, your having access to that information is a breach of security. I need to know what you saw or heard, to make sure it doesn't happen again." She slowly came back down the ladder. "You're serious." "There are only five—now six—people in the world who know I work covert ops for Admiral Robinson," Crash told her. "One of them is the President of the United States. And now one of them is you." Nell sat down on the second to last rung of the steplad-der. "Oh, my God, you are going to have to kill me." She looked up at him. "Or vote me into office." He nearly laughed at that one. But in truth there was nothing funny about this. "Nell, if you knew how serious..." Crash shook his head. "But that's just it," she said imploringly. "I don’t know. How can I know when you won't even finish your sentences? I know close to nothing about you. I'm friends with you almost entirely on faith—on vague gut instincts and the fact that Daisy and Jake think that the sun rises and sets with you. Do you know that in the past two weeks, you've told me nothing about yourself? We talk about books, and you tell me you're currently reading Grisham's latest, but you never say if you like it. You wouldn't even tell me your favorite color! I mean, what kind of friendship is that?" The problem she had with him was nothing compared to the problem he currently had with her. He pinned her into place with his eyes. "Nell, this is extremely important. I need to know how you found out I was working with Jake. Have you mentioned this to anyone else? Anyone at all?"

She shook her head, holding his gaze steadily. "No." "Are you sure?" "I'm positive," she said. "Look, I overheard Jake and Daisy talking. I didn't mean to, but they were being loud. They were...exchanging heated words. It wasn't quite an argument, but it was the closest to it that I've ever heard. Daisy accused Jake of sending you out on a black op. Those are the exact words she said. A black op. I remember because it sounded so spooky and dangerous. Anyway, Daisy wanted to know where you were. It was back when all that trouble was happening in the Middle East, and she was worried about you. She wanted Jake to stop using you for those dangerous covert missions—again, that's pretty much a direct quote—and he told her there was no one he trusted as much as you to get the job done. Besides, he said, you could take care of yourself." Crash was silent. "They both love you an awful lot," Nell told him. He couldn't help himself. He started to pace. "You had a security check run on you before you started working for Daisy," he said, thinking aloud. "No, I don't think so." He shot her a look. "You probably didn't know about it, but you definitely have a FInCOM file with a copy at the NAVINTEL office. Think about it— you're working for Admiral Robinson's significant other. Believe me, you were checked out before you even met her." He took a deep breath. "I'm going to talk to Jake, and what's probably going to happen is we'll run a deeper, more invasive check." He stopped pacing and gazed down at her. "You'll be asked to make a complete list of people that you know. A complete list. Family, friends, lovers. Even casual acquaintances, so that—" Nell laughed in disbelief. "My God, have you caught a whiff of the irony here? It positively reeks. I've been complaining because you never talk about yourself, but now I've got to give you a list of my lovers." She shook her head. "What's wrong with this picture?" "You won't have to give those lists to me. You'll be contacted directly by FInCOM." "But you'll probably see it." She stood up. "You've probably already seen my current file, haven't you?" Crash closed the stepladder, carefully hooking the two sides together. "Should I put this back?" "Leave it out. We'll probably be using it again before the party." He set it against the wall by the kitchen. "How about we get a pizza delivered for dinner?" "You're purposely not answering me." Nell slipped on her jacket and fastened her scarf around her neck. "You do that all the time—don't think I haven't noticed. You change the subject to avoid answering my questions. I hate that, you know." Crash might have sighed. Or maybe Nell only imagined it. God, he gave so little away. She crossed her arms. "Aren't you hungry?" he asked. "I'm hungry." "I'm waiting," she said. "I believe the question was, you've already seen my current FInCOM file, haven't you?" He turned off the overhead lights. In the dimness, the six trees they'd decorated looked spectacular. The colorful lights glistened and the ornaments gleamed. "I'm not looking at the trees. I'm refusing to be distracted." She put her hands up around her eyes, like a horse's blinders. "I'm going to stand here until you answer my question." Crash almost smiled, and for once she knew exactly what he was thinking. How could she even dream of winning this kind of contest of wills with him? The answer to that was simple. She couldn't win. There was absolutely nothing she could do to force him to answer her question. So she answered for him. "Yes," she said. "You've seen it. I know you've seen my file. If you hadn't, you would have said so already. So what's the big deal, right? It's probably full of all kinds of boring details. Grew up in Ohio, just outside of Cleveland, oldest of three kids, attended NYU, graduated with a liberal-arts degree and without a clue. Stumbled into a personal assistant job for a Broadway-musical director who owned a chain of convenience stores on the side, went to work for Daisy Owens several years later. Any of this sound familiar?" He didn't say a word. She hadn't really expected him to. "My personal life's been just as dull. In the past six years, I've dated three different men, all nice, respectable professionals with solid futures. Two proposed marriage. I think they thought they'd be getting some kind of bonus deal— a wife who worked as a personal assistant. I was like some kind of yuppie fantasy woman. Buy me some Victoria's Secret underwear, and I'd be perfect. I turned them both down. The one who didn't want me instantly became the one I wanted, and I pursued him—only to find out he was as boring as the rest of 'em. My mother is convinced I'm a victim of the fairy tales I read as a little girl. She thinks I suffer from 'Someday My Prince Will Come' syndrome, and I think she's probably right, although I'm not sure that's in my file."

Crash finally spoke. "Probably not in so many words. But all FInCOM files include psychological evaluations. Your reasons for remaining unmarried would have been touched on." Nell snorted. "God, I can just see the fink-shrinks sitting around psychoanalyzing me. 'Subject is a complete chicken. Sits around reading books on her days off. Never does anything even remotely interesting, like skiing. Subject is a total loser who is afraid of her own shadow.'" Without looking at him she turned and walked out the door. And then stopped short. It was still snowing. The sky was already dark, and the falling snow swirled around her face, reflecting the light from the lamps that lit the walkway to the house. Nell looked up at the millions of flakes falling dizzily down from the sky. She could hear the softest, slightest hiss as the snow hit the frozen ground. "It's beautiful," she whispered, if there was one thing she'd learned from these past few hellish weeks, it was to stop and take note of the sheer beauty of the world around her. "It's been a while since I've seen snow." She turned to see Crash standing behind her. He'd actually made a somewhat personal comment without her dragging it out of him. And he didn't stop there. "Being cautious doesn't mean you're a loser," he said. Nell looked out at the field that went halfway up the hill back behind the barn before ending at a stone wall on the edge of the woods. It was covered with snow, so pristine and inviting. "I used to like to do all sorts of things that scare me now," she admitted. "When I was little, the sight of that hillside would've sent me running for my sled." She turned to face him. "But now even the thought of doing something like skiing makes me break out in a cold sweat. When did I learn to be so afraid?" "Not everyone was born to like the sensation of wind in their face." "Yeah, but that's where it gets really stupid. There's a part of me that wants that. A part of me is really ticked that I didn't go skiing with Daisy and Jake. There's a part of me that has these incredible fantasies...." One of his eyebrows went up an almost imperceptible fraction of an inch, and Nell hastened to explain. "Fantasies like riding a motorcycle. I've always secretly yearned for an enormous Harley. I've always wanted to come roaring up to some important meeting on a huge bike, with those long, black leather fringes coming out of the ends of the hand grips, wearing one of those helmets with the kind of visor you can't see through. I have this really vivid picture of myself taking off the helmet and shaking out my hair and unstrapping my briefcase from the back and..." She shook her head. "Instead, I drive a compact car and I can't even get up enough nerve to go skiing— and you're standing out here without a jacket on," she interrupted herself. "We should go inside the house and order that pizza." "Large, extra cheese with sausage, peppers and onions," Crash told her. "Unless you don't like sausage, peppers or onions, and then you get to pick what's on it. Go call from the barn while I get my jacket, then meet me out by the garage." The garage? "You want to go pick it up?" "No, have it delivered." "But—" Crash was already gone, disappearing into the shadows as easily as he appeared. "Why by the garage?" she called in the direction he'd vanished. He didn't answer. She hadn't really expected him to. Nell stopped short when she saw Crash holding the Flexible Flyer sled that he'd dug out of the garage. "Oh, no," she said with a laugh. "No, no..." The snow still fell with a whispering hiss around them. It was the perfect evening for sledding. "The snow's supposed to turn to rain before midnight," Crash told her. "It'll probably all melt off by tomorrow." "In other words, now or never, huh?" Crash didn't answer. He just looked at her. The bright red scarf she was wearing accentuated the paleness of her face, and flakes of snow clung to her thick, honey-colored hair. On anyone else the combination of pale skin and not quite blond, not quite brown hair might have been drab, but her eyes were so blue and warm, and her smile was so perfect.... Crash found her impossibly beautiful, and he knew that his attempt to take her sledding was nothing but an excuse to get close to her. He wanted to put his arms around this woman and he was resorting to subterfuge to do it.

"The pizza will be here in about thirty minutes," she told him. "We don't really have time to—" "We have enough time to make at least a couple of runs down the hill." She gestured up behind the barn. "That hill?" "Come on." Crash held out his hand. He was wearing gloves and she had on mittens. It wasn't as if he would really be touching her. But when she took his hand, Crash knew he was dead wrong. It didn't matter. Touching her was touching her. But he couldn't stop now. He didn't want to stop. He pulled her up the hill, dragging the sled behind them. It was slippery, but they finally reached the top. Away from the lights of the house, the snow was even more beautiful as it fell effortlessly from the sky. And the snow that covered the ground seemed to glow in the darkness, reflecting what little light there was. It was just dark enough. In this kind of shadow, Crash didn't have to worry about Nell seeing every little thought—every little desire—that flickered in his eyes. "I'm not sure I can do this." Nell sounded breathless, her voice huskier than usual. "I'm not sure I remember how to do this." "Sit on the sled and steer with your feet." She sat gingerly down on the Flexible Flyer, but then looked up at him. "Aren't you coming, too?" There was room for him—but just barely. They'd have to squeeze tightly together, with Nell positioned between his legs. Crash forced himself not to move toward her. "Do you want me to?" "No way am I doing this without you." She inched forward a little. "Get your butt on this thing, Hawken." "It helps if you start out by aiming the front of the sled down the hill." Nell didn't move. "I thought we might take a more leisurely, zigzag path to the bottom." Crash had to smile. "All right, all right," she grumbled, swinging the front of the sled around. "If you're smiling at me, I must look pretty damn ridiculous. Get on the sled, Mona Lisa, and hold on tight. We're taking this sucker express, all the way to the barn." Nell closed her eyes as Crash lowered himself onto the sled behind her. He had to press himself tightly against her back—there was no way they could both sit on this thing without nearly gluing themselves together. His legs were much longer than hers, and with her boots on the outer part of the steering bar, he didn't have anywhere to put his feet. She turned slightly to find that his face was inches from hers and she froze, trapped by his eyes. It might have been her imagination, or it might only have been a trick of the darkness, but he seemed almost vulnerable, almost uncertain. He smelled impossibly good, like coffee and peppermint. Her gaze dropped to the tight line of his gracefully shaped mouth. What would he do if she kissed him? She didn't have the nerve. "Maybe you should steer." "No. This is your ride. You're in control." In control. God, if he only knew. She was shaking, but she wasn't sure if it was because she was afraid of falling off and breaking her leg or because he was sitting so close. She could feel his warmth against every inch of her back and she was nearly dying from the anticipation of feeling his arms around her. Because that was the only reason she was doing this. She wanted to feel his arms around her. "Let me put my legs under yours," he continued. Nell lifted her legs obediently and he set his boots against the metal bumper. She lowered her legs, resting her thighs on top of his, stretching around the outside for the steering bar. But it was no longer within reach. "Move forward," he ordered. She didn't want to move forward. She liked the sensation of his body against hers too much to want to move away from him. But when she hesitated, he pushed them both up closer to the front of the sled. Her feet reached the bar, and he was still pressed tightly against her. He looped his arms around her, holding her securely. It was heaven. Nell closed her eyes. “Ready?" "God, no! What am / supposed to hold on to?" Her voice was breathy, betraying her. She couldn't reach the siderail—his legs were in the way. "Hold on to me." Nell touched his legs, tentatively sliding her hands down underneath his thighs. He was all muscle, all solid, perfectly male. She wondered if he

could feel her heart hammering through all her layers of clothing. "Ready?" he asked again. She could feel his breath against her neck, just underneath her ear. Nell held him tighter and closed her eyes. "Yeah." "You're in control." His voice was just a whisper. "Get us started by rocking forward a little..." She opened her eyes. "Can't you just give us a push?" "I could, but then you'd only have survived the ride. You wouldn't have taken it, if you know what I mean. Come on. All you have to do is rock us forward." Nell looked down the hill. The barn seemed so far away, and the hill suddenly seemed dreadfully steep. She was having trouble breathing. "I'm not sure I can." "Take your time. I can wait—at least until the pizza-delivery man comes." "If we sit here much longer, we'll be covered with snow." "Are you cold?" he asked. His breath warmed her ear and his arms tightened slightly around her. Cold? Nell couldn't remember her name, let alone a complicated concept like cold. “Maybe we can take this in steps," she said. "You know. Just sit here on the sled for a while. I mean, I made it all the way up the hill, and I actually got on the sled. That's a solid start. I should be really proud of myself. And then maybe by the next time it snows, I'll be ready to—" "This is Virginia," he reminded her. "This may be all the snow we get this year. Come on, Nell. Just rock us forward." Nell stared down the hill. She couldn't do it. She started to get up, but he held her in place. "Blue," he said quietly. "My favorite color is blue. The color of the South China Sea. And I didn't really like the latest Grisham book as much as I liked his other stuff." Nell turned her head and stared at him. "And you're right, I've seen your FInCOM file," he continued. "I helped gather the information that's in it." She knew what he was doing. She knew exactly what he was doing. He was showing her that he, too, could take little risks. Maybe he wasn't afraid to sled down a hill, but talking about himself was an entirely different story. She knew he never, ever willingly volunteered any information about himself. True, he wasn't telling her anything terribly personal, but Nell knew that saying anything at all had to have been incredibly difficult for him. At least as difficult as riding a Flexible Flyer down a relatively gentle hill. If she fell off, she wouldn't break her leg. She'd only bruise her bottom and her pride. This was no big deal. She rocked the sled forward. "I knew you could do it," Crash said softly into her ear as the sled teetered and then went over the edge of the hill. It went slowly at first, nearly groaning under their weight, but then it began to pick up speed. Nell screamed. The runners of the sled swished as the ground sped past, as the falling snow seemed to scatter and swirl around them. Faster and faster they went, until it seemed as if they were almost flying. Nell clung to Crash's legs as they hit a bump and for a moment they did leave the ground, and when they landed, the sled wasn't quite underneath them. She felt rather than heard the giddy laughter that left her throat as they skidded off the sled and slid for a moment on the slippery hillside without it, a tangle of arms and legs, Crash still holding her tightly. She was still laughing as they slowed to a stop, and she realized that Crash was laughing too. "You screamed all the way down the hill," he said. "No, I didn't! God, did I really?" She was half on top of Crash, half sprawled in the snow, and she lay back, relaxing against him as she caught her breath, gazing up at the falling snowflakes. "You sure did. Are you okay?" he asked. "Yeah." In fact, she couldn't remember having been better. His arms were still around her and one of his legs was thrown casually across hers. Yes, she was very much okay. "That almost was...fun." "You want to go again?" Incredulous, Nell turned her head to look at him.

He smiled at her expression. He was an outrageously good-looking man in repose, but when he smiled, even just a little smile like that one, he was off the charts. He got to his feet, holding out his hand for her. She must have been insane or hypnotized because she reached for him, letting him pull her to her feet. He released her and ran, skidding in the snow, to collect the sled, then came back up the hill, catching her by the hand again and pulling her along with him. This time he didn't ask. This time he got on behind her, holding her around the waist with an easy familiarity. Nell couldn't believe she was doing this again. 'This time try to steer around that bump," he said, his breath warm against her ear. Nell nodded. "You're in control," he said. "Oh, God," she said, and rocked the sled forward.

Chapter 5 “I remember when I was a kid," Crash said softly, "Jake showed me how to make angels in the snow." They were lying closer to the bottom of the hill this time, looking up at the snow streaking down toward them. It looked amazing from that perspective. The sensation was kind of like being in the middle of a living computer screen-saver or a Star Wars style outer-space jump to lightspeed. This time they'd skidded off the sled in different directions. This time they weren't touching, and Crash tried rather desperately not to miss Nell's softness and warmth. Nell pushed herself up on one elbow. "Jake? Not Daisy?" "No, it was Jake. It was Daisy's birthday, and Jake and I made snow angels all over the yard and..." He glanced over to find her watching him, her eyes wide. "From what Daisy's said, I've gathered that you spent some of your summer and winter vacations from boarding school with her and Jake," she said softly. Crash hesitated. But this was Nell he was talking to. Nell, who'd trusted him enough to take not one or two but five separate trips down this hill on his old sled. His friend Nell. If they were lovers he wouldn't dare tell her anything, but they were not going to become lovers. "I spent all of my vacations with them," he admitted. "Starting when I was ten—the year my mother died. I was scheduled to go directly from school to summer camp. I didn't even go home in between. My father was away on business and—" He broke off, realizing how pathetic he sounded. "You must've been miserable," she said softly. "I can't imagine having been sent away to boarding school when I was only ten. And you went when you were what? Eight?" Crash shook his head. "It wasn't that bad." "I think it must've been awful." "My mother was dying—it was a lot for my father to deal with. Imagine if Jake and Daisy had an eight-year-old." Nell snorted. "You can bet your ass Jake Robinson wouldn't send his kid away to boarding school. You were deprived of your mother two years before you absolutely had to be. And your poor mother..." "My mother was so loaded on painkillers, the few times I was allowed to see her, she didn't even know me and... I don't want to talk about this." He shook his head, swearing softly. "I don't even want to think about it, but..." "But it's happening all over again, with Daisy," Nell said quietly. "God, this must be twice as hard for you. I know / feel as if I'm stretched to the absolute end of my emotional rope as it is. What are we going to do when the tumor affects her brain to the point that she can't walk?" Crash closed his eyes. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to run, to pack up his things and go. It would only take one phone call, and an hour later he'd be called in on a special assignment, his leave revoked. Twenty-four hours after that, he'd be on the other side of the world. But running away wouldn't really help him. And it wouldn't help Daisy, either. If there'd ever been a time that she needed him—that Jake needed him—it was now. And God knew Daisy and Jake had been there for him. They'd always been there for him. Nell was still watching him, her eyes filled with compassion. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have brought that up." "It's something we're both going to have to deal with." Tears brimmed in her eyes. "I'm terrified that I'm not going to be strong enough." "I know. I'm afraid that—" Crash broke off. "What?" She moved closer, almost close enough to touch him. "Talk to me. I know you're not talking to Jake or Daisy about any of this. You've got to talk to someone." Crash looked toward the house, squinting slightly, his mouth tighter than Nell had ever seen it. When he spoke, his voice was so low, she had to lean closer to hear him. "I'm afraid that when the time comes, when the pain gets too intense, when she can't walk anymore, she's going to ask me to help her die." When he glanced up at her, he didn't bother to hide the anguish in his eyes. "I know she'd never ask Jake to do that." Nell drew in a shaky breath. "Oh, God." "Yeah," he said. Nell couldn't stand it any longer. She put her arms around him, knowing full well that he would probably push her away. But he didn't. Instead, he pulled her close. He held her tightly as, around them, the snow began to thicken and turn to freezing rain.

"I remember the day she came to get me from summer camp like it was yesterday," he said softly, his face buried in her hair, his breath warm against her neck. "I'd only been there two days when I got a message from the head counselor that Daisy was coming to see me." He lifted his face, resting his cheek against the top of her head. "She hit the place like a hurricane. I swear she came up the path to the camp office like Joan of Arc marching into battle. She was wearing a long skirt that just kind of flowed around her when she walked and about twenty bangles on her arm and a big beaded necklace. Her hair was down—it was long back then, it went down past her waist, and she was carrying her sandals. Her feet were bare and I remember there was bright red polish on her toenails." He was talking about the year he was ten, Nell realized. The year his mother had died and his father had sent him directly to summer camp from boarding school. "I was waiting for her on the porch of the office, and she stopped and gave me a big hug and she asked me if I liked it there. I didn't, but I told her what my father had told me—that there was no place else for me to go. I didn't really know her that well—she was my mother's cousin and they hadn't been particularly close. But she stood there, and she asked me if I would like to spend the summer out in California with her and Jake. I didn't know what to say and she told me that I didn't have to go with her if I didn't want to, but..." he cleared his throat, "that she and Jake very much wanted me to come stay with them." Nell could hear his heart beating as he was silent for a moment. "I guess I didn't really believe her, because I didn't go to my cabin to pack when she went into the office. I stayed on the porch, and I heard her talking to the administrator. Without my father's permission, he refused to let me leave. Daisy called my father—he was in Paris—right from the camp office, but she couldn't get through. He was in negotiations. He wasn't taking any calls until after the weekend. No one would interrupt him. He was...pretty formidable. "So Daisy came back outside and she gave me another hug and told me she'd be back tomorrow at dinnertime. She said, 'When I get here, be packed and ready to go.'" He was quiet again for a moment. "I remember feeling disappointed when she left without me. It was a strange feeling because I'd gone so long without any expectations at all. And that night I actually packed my stuff. I felt really stupid doing it, because I really couldn't believe she was going to come back. But something made me do it. I guess—even though most of it had been shaken out of me by then—I still had some hope left. I wanted her to come back so much I could barely breathe." It was raining harder now, but Nell was afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe herself for fear she would break the quiet intimacy and he would stop talking. But he was silent for so long, she finally lifted her head and looked at him. "Was she able to get in touch with your father?" "She couldn't get anyone to interrupt his meetings, so she flew to Paris." Crash laughed ruefully, his mouth curving up into a half smile. "She just walked in on him with a letter for him to sign, giving her permission to take me out of the camp. I remember doing the math, adding up the hours, and realizing that she must have been traveling continuously from the time she left the camp to make it to Paris and back in a single day. "It was so amazing to me," he continued quietly. “The fact that someone actually wanted me that badly. And Daisy really did. Both she and Jake actually wanted me around. I think about all the time Jake spent with me, that summer in particular, and it still amazes me. They really wanted me. I wasn't in the way." Nell couldn't keep the tears that were filling her eyes from overflowing and mixing with the rain that was falling. Crash gently touched her cheek with one knuckle. "Hey, I didn't mean to make you cry." She pulled away from him slightly, using her hands to wipe her face. "I'm not crying," she insisted. "I never cry. I'm not a crier, I swear it. I just... I'm so glad you told me." "I would do anything for Daisy and Jake," Crash said simply. "Anything." He paused. "Watching Daisy die is hard enough, though. If I have to help her to..." He shook his head. "It's raining—and our pizza's here." It was. The delivery truck was pulling into the driveway. Nell stood up and followed Crash the rest of the way down the hill. She put the Flexible Flyer back inside the garage as he paid for the pizza. Unfortunately, her appetite was completely gone. "Today we're doing what?" "Learning to tap-dance," Daisy said, taking a sip of her orange juice. Nell glanced up. The look on Crash's face was nearly as good as the look on Jake's. "I don't think SEALs are allowed to tap-dance," Crash said. Daisy set down her glass. "The instructor should be here in about an hour. I told her to meet us in the barn." "She's kidding," Jake said. He looked at Daisy. “You are kidding?"

She just smiled. Nell drained the last of her coffee and set the mug on the breakfast table with a thump. "I already know how to tap-dance," she announced. "And since I have four million phone calls to make, I'm going to excuse myself from this morning's activity." Crash actually laughed out loud. "Oh, not a chance," he said. "You know how to tap-dance?" Daisy was intrigued. "How come you never told me that?" "Oh, come on, Daisy, she's bluffing," Crash said. "Look at her." "I never mentioned it because it's not something that usually comes up in normal conversation," Nell said. "I don't go around introducing myself to people and saying, 'Hi, I'm Nell Burns—oh, by the way, I know how to tap-dance.'" "I don't buy it." Crash shook his head. "No way. She's just trying to get out of this." He was teasing. There was a light in his eyes that told Nell he was teasing. Ever since the evening they went sledding, the evening he'd actually talked about himself, their relationship had continued to grow. But only in one direction. They only continued to be friends. It was driving her nuts. "You just think because you're helping FInCOM do an advanced security check, you know everything there is to know about me," Nell countered. "I'm glad you don't believe me. This proves that I'm still capable of having secrets. God knows everyone needs at least one little secret— even if it's only that they know how to tap-dance." The truth was, Nell had more than one secret. And one of those secrets she was keeping was enormous. She was falling for Crash. With every moment that passed, she was falling harder for this man who was determined to be no more than her friend. She glanced at Daisy, who was watching her with a smile. Strike that. The way Nell felt about Crash was apparently quite obvious to some people in the room. "I believe you," Jake told her. "But there's only one way you're going to convince Lieutenant Skeptic here. You're going to have to tap dance for him." "That's right." Crash gestured toward the spacious kitchen floor. "Come on, Burns. Knock yourself out." "Right here? In the kitchen?" "Sure." He leaned back in his chair, waiting. Nell shook her head. "I...don't have tap shoes." "I bought us each a pair," Daisy said helpfully. "They're out in the barn." Nell stared. “You bought four pairs of—" Crash stood up. "Let's go." "Now?" He started for the door. "Jake was right. The only way I'll let you get out of the required beginners' class is if you walk your talk, so to speak." Nell rolled her eyes at Daisy, then followed Crash out to the barn. She shivered as he unlocked the door. He glanced at her. "Where's your jacket?" "You didn't take yours." "I usually don't need one." "You usually work in the jungles of Southeast Asia where the average December temperature is a steamy eighty degrees." "You aren't supposed to know that." He held the door open for her and then closed it behind them. "It's cold in here, too. I'll turn up the heat." "Don't. It's not good for the trees to be really warm until they absolutely have to be," Nell explained. "If we keep 'em inside at seventy-two degrees for a week, and then put them outside when it's in the twenties...it blows their minds." "They're trees," Crash pointed out dryly. "They don't have minds." "That's not what my mother thinks. She talks to all her plants. And I think it works. My parents' entire house is like a botany experiment gone wild." "I hate to break it to you, Burns, but that says more for the power of CO2 than anything else." "Yeah, yeah," Nell said. "Be that way." The morning was gray and she turned on the overhead lights.

Four shoe boxes were neatly stacked underneath one of the Christmas trees that she and Crash had decorated. Tap shoes. Two pairs of men's shoes, and two pairs of women's. They were all black leather, and the women's had a sturdy two-inch heel. Somehow Daisy had known Nell's exact shoe size. She sat on the floor and pulled off her boots. "It's been a while," she said, looking up at Crash as she strapped on the shoes. "I learned to tap back when I was in high school. I was a theater-major wanna-be—you know, in the chorus of all the school musicals, never good enough to get a lead role. I was an okay dancer, but not talented enough to get into a performing-arts program at any college. At least not any college / wanted to go to." She stood up. Trust Daisy to spend the money on quality shoes that fit comfortably. Nell caught sight of herself in the wall of mirrors. Dressed in jeans and a turtleneck, she felt odd in fancy black heels. She felt odder still about Crash, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting to watch her dance. She knew he wouldn't laugh at her—at least not out loud. She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You know, I really shouldn't have to do this," she said. "We're friends. You should believe me. You should take on faith what I've told you is true." He nodded. "Okay. I believe you. Dance." "No, what you should say is that you believe me, and because you believe me you don't have to see me dance." "But I want to see you dance." "All right, but I'm warning you. It's been years, and even back when I was taking lessons I wasn't very good." Crash turned toward the windows. "What's that?" "What?" He straightened up, pushing himself off the wall. "A siren." "I don't hear..." She heard it then. In the distance, moving closer. Nell went toward the door, but Crash was even faster. He pulled it open and went outside at a run. Her tap shoes clattered on the macadam as she followed. Somehow the kitchen door had gotten locked, and they raced around to the front of the house, arriving just as an ambulance bounced over the speed bump and up into the main part of the driveway. God, what had happened? It hadn't been more than fifteen minutes since they'd left Daisy and Jake in the kitchen. "Jake!" Crash burst into the house. "In the studio," the admiral bellowed back. Nell held the door for the paramedics. "Down the hall on the left," she instructed them, standing back to let them go first. They were moving fast and she raced after them. Please God... Nell stopped in the studio doorway as the three paramedics crowded around Daisy. She was on the floor, as if she'd fallen, with Jake beside her, and Crash crouched beside him. Nell hung back, suddenly aware that she was not a member of the family. "She blacked out," Jake was telling the paramedics. "It's happened before, but not like this. This time I couldn't rouse her." His voice broke. "At first I thought..." "I'm okay," Nell heard Daisy murmur. "I'm all right, baby. I'm still here." Nell shivered, holding on to herself tightly. She knew what Jake had thought. Jake had thought that Daisy had slipped into a coma. Or worse. The paramedics were deep in discussion with both Jake and Daisy. They wanted to take Daisy to the hospital, to run some tests. "Nell." She looked up to find Crash gazing at her. He'd straightened up and now held out his hand to her—a silent invitation to come stand beside him. She took both his invitation and his hand, lacing their fingers tightly together. "Your hand is cold," he whispered. "I think my heart stopped beating for a minute." "She's okay, you know," he told her. "For now." She felt her eyes fill with tears.

Crash nodded. "Now is all we've got. It stinks, but it's better than the alternative, which is not to have now." Nell closed her eyes, willing her tears away. To her surprise, he touched her, gently pulling a strand of her hair free from where it had caught on her eyelashes, pushing it back, dragging his fingers lightly through her hair. "But remember that line of thinking doesn't apply to every situation," he said quietly. "Sometimes taking advantage of now doesn't do anyone any good." He was talking about...them? Was it possible...? Nell looked up at him, but he'd let go of her hand, all of his attention on Jake, who was pushing himself to his feet. As she watched, Jake backed away to let the paramedics put Daisy on a stretcher. "She didn't agree to go in for tests, did she?" Crash asked incredulously. Jake gave him a you've-got-to-be-kidding look. "No chance. She's only letting them help her into the bedroom. She's still feeling kind of dizzy." He forced himself to smile as Daisy was carried past. "I'll be in in a sec, babe," he told her before turning back to Nell. "I know this is asking a lot, but... What are the chances of moving the wedding up a few days?" Nell glanced from Jake to Crash then back. "How many days?" "As many as possible. To tomorrow, if you can swing it." Tomorrow. Oh, God. "I'm afraid..." Jake cleared his throat and started again. "I'm afraid we're running out of time." She would have to call the pastor, see if he could change his schedule. And the caterer was going to have a cow. It wasn't a weekend, so the band might be open to switching the dates. But—the guests! She'd have to call them individually. That meant close to two hundred phone calls. But first she'd have to find all those phone numbers and... Crash touched her shoulder. When she looked up at him, he nodded, as if he could read her mind. "I'll help." Nell took a deep breath and turned back to Jake. "Consider it done."

Chapter 6 As far as weddings went, this one had been perfect. Or rather, it would have been perfect, had the bride not been dying. Crash closed his eyes. He didn't want to go there. All day long, he'd avoided that dark place. The barn sparkled and glistened with the decorations he'd helped Nell hang. It rang with laughter and music. It glowed with warmth and light. The band was great, the food was first-rate, the guests were bemused by the bride and groom's sudden change of plans—because none of them knew the truth. And amidst all the sparkle and joy, Crash could almost pretend that he was just as ignorant. The champagne he'd had hadn't hurt much, either. The crowd was really thinning out as it approached eleven o'clock. Crash watched Nell from across the room as she spun around the dance floor in the arms of a man he'd met just that evening. He blanked on the name. Tall, dark and distinguished-looking, whoever he was had just been elected to the U.S. Senate. Mike something. From California. Garvin. That was it. Senator Mark Garvin. Garvin said something to Nell and she laughed. Crash was certain that Garvin—along with the other 299 wedding guests—couldn't tell that Nell hadn't had more than two hours of sleep in the past forty-eight. The only reason he knew that she hadn't slept much was because in the past two days he hadn't had time to catch more than a short combat nap himself. Of course, he was used to going without sleep. He was trained to be able to stay alert and functioning under severe conditions. Nell was running on adrenaline and sheer grit. "She's great, isn't she?" Crash looked up to see Dexter Lancaster standing beside him, following his gaze. He was talking about Nell. "Yeah," Crash agreed. "She's great." "I figured you out, you know." Lancaster took a sip of his drink. "I've danced with Nell four times tonight. Garvin over there has danced with her twice. A collection of other gentlemen have taken her around the floor this evening as well. But you, my friend, have not danced with her at all." "I don't dance." Lancaster smiled and his blue eyes twinkled warmly. "She doesn't have a clue that you're hung up on her, does she?" Crash met the man's gaze steadily. "She's my friend," he said quietly. "I happen to know that she's emotionally vulnerable right now. She doesn't need me—or anyone else—taking advantage of her." The lawyer nodded, setting his empty glass down on a nearby table. "Fair enough. I'll wait to call her until spring or early summer." Crash gritted his teeth and forced himself to nod. By spring or early summer, unless there was some kind of miracle and Daisy went into remission, he'd be on the other side of the world. "Fair enough." "Say good-night to her for me," Lancaster said. Across the room Mark Garvin gallantly kissed the back of Nell's hand before releasing her. What was it about Nell that attracted older men like flies to honey? Garvin was Jake's age—maybe even older. He was a walking ad for Grecian Formula. Nell seemed unaffected by the blazing-white flash of Garvin's perfectly capped teeth as she turned and approached a group of women who were putting on their coats. She looked incredible. She was wearing a long gown, befitting the black tie formality of the evening wedding. It was long-sleeved, with something Crash had heard Daisy describe as a sweetheart neckline that dipped elegantly down between her breasts. It was a rich shade of emerald, which—Daisy claimed— was Nell's duty to wear as maid of honor, because it accentuated the bride's green eyes. The gown was made of some kind of stretchy velvet material that clung to Nell's slender figure, and drew Crash's attention—along with Garvin's and Lancaster's apparently—away from the bride's eyes. As Crash watched, Nell laughed at something one of the women said. And as she laughed, she looked up and directly over at him. He was in trouble. He knew that everything he'd tried for so long to hide from her was written clearly on his face. He knew everything he was feeling, all of his longing and desire, was burning in his eyes. But he couldn't look away.

Nell's smile slowly faded as she stared across the room at him, trapped by his gaze, just as he was by hers. He could see the hint of a blush rising in her cheeks. Any second now, she would look away. Crash knew it. Any second, she'd turn and... She didn't turn. She walked toward him. She came right across the dance floor. Yes, he was in trouble here. He knew he was in big trouble. But he still couldn't bring himself to look away. "I owe you a dance." Bad idea. If he took her in his arms, if he touched the soft velvet of her dress, felt it warmed by the heat of her body beneath... "I know it's not the same as tap-dancing," Nell said, "but for now it'll have to do." She took his hand and led him onto the dance floor. And just like that, he was holding her. He wasn't sure exactly what she'd done, but he knew it wasn't entirely her doing that had put her in his embrace. He'd surely done something stupid, like hold open his arms. And now that she was there, now that they were dancing, his instinct was confirmed. This was a very bad idea. He'd had way too much to drink to be doing this. "I'm not a very good dancer." "You're doing fine." The fingers of her right hand were looped gently around his thumb, and her left hand was resting comfortably on his shoulder. He was holding her loosely, his hand against the small of her back, against the warm softness of her dress. Her legs brushed against his as they moved slowly in time to the music. She smelled de-liciously sweet. Her face was tilted up, her mouth close enough to kiss. "How are you holding up?" she asked, looking up into his eyes. He was dying. "I'm hanging in," he said. She nodded. "I noticed you broke your no-drinking-unless-you-have-to rule tonight." Crash gazed down into the calming blue of her eyes. "No, I didn't. Tonight, I had to." " ‘Til death do us part,'" Nell said quietly. "That was what really got to me." "Yeah." Crash nodded. He desperately didn't want to talk about that. "Do you think if I kissed you tonight, we could both pretend it never happened tomorrow?" Her eyes widened. "I didn't really mean that," he said quickly. "I was only trying to change the subject to an allegedly less emotional topic. It was a bad attempt at an even worse joke." She wasn't laughing. "You know, Hawken—" "I don't want to go there, Nell. I shouldn't have said that. Look, I don't know what I'm doing here, dancing with you like this. I'm a lousy dancer, anyway." He forced himself to let go of her, to step back, away. Distance. Separation. Space. Please God, don't let him kiss her.... He turned to walk away. It was the best possible thing he could do for her. He knew that. He believed it with all of his heart. But she put her hand on his arm, and he hesitated. He who hesitates is lost.... He turned and looked into her eyes, and indeed, he was lost. "This whole night's been like some kind of fairy tale," Nell whispered. "Like some kind of fantasy. If I close my eyes, I can pretend that Daisy's going to be all right. Give me a break, will you, and let me have my dance with Prince Charming. My world's going to turn back into a rotten pumpkin soon enough." "You've got it wrong," he said harshly. "I'm no prince." "I never said you were. Not really. This is just a fantasy, remember? I just want to hold someone close—and pretend." Somehow she was back in his arms again, and he was holding her even closer this time. He could feel the entire length of her, pressed against the entire length of him. Her hand was no longer on his shoulder but instead was wrapped around his neck, her fingers entwined in the hair at the nape of his neck. It felt impossibly good. He was no longer dying. He had died—and gone to heaven. "You know what's really stupid?" she whispered. He was. He was impossibly stupid and certifiably insane. He should've walked away. He should do it now. He should just turn and walk out of the barn and stand for several long minutes in the bracing cold. And then he should walk into the house, up the stairs and into his bedroom, and lock himself in until his sanity returned with the rising sun.

Instead he bent his head to brush his cheek and nose against the fragrant softness of Nell's hair. Instead, he let his fingers explore the velvetcovered warmth of her back. Please God, he absolutely couldn't let himself kiss her. Not even once. He knew one taste would never be enough. "It's really stupid, but even after all these weeks, I never know what to call you," she murmured. He could feel her breath, warm against his skin, her lips a whisper away from his throat. Her words didn't seem to make any sense. Not that any of this made any sense at all. "I don't know what you mean." His voice was hoarse. She felt so good pressed against him, her breasts full against his chest, the softness of her stomach, the tautness of her thighs... She lifted her head to look up at him. "I don't know what name to use when I talk to you," she explained. “Crash seems so...well, strange." He was hypnotized by her eyes, drugged by the scent of her perfume, held in thrall by the beautiful curves of her lips. "I mean, what am I supposed to say? 'Hi, Crash. How are you, Crash?' It sounds like I'm talking to one of the X-Men. 'Excuse me, Crash, would you and your buddy Cyclops mind carrying this tray into Daisy's office?'" She shook her head. "On the other hand, I find it nearly impossible to call you Billy, the way Jake and Daisy do. Calling you Billy is kind of like calling a Bengal tiger Fluffy. I guess there's always Bill, but you don't seem very much like a Bill." She narrowed her eyes, still gazing up at him. "Maybe William..." Crash still didn't walk away. "No, thanks. My father always called me William." "Ew. Forget that." "I guess you could always call me 'The SEAL Operative Formerly Known as Billy.'" She laughed. "And I suppose I'd have to call you 'The SEAL Operative' for short." "It works for me." Nell's eyes sparkled. "God, if that's my choice, I'm going to have to rethink this 'Crash' thing. Maybe after a decade or two, I'll get used to it." Crash didn't kiss her. For one instant, he thought he'd totally lost control and was going to do it. He'd even lowered his head, but somehow he'd stopped himself. He felt sweat bead on his upper lip, felt a trickle slide down past his ear. For someone who had a reputation of always keeping cool, he was losing his, fast. Nell didn't seem to notice. "What's the latest word on my security check?" "So far, so good. After this is over, you'll be able to get a job working at FInCOM Headquarters, if you want." As soon as he said the words, he realized how awful they sounded. "I meant, after the security check is over," he amended. "I didn't mean..." But the sparkle had already left her eyes. "I know," she said quietly. "I'm just... I'm not letting myself think that far into the future. I know it's coming, but..." She shook her head. "Damn. And we were doing so well." The song had ended. Crash gently stepped away from her and led her off the dance floor. "I'm sorry." "It's not your fault. I'm just...so tired." Nell laughed softly. "God, am I tired." He put his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching for her again. "Is there anything else you need to do tonight? I could handle it for you." "No, I'm mostly done. Jake slipped the band God knows how much extra to play another hour, even though most of the guests have gone home. The caterer packed up hours ago. The only thing I have to remember is to turn the heat down in the barn so the trees don't bake all night long." "I can take care of that," Crash told her. "Why don't you go to bed? Come on, I'll walk you back to the house." She didn't protest, and he knew she was more exhausted than she'd admitted. Jake and Daisy were still on the dance floor, wrapped in each other's arms, oblivious to anyone else. Crash opened the door, holding it for Nell, then followed her out into the crisp coldness of the December night. She didn't have a jacket and he quickly slipped off his tuxedo coat and put it around her shoulders. "Thanks." Even as tired as she was, her smile made his stomach do flips. He had to get her inside, and then he had to get himself away from her. He'd walk her to the kitchen, no further. He'd unlock the door, and he'd close it behind her. But the stars were brilliant, Orion's belt glittering like jewels against the black-velvet backdrop of the night sky. Nell was looking up at them, standing completely still, not hurrying toward the kitchen door. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" What could he possibly say? "Yeah." "Now might be a really great time for you to kiss me." She glanced at him, and in the darkness, her eyes seemed colorless and unearthly. "Just as a

tonight kind of thing, like you said, you know? The grand finale to the perfect fantasy evening." Crash's lips were dry, and he moistened them. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea." Christ, what was he saying? He wasn't sure? He was certain that kissing her was a very, very bad idea. Nell looked back up at the sky. "Yeah, I thought you might think that. It's all right. It's been a nice fantasy anyway." God, he wanted to kiss her. And he also wanted her to go inside so he wouldn't be faced with such an incredibly hellish temptation. She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush as she turned again to look at him. "Tell me, ‘The SEAL Operative Formerly Known as Billy,' do you believe in God?" Her blunt question caught him even more off guard than her talk about kissing, but fortunately her somewhat unorthodox delivery gave him time to recover. "You're not really going to call me that, are you?" She smiled. His stomach flipped again. "Do you?" she asked. "Are you?" he countered. "Yes. But if you want, I'll call you Billy for short. But you better believe I'll be thinking the whole thing." Another smile. This time his entire heart did a somersault. Crash nodded. "Yes." "Yes, you want me to call you Billy for short, or yes, you believe in God?" "Yes for Billy, and... Yes, I believe in something that could probably be called God." He smiled ruefully. "I've never admitted that to anyone before. Of course, no one's ever dared to ask me that question. I think they've all assumed I'm soulless—considering the kind of work I sometimes do." "What kind of work do you sometimes do?" Crash shook his head. "I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to, but believe me, I don't want to—and you don't want to know." "But I do." He stood there for a moment, just looking at her. "I really, really do," she said. "There are certain...covert ops," he said slowly, carefully choosing his words, "in which a team might target— and eliminate—known confessed terrorists. The key word there is confessed. The kind of scumbags who take out an entire 747 of innocent civilians, then take credit—boast about it." Nell's eyes were wide. "Eliminate...?" He held her gaze steadily. "Still want me to kiss you?" "Are you telling me that Jake asks you to—" Crash shook his head. "No, I'm telling you nothing. I've already said way too much. Come on. It's cold out here. Let's get you inside before you catch the flu." She stepped directly in front of him. "Yes," she said. "I still want you to kiss me." Crash had to pull up short to keep from knocking her over. "No, you don't. I promise you, you don't." She just laughed. And she went up on her toes, and she brushed her lips across his, and Crash's world went into slow motion. One heartbeat. He couldn't move. He knew that the smart thing to do would be to go for the kitchen door. He knew he should get it unlocked, push this woman inside, then lock it tightly again, with him on the outside. Instead he stood there, holding his breath, waiting to see if she'd do it again. Two heartbeats. Three. Four. And then she did kiss him once more, slowly this time. She stared into his eyes as she stood on her toes again, her gaze finally flickering down to his mouth and back, before she touched her lips to his again—her lips, and the very tip of her tongue. She tasted him, softly, lightly, and the last of his control shattered.

He pulled her close and kissed her, really kissed her, lowering his head and claiming her lips, sweeping his tongue deeply inside of her sweet mouth, his heart pounding crazily. Crash felt her fingers in his hair as she kissed him back just as fiercely, just as hungrily. She pressed herself against him even as he tried to pull her closer and he knew without a doubt that she wanted far more than a kiss. All he had to do was ask, and he knew he could spend the night in her bed. She was a sure thing. He could sate himself, with Nell as a willing participant. He could bury himself inside her. He could lose himself completely in her sweetness. And tomorrow, she would wake him up with a kiss, her hair tangled charmingly around her pretty face, her eyes sleepy and smiling and... And the light and laughter would fade from her eyes as he quietly tried to explain why he couldn't become a permanent fixture there in her bed. Not couldn't—didn't want to. He didn't really want her. He'd just wanted someone, and she'd been there, willing and ready and... And he knew he couldn't do that to Nell. Crash found the strength to push her gently away. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath her dress, her eyelids heavy with passion. Dear God, what was he doing? What was he giving up? "I'm sorry," he said. He'd been saying that far too often lately. Realization dawned in her eyes. Realization and shocked embarrassment. "Oh, God, I'm sorry," she countered. "I didn't mean to attack you." "You didn't," he said quickly. "That was me. That was my fault." Nell stepped even farther back, away from him. "It was just, um, part of tonight's fantasy, right?" She was searching his eyes, and Crash knew that she was more than half hoping he'd deny her words. But instead, he nodded. "Yeah," he said. "That's all it was. We're both tired, and...that's all it was." Nell hugged his jacket more tightly around her, as if she'd suddenly felt the cold. "I better get inside." Crash went up the stairs and unlocked the kitchen door, holding it open. She slipped out of his jacket, handing it back to him. "Good night," he said. To his surprise, she reached out and touched the side of his face. "Too bad," she said softly. And then she was gone. Crash locked the door behind her. “Yeah,” he said. "Too bad." Out in the barn, the band was finally packing up. But as Crash watched from the shadows beyond the doorway, Jake and Daisy still danced to music only they could hear. Admiral and Mrs. Jacob Robinson. The evening had been one of laughter and celebration. Jake had accepted the congratulations of friends and colleagues. He'd smiled through the toasts that wished the two of them long life and decades more of happiness. He'd laughed as friends had joked, trying to guess exactly how he'd finally convinced his long-time lover to willingly accept the chains of matrimony. Jake had finally gotten what he'd always wanted, but Crash knew he would trade it all for a miracle cure. As Crash watched them dance, Jake wiped his eyes, careful to keep Daisy from seeing that he was crying. Jake was crying. All evening long, Crash had fought to keep the constant awareness of Daisy's mortality at bay. But now death's shadow was back. Crash waited until the band had left, until Jake and Daisy slowly made their way out to the house. He turned down the heat and locked the barn door, then went to his room. Nell's door was closed, and as he passed it, it stayed tightly shut. He was glad for that. Glad she was asleep, glad she hadn't been waiting for him. He didn't think he would have had the strength to turn her down again. He hesitated outside his own bedroom door, looking back down the hall toward Nell's room. Yes, he was glad. But he was also achingly disappointed.

Chapter 7 Nell sat numbly on her bed, next to her suitcase. She was aware that she was going to have to stand up and walk over to her dresser if she wanted to transfer her socks and underwear from the drawer into that suitcase. It couldn't have happened so quickly, it didn't seem possible. But yet it had. Two days after the wedding, Daisy had had another of her fainting spells. It had taken even longer for her to be roused, and when she was conscious, she'd found that she could no longer walk unassisted. The doctor had come out to the house, leaving behind a final, chilling prognosis—the end was near. Yet Daisy and Jake had continued to celebrate their new-lywed status. They'd sipped champagne while watching the sunset from Daisy's studio. Jake had carried Daisy wherever she wished to go, and when he grieved, he did it out of her sight. And then, three days after Christmas, Daisy and Jake went to sleep in their master-bedroom suite, and only Jake had awakened. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, in the beat of a heart, Daisy was gone. The evening before, they'd all been together in the kitchen. Nell had been making a cup of tea, and Jake, with Daisy in his arms, had stopped in to say good-night. Crash had come in from outside, wearing running clothes and a reflective vest. Even though Nell had offered to make him some tea as well, he'd gone upstairs shortly after Daisy and Jake. Ever since the night of the wedding, he'd been careful not to spend any time alone with her. But he'd come into her room the next morning, to wake her up and tell her that Daisy had died, peacefully, painlessly, in her sleep. That day and the next had passed in a blur. Jake grieved openly, as did Nell. But if Crash had cried at all, he'd done it in the privacy of his own room. The wake had been filled with many of the same people who'd come to the wedding barely a week before. Senators. Congressmen. Naval Officers. Washington's elite. Four different people had given Nell their card, knowing that she had not only lost a friend but was suddenly out of work. It was a gesture of kindness and goodwill, Nell tried to tell herself. But still, she couldn't shake the image of herself in the middle of a feeding frenzy. Good personal assistants were hard to find, and here she was, suddenly available. Senator Mark Garvin had talked for ten minutes about how his fiancee was seeking a personal assistant. With their wedding only a few months away, she was hard-pressed to keep her social schedule organized. Nell had stood there uncomfortably until Dex Lancaster had come to her rescue and pulled her away. Still, despite that, the wake had been lovely. As at the wedding, laughter resounded as everyone told of their own special memories of Daisy Owen Robinson. The funeral, too, had been a joyous celebration of a life well lived. Daisy definitely would have approved. But through it all, Crash had been silent. He'd listened, but he hadn't responded. He didn't tell a story of his own, he didn't laugh, he didn't cry. Several times, Nell had been tempted to approach him and take his pulse, just to verify that he was, indeed, alive. He'd distanced himself so completely from all of the grief and turmoil around him. She didn't doubt for a minute that he'd distanced himself from everything he was feeling inside as well. That was bad. That was really bad. Did he honestly expect to keep everything he was feeling locked within him forever? Nell stood up, took her socks from the drawer and tossed them into her suitcase. Just as quickly as Daisy had died, other changes were happening, too. She was leaving in the morning. Her job here was finished. As much as she wanted to stay, she couldn't help but hope that once he was alone with Jake, Crash would be able to come to terms with his grief. Her favorite pair of socks had rolled out of the suitcase, and as Nell picked them up off the floor, she noticed the heels were starting to wear through. The sight made her cry. For someone who never, ever used to cry, nearly everything made her burst into tears these days. She lay back on her bed, holding the rolled-up ball of socks to her chest, staring at the familiar cracks in the ceiling, letting her tears run down into her ears. She'd loved it here at the farm. She'd loved working here, and she'd loved living here. She'd loved Daisy and Jake, and she loved... Nell sat up, wiping her face with the back of her hand. No. She definitely didn't love Crash Hawken. Even she wouldn't do something as foolish as fall in love with a man like him. She put the socks in her suitcase and went back to the dresser for her underwear.

Sure, she loved Crash, but only in a non-romantic way— only the way she'd loved Daisy, the way she loved Jake. They were friends. Yeah, right. She sat down on her bed again. Who was she trying to kid? She wanted to be friends with Crash about as much as she wanted to sign on to be personal assistant to oily California Senator Mark Garvin's pampered debutante fiancee. In a single word—not. What she wanted was to be Crash Hawken's lover. She wanted him to kiss her again, the way he'd kissed her on the night of the wedding. She wanted to feel his hands against her back, pulling her close. She wanted to tear off her clothes and share with him the hottest, most powerful sexual experience of her entire life. But those feelings weren't necessarily based on love. They were the result of attraction. Lust. Desire. There was a knock on her door, and Nell nearly fell off her bed. Heart pounding, she went to open it. But it was Jake, not Crash. He looked exhausted, his eyes rimmed with red. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be sleeping downstairs again tonight." Nell had to clear her disappointment out of her throat before she could speak. "Okay." Had she honestly thought that it might be Crash knocking on her door? What was she thinking? In the entire month that they'd slept under the same roof, with the sole exception of the night of Jake and Daisy's wedding, Crash had never made a move on her. He'd never done anything at all that even remotely suggested that he was interested in anything but her friendship. So why on earth had she thought he would knock on her door now? "What time are you leaving tomorrow?" Jake asked. She was going home to Ohio for a week or two. "First thing in the morning. Before seven. I want to try to miss the rush-hour traffic." He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out an envelope. "I better give this to you now, then. I want to sleep as long as I can in the morning." His mouth twisted into an approximation of a smile. "Like, until April." He handed her the envelope. "Severance pay. Or a bonus. Call it whatever you like. Just take it." Nell tried to give it back. "I don't want this, Jake. It's bad enough that Daisy left me all that money in her will." Somehow Jake managed a more natural smile. "Yeah, well, she really wanted to give you Crash. She was sorry that didn't work out." Nell felt herself blush. "It didn't not work out," she said. "It just... There was nothing there. No spark." Jake snorted. "You really don't think Daisy and I didn't notice the two of you staring when you didn't think the other was looking? Yeah, right, there were no sparks-there were nuclear-powered fireworks." She shook her head. "I don't know what you think you saw." She lowered her voice. "I did everything but throw myself at him. I'm telling you, he's not interested in me that way." "What he is is scared to death of you." Jake pulled her in close for a quick hug. "You know I'll never be able to thank you enough for all you did, but right now I have to go lie down and become unconscious. Or least attempt it." "Admiral, are you sure you want to be alone? I could get Billy, and we could all have something to eat and—" "I've got to get used to it, you know? Being alone." "Maybe tonight's not the night to start." "I just want to sleep. The doctor gave me something mild to help me relax. I'm not proud—if I need to, I'll take it." Jake gave her a gentle noogie on the top of her head. "Just give me a call when you get to your mom and dad's so that I know you made it to Ohio safely." "I will," Nell promised. "Good night, sir." She was still holding the envelope he'd given her. "And thank you." Jake was already gone. She turned and looked at Crash's door. It was tightly shut, the way it always was when he was inside his bedroom. What he is is scared to death of you. What if Jake was right? What if the attraction Nell felt for Crash really was mutual? If she didn't do something now, if she didn't walk over to that tightly shut door and knock on it, if she didn't get up the courage to look Crash in the eye and tell him exactly how she felt, she could very well lose the opportunity of a lifetime—a chance to start a very real relationship with a man who excited her on every level. Emotionally, physically, intellectually, spiritually—there was no doubt about it, William Hawken turned her on. When she woke up in the morning, he'd probably already be downstairs, coming back inside from his morning run. She would load up her car, then shake his hand and that would be it. She would drive away, and probably never see him again. She stood a chance at making a royal fool of herself, but if she wasn't going to see him ever again, what did that matter?

As she stood there, gazing at Crash's closed door, she could almost hear Daisy whispering in her ear, "Go for it." Nell tossed the envelope Jake had given her into her suitcase and, straightening her shoulders, she went back into the hall, heading for Crash's room. Crash sat in the dark, fighting his anger. He'd sat through the funeral as if he were watching it from a distance. It didn't seem possible that Daisy was dead. Part of him kept looking around for her, waiting for her to show up, listening for her familiar laughter, watching for her brilliant smile. He didn't know how Jake could possibly stand it. But for the past two days, Jake had accepted condolences with a graciousness and quiet dignity that Crash couldn't imagine pulling off. The anger Crash felt was something he could manage. He was good at controlling his anger. He was practiced in distancing himself from it. But the grief and the pain he was feeling—they were threatening to overpower him. He'd found he could stomp down the grief, controlling it with his stronger feelings of anger. But after two solid days, the anger was getting harder and harder to control. And so he sat in the dark with his hands shaking and his teeth clenched, and he silently let himself rage. Nell was leaving in the morning. The thought made him even angrier, the feeling washing over him in great, thick waves. He heard a sound in the hallway. It was Jake, knocking on Nell's door. He heard the door open, heard the two of them talking. He could hear the murmur of voices, but he couldn't make out the words. Still, he managed to get the gist. Jake and Nell were saying their goodbyes. Then he heard Jake walk away. Crash closed his eyes, listening even harder, but he didn't hear Nell's door close. A board creaked in the hall, and his eyes opened. She was standing right outside of his room. Dear, sweet Mary, how was he supposed to fight the temptation that Nell brought as well as all his grief and pain? He closed his eyes, again, willing her to walk away. Walk away. She didn't. She knocked on his door. Crash didn't move. Maybe if he didn't answer, she would just go away. Maybe... She knocked again. And then she opened the door a crack, peering in, looking in the direction of his bed. "Billy? Are you asleep?" He didn't answer, and she stepped further into the room. "Hawken...?" The light from the hallway fell onto the bed, and he saw when she realized it was empty. "Crash, are you even in here?" He spoke then. "Yes." Nell jumped, startled by his voice coming from the other side of the room. "It's dark in here," she said, searching for him in the shadows. "May I turn on the light?" "No." She flinched at the flatness of his reply. "I'm sorry. Are you... Are you all right?" "Yes." "Then why are you sitting in the dark?" He didn't answer. "This all must seem like some terrible kind of deja vu to you," she said quietly. "Have you come to psychoanalyze me, or did you have something else in mind?" It was too dark to see her clearly, even with the light from the hall, but he could picture the slight flush rising in her cheeks. "I came because I'm leaving in the morning and I wanted to... say goodbye." "Goodbye." She flinched again, but instead of turning and walking out of the room the way he hoped she would, she moved toward him.

He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, and she sat down right next to him. "You're not alone in what you're feeling," she said. "There was nothing any of us could do to keep her from dying." "So you are here to psychoanalyze. Do me a favor and keep it to yourself." He couldn't see her eyes, but he could tell from the silhouette of her profile that she was not unaffected by the harshness of his words. "Actually," she started. Her voice wobbled and she stopped and cleared her throat. When she spoke again, her voice was very, very small. "Actually, I'm here because / didn't want to be alone tonight." Something clenched in Crash's chest. It was the same something that tightened his throat and made tears heat his eyes. It made his bitter anger start to fade, leaving behind a hurt and anguish that was too powerful to keep inside. There was no way he could detach and move far enough away from the pain he was feeling. It was too strong. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "What I said was rude and uncalled for." Crash tried to get mad at himself. He'd been a son of a bitch from the moment she walked in, a jerk, a complete ass, a total bastard. He tried to get good and angry—because that anger was the only thing that was going to keep him from breaking down and crying like a baby. Nell moved in the darkness beside him, and he knew she was wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. "That's okay," she said. "I'd rather have you mad at me than have to watch you do your zombie impression." "Maybe you should go," Crash said desperately. "Because I'm not feeling very steady here, and—" She interrupted, turning in the darkness to face him. "I came to your room because I wanted to tell you something before I left." She reached out, touching him on the arm. "I wanted to—" "Nell, I'm not sure I can—" "Make sure that you knew that—" "—handle sitting here like this with you." He'd meant to shake her hand off, but somehow he'd reached for her instead, gripping her tightly by the elbow. "I've wanted to be your lover since the first time we met," she whispered. Oh, Lord. All of the intense feelings—the wanting, the guilt, the desire, the relentless pain—of the past few days, the past few weeks, spun together inside of him, in a great, huge tornado of emotion. "I just wanted you to know that before I left," she said again, "in case you maybe felt something similar and, even though we've only got one night—" Crash kissed her. He had to kiss her, or everything inside of him, this churning maelstrom of despair and heartache and guilt and grief would erupt from him, tearing him apart, leaving him open and exposed. He kissed her—and he didn't have to cry. He pulled her close—and he didn't need to break things, he didn't lash out in anger, he didn't fall apart with grief. She nearly exploded in his arms, clinging to him as desperately as he clung to her, matching the fury of his kisses, the ferociousness of his embrace. He pulled her onto his lap so that her legs straddled him, her heat pressed tightly against him. Sweet God, he'd wanted her for so long. This was wrong. He knew it was wrong, but he no longer cared. He needed this. He needed her—just as she needed him tonight. And Lord, how she needed him. Her fingers were running through his hair, her hands skimming down his back as if she couldn't get enough of touching him. She kissed him as if she wanted to inhale him. She pressed herself against him as if she would die if he didn't fill her. Nothing else existed. For right now, for this time, there was no past, no future—only this moment. Only the two of them. As still they kissed, he touched her just as greedily, slipping one hand between them to cup the sweet fullness of her breast. She made a low, unbearably sexy noise deep in the back of her throat, then pulled her lips away from his, just long enough to grab the hem of her shirt and pull it quickly over her head. And then she kissed him again, as if the few seconds they'd been apart had been an eternity. Her skin was so smooth, so perfect beneath his hands. She reached between to unfasten the front clasp of her bra. The sensation was nearly unbearable then and, as she tugged at his own shirt, he knew that feeling her naked against him would drive him mindlessly past the point of no return.

"Is this really what you want?" he breathed, pushing her hair back from her face, trying to see her eyes in the dimness. "Oh, yes." She kissed the palm of his hand, catching his thumb between her teeth, touching him with her tongue, damn near sending him through the roof. When she pulled at his shirt again, this time he helped her, yanking it off. And then she was touching him, her hands skimming his shoulders as she kissed his throat, his neck, her delicate lips driving him mad. He pulled her close, crushing his mouth to hers, crushing the softness of her breasts to the hard muscles of his chest. Skin against skin. Crash wanted to take his time. He wanted to pull back and look at her, to taste her, to fill his hands with her, but he couldn't slow down without that emotional tornado inside of him breaking free and wreaking havoc. But there was no way in hell he was going to take her here on the floor. He swept his hands to the soft curve of her rear end and stood, pulling himself to his feet with Nell still in his arms. Two long strides brought him close enough to kick the door closed. Two more took them both to his bed. He put her down and pulled away to rid himself of his boots, and when he turned back, he found she'd opened the curtains on the window over the bed. Pale winter moonlight filtered in, giving Nell's beautiful skin a silvery glow. Crash reached for her, and she met him halfway, kissing him and pulling him back with her onto the bed. He felt her hands at the waistband of his pants even as he unfastened the top button of her jeans. "Please tell me you've got a condom," she breathed as she helped him pull her jeans down the long, smooth lengths of her legs. "I've got a condom." "Where?" "Bathroom." She slid off the bed as he wrestled with his own pants, but even so, he still managed to beat her into the attached bath. He always kept protection in his toilet kit on the counter next to the sink, and he searched for a foil-wrapped square without even turning on the light. She pressed herself against him, her breasts soft against his back, reaching around him to slide both hands down past the waistband of his shorts. As he found what he was looking for, she did, too. Her fingers closed around him and it was all he could do to keep from groaning aloud. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined sweet Nell Burns would be so bold. He could have had this for an entire month. He could have... She took the foil packet from his hands, tore it open, and began to guide the condom onto him. But she took too long, touched him too lightly, and he pulled away, breathing hard, quickly finishing the task himself as she dragged his shorts down his legs. When he turned to face her, he saw that she'd taken off her own panties as well. She was beautiful, standing there naked in the moonlight, all silvery-smooth skin and shining hair, like some kind of goddess, some kind of faerie queen. Crash reached for her, and she was there, filling his arms, kissing him hungrily. He reached between them, touching her intimately, finding her more than ready for him. She turned them around, backing herself up against the sink counter. He knew by now that she was far from shy when it came to sex, but when she lifted herself up onto the counter, opening herself to his exploring fingers, pressing him more deeply inside of her, he thought his heart would stop. But then he stopped thinking as she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him toward her. She kissed him hard, and with one explosive thrust, he was inside her. Crash heard himself cry out, his voice mixing with hers. It was too good, too incredible. He could feel her fingernails sharply against his back as she gripped him, as her legs tightened around him. She wanted him hard and fast and he wasn't about to deny her anything. She moved beneath him, meeting each of his thrusts with a wild abandon, a savage passion that left him breathless. And he knew that this was more than mere sex for her, too. This was a way for them both to take comfort. This was a way to reaffirm that they were both still very much alive. It wasn't so much about pleasure as it was about trying to drive away the pain.

He'd always been a considerate lover, always taking his time, giving slow, leisurely pleasure to the woman he was with, making certain that she was satisfied several times over before he allowed himself his own release. He'd always been in careful control. But tonight, his control had gone out the window with his good judgment. Tonight, he was on fire. He lifted her off the counter, still kissing her, still moving inside her. He carried her toward the bed, stopping to press her back against the bathroom wall, the closet door, the bedroom wall, stopping to drive himself inside her as deeply as he possibly could. She strained against him, her head thrown back and her breath catching in her throat as he roughly took first one, then the other of her breasts into his mouth, drawing hard on her deliciously taut nipples. It was there, against the wall that separated his room from hers, that he felt her climax. It was there, as she cried out, as she shook and shattered around him, that he lost all that remained of his shredded control. He exploded, his release like a fiery rocket scorching his very soul. And then it was over, but yet it wasn't. Nell still gripped him, still clung to him as if he were her only salvation. And he was still buried deeply inside of her. Crash stood, his forehead resting on the wall above her shoulder, more than just physically spent. He was emotionally exhausted. One minute slid into two, two into three and Nell didn't move either, didn't shift, didn't stir, didn't do more than hold him and breathe. He kept his eyes closed, afraid to open them, afraid to think. Dear God, what had he done? He'd used her. She'd come to him for comfort, offering her own sweet comfort in return, and he'd done little more than use her to vent his anger and frustration and grief. He lifted his head and somehow the Jell-O that had once been his legs made it over to the bed. He sank down, pulling himself free from Nell. He immediately missed the intimacy of that connection, but who was he kidding? They couldn't stay joined that way for the rest of their lives. He leaned back on the mattress, pulling her down with him, so that her back nestled against his chest, so that he wouldn't have to meet her gaze. She lifted her head only slightly—not far enough to look into his eyes. "May I sleep in here with you tonight?" She sounded so uncertain, so afraid of what he might say. Something in his chest tightened. "Yeah," he said. "Sure." "Thank you," she whispered, shivering slightly. He shifted them both so he could cover them with the sheet and blanket. He pulled her closer, wrapping her tightly in his arms, wishing he could make her instantly warm, wishing for a lot of things that he knew he couldn't have. He wished that he could keep her safe from the rest of the world. But how could he? He hadn't even been able to keep her safe from himself.

Chapter 8 Crash sat up in bed. "What time is it?" One second, he'd been sound asleep, and the next his eyes were wide open, as if he'd been awake and alert for hours. "It's nearly six." Nell resisted the urge to dive back under the sheet and blanket and cover herself. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed with her back toward him, briefly closing her eyes, feeling her face heat with a blush. Her jeans were here on the floor. Her shirt and bra were across the room. Her underpants...in the bathroom, she remembered suddenly, with a dizzying surge of extremely vivid memory. She slipped into her jeans, forsaking her underpants. There was no way she was going to walk naked all the way across this room with Crash watching. Yes, he'd seen her naked last night, but that had been last night. This was the morning. This was very different. She was leaving for Ohio today, and if he shed any tears at her departure, they were surely only going to be tears of relief. Nell knew with a certainty that could have gotten her hired by one of those psychic hotlines, that what had happened between herself and William Hawken last night had been a fluke. It had been a result of the high emotions of the past few days, of Daisy's death and the wake and funeral that had quickly followed. It had been an incredible sexual experience, but Nell knew that a single episode of great sex didn't equal a romantic relationship. When it came down to it, nothing had changed between them. They were still only friends—except now they were friends who had shared incredibly great sex. She stood up, fastening the button on her jeans, knowing that she couldn't keep her back to him as she went across the room in search of her shirt and bra. She was just going to have to be matter-of-fact about it. That's all. She had breasts, he didn't—big deal. But Crash caught her arm before she could take a step, his fingers warm against her bare skin. "Nell, are you all right?" She didn't turn to face him, wishing that he would prove her wrong. Right now, he could do it—he could prove her entirely, absolutely wrong. He could slide his hand down her arm in a caress. He could pull her gently to him, move aside her hair and kiss her neck. He could run those incredible hands across her breasts, down her stomach, and unfasten the waistband of her pants. He could pull her back into the warmth of his bed and make love to her slowly in the gray morning light. But he didn't. "I'm..." Nell hesitated. If she said fine, she would sound tense and tight, as if she weren't fine. His hand dropped from her arm, and her last foolish hopes died. She crossed the room and picked up her shirt. It was inside out, of course, and she turned away from him as she adjusted it. She slipped it over her head and only then could she turn and look at him. Bed head. He had bed head, his dark hair charmingly rumpled, sticking out in all different directions. He looked about twelve years old—except for the fact that even the simple act of sitting up in bed had made many of his powerful-looking muscles flex. God, he was sexy, even with bed head. Nell used all her limited acting skills to sound normal. "I'm...still pretty amazed by what happened here last night." "Yeah," he said. His pale blue eyes were unreadable. "I am, too. I feel as if I owe you an apology—" "Don't," she said, moving quickly toward him. "Don't you dare apologize for what happened last night. It was something we both needed. It was really right—don't turn it into something wrong." Crash nodded. "All right. I just..." He glanced away, closing his eyes briefly before he looked back at her. "I've been so careful to stay away from you all this time," he said, "because I didn't want to hurt you this way." Nell slowly sat down at the foot of the bed. "Believe me, last night didn't hurt at all." He didn't smile at her poor attempt at a joke. "You know as well as I do," he said quietly, "that it wouldn't work, right? A relationship between us..." He shook his head. "You don't really know me. You know this...kind of PG-rated, goody-two-shoes, Disney cartoon version of me." Nell wanted to protest, but he wasn't done talking and she held her tongue, afraid if she interrupted, he would stop. "But if you really knew me, if you knew who I really am, what I do...you wouldn't like me very much." She couldn't hold it in any longer. "How can you just make that kind of decision for me?" "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you have some kind of sick thing for cold-blooded killers—" "You are not cold-blooded!" "But I am a killer." "You're a soldier," she argued. "There's a difference."

"Okay," he said levelly. "Maybe you could get past that. But being involved with a SEAL who specializes in black ops is not something I'd wish on my worst enemy." His usually quiet voice rang with conviction. "I certainly wouldn't wish it on you." "Again, you're just going to decide that for me?" He threw off the covers, totally unembarrassed by his nakedness. He found his pants, but they were the ones he'd worn to the funeral. Dress pants. He tossed them over a chair and pulled a pair of army fatigues from the closet. Nell closed her eyes at a sudden vivid image from last night. His hands around her waist, his mouth locked on hers, his body... "Here's the deal with black ops," he said, zipping his fly and fastening the button at his waist. "I disappear— literally—sometimes for months at a time. You would never know where I was, or for how long I'd be gone." He ran his fingers back through his hair in a failed attempt to tame it, the muscles in his chest and arms standing out in sharp relief. “If I were KIA— killed in action—you might never be told," he continued. "I just wouldn't come back. Ever. You'd never find out about the mission I was on. There'd be no paper trail, no way to know how or why I'd died. It would be as if I'd never existed." He shook his head. "You don't need that kind of garbage in your life." "But—" "It wouldn't work." He gazed at her steadily. "Last night was...nice, but you've got to believe me, Nell. It just wouldn't work." Nice. Nell turned away. Nice? Last night had been wonderful, amazing, fantastic. It hadn't been nice. "I'm sorry," he said softly. She looked out the window. She looked at the rug. She looked at a painting that hung on the wall. It was one of Daisy's—a beach scene from her watercolor phase. Only then did she look up at him. "I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry you think it wouldn't work," she finally said. "You know, I knew most of what you were going to say before you even said it. And I was going to pretend to agree with you. You know, 'Yeah, you're right, it would never work, different personalities, different worlds, different lives, whatever.' But to hell with my pride. Because the truth is, I don't agree with you. I think it would work. We would work. I think we'd be great together. Last night could be just the beginning and I'm...saddened that you think otherwise." Crash didn't say anything. He didn't even look at her. Nell bolstered the very last of her rapidly fading courage and tossed the final shred of her pride out the door. "Can't we at least try?" Her voice broke slightly—her final humiliation. Crash didn't speak, and again she found the courage to go on. "Can't we see what happens? Take it one day at a time?" He looked up at her, but his eyes were so distant, it was as if he wasn't quite all there. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm not looking for any kind of a relationship at all right now. I was wrong to give in to this attraction between us. I wanted the comfort and the instant gratification, and the real truth is, I used you, Nell. That's all last night was. You came along, and I took what you offered. There's nothing for us to try. There's nothing more to happen." Nell stood up, trying desperately to hide her hurt. "Well," she said. "I guess that clears that up." "It's my fault, and I am sorry." She cleared her throat as she moved toward the door. "No," she said. "I knew last night...I mean, it was clear that's what it was. Comfort, I mean. It was that way for me, too, sort of, at first anyway, and...I was just hoping... Billy, it's not your fault." She opened the door and stepped into the hall. Crash hadn't moved. She wasn't even sure if he'd blinked. "Happy New Year," she said quietly, and shut the door behind her.

Chapter 9 A year later Someone opened fire. Someone opened fire, and the world went into slow motion. Crash saw Jake pushed back by the force of the gunshots, arms spread, face caught in a terrible grimace as an explosion of bright red blood bloomed on the front of his shirt. Crash heard his own voice shouting, saw Chief Pierson fall as well, and felt the slap as a bullet hit his arm. His years of training kicked in and he reacted, rolling down onto the office floor, taking cover and returning fire. He shut part of his brain down as he always did in a firefight. He couldn't afford to think in terms of human beings when he was spraying lead around a room. He couldn't afford to feel anything at all. He analyzed dispassionately as he evaded and struck back. Jake had pulled out the compact handgun he always wore under his left arm, and even though the glimpse Crash had had of the other man's chest wound made him little more than a still-breathing dead man, the admiral somehow found the strength to pull himself to cover, and to fight back. There could be as few as one and as many as three possible shooters. Crash noted emotionlessly that his captain, Mike Lovett, and Chief Steve Pierson, a SEAL known as the Possum, were undeniably dead as he efficiently took down one of the shooters. Not a man. A shooter. The enemy. At least two other weapons still hiccuped and stuttered. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears as he tipped what had once been Daisy's favorite table on its side and used it as a shield to work his way around to an angle where he could try to take out another of the shooters. Not men. Shooters. In the same way, Mike and the Poss weren't his teammates anymore. They were KIAs. Killed in action. Casualties. Crash could do nothing for them now. But Jake wasn't dead yet. And if Crash could eliminate the last of the shooters, maybe, just maybe Jake could be saved.... Crash wanted Jake to live. He wanted that with a ferocious burst of emotion that he immediately pushed away. Detach. He had to detach more completely. Emotion made his hands shake and skewed his perception. Emotion could get him killed. He separated himself cleanly from the man who wanted to rage and grieve over the deaths of his teammates. He set himself apart from the man who was near frantic from wanting to rush to Jake's side, to stanch the older man's wounds, to force him to fight to stay alive. Crash felt clarity kick in as he looked at himself from the outside. He felt his senses sharpen, felt time slow even further. He knew the last of the shooters was circling the room, looking for a chance to finish off Jake, and then take Crash out as well. One heartbeat. He could hear the sound of the admiral's FInCOM security team, shouting as they pounded on the outside of the locked office door. Two heartbeats. He could hear the almost inaudible scuff as the shooter moved into position. There was only one left now, and he was going for the admiral first. Crash knew that without a doubt. Three heartbeats. He could hear Jake struggling for breath. Crash knew, also dispassionately, that Jake's wounds had made at least one lung collapse. If he didn't get medical help soon, the man was definitely going to die. Four heartbeats. Another scuff, and Crash was able to pinpoint precisely where the shooter was. He jumped and fired in one smooth motion. And the last shooter was no longer a threat. "Billy?" Jake's voice was breathy and weak.

With a pop and a skip as jarring as a needle sliding across a phonograph record, the world once again moved at real time. "I'm still here." Crash was instantly at his old friend's side. "What the hell happened...?" Jake's shirtfront was drenched with blood. 'That's just what I was going to ask you," Crash replied as he gently tore the shirt to reveal the wound. Dear sweet Mary, with an injury like this, it was a miracle Jake had clung to life as long as he had. “Someone... wants me... dead." "Apparently." Crash had been trained as a medic—all SEALs were—but first aid wasn't going to cut it here. His voice shook despite his determination to maintain his usual deadpan calm. "Sir, I need to get you help." Jake clutched Crash's shirt, his brown eyes glazed with pain. "You need...to listen. Just sent you...file... incriminating evidence...last year's snafu in Southeast Asia...six months ago... You were...there. Remember?" "Yes," Crash said. "I remember." A civil war had started in a tiny island nation when two rival drug lords had pitted their armies against each other. "Two of our marines were killed—Jake, please, we can talk about this on the way to the hospital." But Jake wouldn't let him go. "The military action...was instigated by an American...a U.S. Navy commander." "What? Who?" The door burst open and Jake's security team swarmed inside the room. "I need an ambulance now!" the security chief bellowed after just one look at the admiral. "Don't know...who," Jake gasped. "Some...kind of...cover-up. Kid, I'm counting...on you..." "Jake, don't die!" Crash was pushed back, out of the way, as a team of paramedics surrounded the admiral. Please, God, let him make it. "For God's sake, what happened?" Crash turned to find Commander Tom Foster, Jake's security chief, standing behind him. He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush of air. When he spoke, his voice was calm again. "I don't know." “How the hell could you not know what happened?" He didn't let himself react, didn't let himself get angry. The man was understandably shaken and upset. Crash could relate. Now that the shooting was over, his own hands were shaking and he was dizzy. He hunkered down, sliding his back against the wall of Jake's private office as he lowered his rear end all the way to the floor. He realized then that his arm was bleeding pretty profusely, and had been since the battle had started. He'd lost quite a bit of blood. He set down his weapon and applied pressure with his other hand. For the first time since he was hit, he noticed the searing pain. He looked up. "I didn't see who fired the first shots," he said evenly. He turned to watch as the paramedics carried Jake from the room. Please, let him make it. The security chief swore. “Who would want to kill Admiral Robinson?" Crash shook his head. He didn't know that either. But he sure as hell was going to find out. Dex Lancaster kissed her good-night. Nell knew from his eyes, and from the gentle heat of his lips, that he was hoping that she would ask him to come inside. It wasn't that outrageous a hope. They'd had dinner seven or eight times now, and she honestly liked him. He lowered his head to kiss her again, but she turned her head and his mouth only brushed her cheek. She liked him, but she wasn't ready for this. She forced a smile as she unlocked her door. "Thanks again for dinner." He nodded, resignation and amusement in his blue eyes. "I'll call you." He started down the steps, his long overcoat fanning out behind him like an elegant cape, but then he stopped, turning back to look up at her. "You know, I'm not in any real big hurry either, so take as long as you need. I've decided that I'm not going to let you scare me off." With a quick salute, he was gone. Nell smiled ruefully as she locked her door behind her, turning on the light in the entry way of her house. The single women in her exercise class

would have been lining up for a chance to invite a man like Dexter Lancaster into their homes. What was wrong with her, anyway? She had just about everything she'd ever wanted. A house of her own. A great job. A handsome, intelligent, warmhearted man who wanted to spend time with her. Thanks to the money Daisy Owen had bequeathed her, she'd bought her own house, free and clear—a drafty old Victorian monster with prehistoric plumbing and ancient wiring that still ran on a fuse box. Nell was fixing the place up, little by little. And she'd found a new job that she really loved, working part-time for the legendary screen actress, Amie Cardoza.. Amie had had most of her successes on film in the seventies and eighties, but as she approached and then passed middle age, the better roles had disappeared, and she'd turned to the stage. She'd started an equity theater in the heart of Washington D.C., her hometown. She'd really needed a personal assistant—the theater company was still struggling and Amie was becoming politically active as well. Dex had introduced Nell to Amie, and Nell had liked the famous actress instantly. She was outspoken and funny and passionate—much like Daisy in many ways. With the life of her theater hanging by a thread, Amie couldn't afford to pay as much as Daisy had, but Nell didn't mind. She'd used the remainder of the money from Daisy to make investments that were already making her a profit. With that, and her house fully paid for, Nell was more than happy to be able to work for someone she admired and respected at a little bit less than the going rate. She'd only been with Amie for the past four months, but her days had settled into a comfortable routine. On Monday mornings, she'd work at the actress's home, dealing with her day-to-day household affairs. On Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons, they'd meet at the theater. Thursdays and Fridays depended on what additional projects Amie had going. And there was always something additional going. Dex often dropped in. He was a member of an organization called Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts, and he did pro bono work for the theater. Although he was older than the men Nell had dated in the past, she liked him. And when he'd asked her out to dinner several months ago, she couldn't think of a single reason why she shouldn't go. It had been almost a year since her last romantic entanglement. Or rather, her last non-romantic entanglement. She'd tangled, so to speak, with Crash Hawken, a man she should have accepted as a friend. Instead, she'd pushed for more, and she'd lost that friendship. Crash had never called her. He'd never even dropped her a postcard in response to the letters she'd written. When she'd spoken to Jake and asked, he'd told her the SEAL had been spending a great deal of time out of the country. Jake had also told her very clearly that if she were waiting for Crash to come back, she shouldn't hold her breath. Well, she wasn't holding her breath. But sometimes, when her guard was down, she still dreamed about the man. And even now, the nearly year-old memory of his kisses was stronger and more powerful than the two-minute-old memory of Dex's lips. Nell briefly closed her eyes, willing that particular memory away. She refused to waste her time consciously letting her thoughts stray in that direction. It was bad enough when she did it unconsciously. She hung her coat in the front closet and went into the kitchen to fix herself a cup of tea. The next time Dex asked her out to dinner, she'd invite him in. She had been wrong. It was time. It was definitely time to exorcise some old ghosts. The phone rang, and she glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was eleven. It had to be Amie with something urgent she'd forgotten about— something that needed to be done first thing in the morning. "Hello?" 'Thank God you're home!" It was Amie. "Turn on the TV right now!" Nell reached for the power button on the little black-and-white set that sat on her kitchen counter. "What channel? Is there something on the news about the theater?" "Cable channel four. It's not the theater. Nell, my God, it's something about that man you used to work for—that Admiral Robinson?" "There's...a commercial playing on channel four." "They showed one of those previews," Amie imitated a TV announcer's voice. "'Coming up at eleven.' They said something about an assassination!" "What?" The commercial ended. "Wait, wait, it's on!" The credits rolled endlessly and finally a news anchor gazed seriously into the camera. "Tonight's top story— Navy spokesmen have released confirmation that a gun battle raged three nights ago at the home of U.S. Navy Admiral Jacob Robinson, injuring the admiral and killing several others. Early reports indicate that four or five people are dead. All are believed to be members of the admiral's security team. Let's go to Holly Mathers, downtown." Nell couldn't breathe. A gun battle. At the farm? The picture changed to a chilled-looking young woman, standing outside a brightly lit building. "Thanks, Chuck. I'm here outside of the Northside

Hospital. A number of additional statements have just been released, the first and most tragic of which is that Jake Robinson has not survived. I repeat, the fifty-one-year-old U.S. Navy admiral was declared dead from gunshot wounds to the chest, here at Northside, just one hour ago." "Oh, my God." Nell reached blindly behind her for a chair, but couldn't find one, and sank down onto the kitchen floor instead. Jake was dead. How could Jake be dead? “Navy spokesmen have stated that the suspected assassin is in custody, also here at Northside Hospital," the reporter continued, "where it's speculated that he was being treated for minor wounds. They have not yet released the name of this man, nor the names of the men—apparently a team of Navy SEALs—who gave their lives attempting to protect Robinson." Navy SEALs. Nell went hot and then cold. Please dear God, don't let Crash be dead, too. She wasn't aware she had spoken aloud until Amie's voice asked. "Crash? Who's Crash?" Nell was still holding the phone, the line open. "Amie, I'm sorry, I have to go. This is...terrible. I've got to go and..." What? What could she do? "I'm so sorry, sweetie. I know how much you liked Jake. Do you want me to come out there?" "No, Amie, I have to..." Call someone. She had to call someone and find out if Crash was one of the men who had died today at the farm. "I won't expect to see you for the next few days. Take as much time as you need, all right?" Nell didn't answer. She couldn't. She just pressed the power button on the cordless phone. She tried to think. Tried to remember the names of Jake's high-powered friends—people she'd called both to tell about the change in wedding plans, and then about Daisy's death. There were several other admirals that Jake knew quite well. And what was the name of that FInCOM security commander? Tom something. He'd come out to the farm a few times to double-check the security fence.... On the television, the reporter was talking with the anchor, discussing Jake's career in Vietnam, his long-term relationship with popular artist Daisy Owen, their marriage and her relatively recent death. The reporter touched her earpiece. "I'm sorry," she said, interrupting the anchor in midsentence. "We've just received word that the alleged assassin, the man believed to be responsible for Admiral Jake Robinson's murder and the murders of at least five members of his security team, is being brought out of the hospital, being transferred to FInCOM Headquarters to await arraignment." The camera jiggled sickeningly as the cameraman rushed to get into position. The hospital doors opened, and a crowd of police and other uniformed men came out. Nell got to her knees, still holding the telephone as she moved closer to the TV set, wanting a glimpse of the face of the man who had killed her friend. That man was in the center of the crowd, his long, dark hair parted in the middle and hanging slackly down to his shoulders. The picture was still wobbling, though, and Nell could see little more than the pale blur of his face. "Admiral Stonegate!" the reporter called to one of the men in the crowd. "Admiral Stonegate, sir! Can you identify this man for our viewers?" The camera zoomed in on the murder suspect, and the cordless phone dropped out of Nell's hands and clattered on the kitchen floor. It was Crash. The man being led to the police cars was Crash Hawken. His hair was long and stringy—parted in the middle and hanging around his face in a style that was far from flattering. But Nell would have known that face anywhere. Those cheekbones, that elegant nose, the too-grim mouth. His pale gray eyes were nearly vacant, though. He seemed unaware of the explosion of questions and cameras focusing on him. The relief that flooded through Nell was so sharp and overpowering, she nearly doubled over. Crash was alive. Thank God he was alive. “I've been authorized to release the following statement. The man in our custody is former Navy Lieutenant William R. Hawken," a raspy male voice said. On the screen, Crash was pushed into the back seat of a car. The camera focused for a moment on his hands, cuffed at the wrist behind his back, before once again settling, through the rain-streaked window of the car, on his seemingly soulless eyes. "The charges include conspiracy, treason, and first-degree murder," the male voice continued. As the car pulled away, the camera moved to focus on the reporter, who was one of a crowd surrounding a short, white-haired navy admiral. "With the evidence we have, it's an open-and-shut case. There's no question in my mind of Haw-ken's guilt. I was a close friend of Jake Robinson's and I intend, personally, to push for the death penalty in this case."

The death penalty. Nell stared at the TV as the words being spoken finally broke through her relief that Crash was alive. Crash was being arrested. His hands had been cuffed. He'd been charged with conspiracy, the man had said. And treason. And murder. It didn't make sense. How could anyone who claimed to be a friend of Jake's possibly believe that Crash could have killed him? Anyone who knew them both would have to know how ridiculous that was. Crash could no more have killed Jake than she could have gone to the window, opened it, and flown twice around the outside of her house before coming back inside. It was ridiculous. Impossible. Totally absurd. Nell pushed herself up off the kitchen floor and went into the little room she'd made into her home office. She turned on the light and her computer. Somewhere, in some forgotten file deep in the bowels of her hard disk, she must still have the names and phone numbers of the people she'd invited to Jake and Daisy's wedding. Someone would be able to help her prove that Crash was innocent. She wiped her face and went to work. Crash had to shuffle when he walked. Even for the short trip from his cell to the visiting room, he had to be handcuffed and chained like a common criminal. His hands and feet were considered to be deadly weapons because of his martial-arts skills. He couldn't raise his hands to push his hair out of his face without a guard pointing a rifle in his direction. He couldn't imagine who had come to see him—who, that is, had the pull and the clout and the sheer determi nation to request and be granted a chance to talk one-on-one to a man charged with conspiracy, treason and murder. It sure wasn't any of the members of his SEAL Team. His former SEAL Team. He'd been stripped of his commission and rank upon his arrival here at the federal prison. He'd been stripped of everything but his name, and he was almost certain that they would've have taken that as well, if they could have. But no, there was no one in his former SEAL Team who would want to sit down and talk to him right now. They all thought he'd killed Captain Lovett and the Possum— Chief Steven Pierson—in the gun battle at Jake Robinson's house. And why shouldn't they believe that? The ballistics report showed that Crash's bullets had been found in both of the SEALs' bodies—despite the fact Crash had been standing right next to the Possum when the man was hit. It was quite possible that the only reason Crash was still alive today was because the chief had fallen in front of him when he'd gone down, also taking the bullets that had been meant for Crash. No, Crash's mysterious visitor wasn't a member of SEAL Team Twelve. But it was possible he was a member of SEAL Team Ten's elite Alpha Squad. Crash had worked with Alpha Squad this past summer, helping to train an experimental joint FInCOM/SEAL counterterrorist team. Crash had worked with Alpha Squad on the same operation in Southeast Asia that Jake had believed was the cause of this entire hellish tragedy. It had been that very op that Jake had been investigating right before his death— and had detailed in the encoded file he had sent Crash. Crash couldn't deny that that particular operation had gone about as wrong as it possibly could. Jake had believed that the snafu had not been accidental, and that the mistakes made were now being covered up. And Jake never could abide a cover-up. But was a cover-up of a botched op enough reason to kill an admiral? Crash had had little else to think about day and night during the past week. But right now, he had a visitor and he turned his thoughts toward wondering who was sitting on the other side of the wired glass window in the visitors' room. It might be his swim buddy, Cowboy Jones—the man with whom he'd gone through the punishingly harsh SEAL training. Cowboy wouldn't condemn him. At least not before talking to him. And then there was Blue McCoy. Last summer Crash had come to know and trust Alpha Squad's taciturn executive officer. He liked to think that Blue would want to hear Crash's version of the story first, too. Still, it was odd to imagine that someone he had met only six months earlier would take the time to question him about what had happened, when his own teammates, men he'd worked with for years, had clearly already judged and found him guilty as charged. Crash waited while one of the guards unlocked the door. It swung open and... It wasn't Cowboy and it definitely wasn't Blue McCoy. Out of all the people in all the world, Nell Burns was the last person Crash had expected to see sitting in that chair on the other side of that protective glass. Yet there she was, her hands tightly clasped on the table in front of her.

She looked almost exactly the same as she had the last time he'd seen her—the morning she'd walked out of his room after they'd spent the night together. It had been nearly a year, but he could still remember that night as if it had been yesterday. Her hair was cut in the same chin-length style. Only her clothes were different—a severely tailored business suit with shoulder pads in the jacket, and a stiff white shirt that did its best to hide the soft curves of her breasts. But she didn't have to wear sexy, revealing clothes. It didn't matter what she wore—boxy suit or burlap sack. The image of her perfect body was forever branded in his memory. God, he was pathetic. After all this time, he still wanted Nell more than he'd ever wanted any woman. The guard pulled out his chair and Crash sat, refusing to acknowledge just how much he'd missed her, refusing to let himself care that the glass divider kept him from breathing in her sweet perfume, refusing to care that she had to see him like this, chained up like some kind of animal. But he did care. God, how he cared. Separate. Detach. He had to start thinking like the kind of man he was—a man with no future. A man on a final mission. Crash had a single goal now—to hunt down and destroy the man responsible for Jake Robinson's death. He had lost far more than his commanding officer when he'd been unable to save Jake's life. He'd lost a friend who'd been like a father to him. And he'd lost everything else that was important to him as well—the trust of his teammates, his rank, his commission, his status as a SEAL. Without those things he was nothing. A nonentity. He was as good as dead. But it was that very fact that gave him the upper hand against the unknown man who was behind his fall from grace. Because with everything that mattered to him gone, Crash had nothing more to lose. He was going to succeed at his mission if it was the last thing he ever did. He was determined to succeed, even at the price of his own worthless life. As Crash sat and gazed at Nell through the protective glass, he was struck by the irony of the situation. He'd worked hard to make sure that Nell wasn't his to have— or his to lose. Yet here he was, having lost everything else in his life, except, it appeared, her trust. Yeah, the irony was incredible. His one ally, the only person who believed he didn't kill Jake Robinson, was a woman who by all rights should want nothing more to do with him. And he knew Nell didn't believe that he'd killed Jake. Even after a year apart, he could still read her like a first-grade primer. See Nell. See Nell refuse to run. See Nell's loyalty blazing in her eyes. Crash sat in the chair and waited for her to speak. She leaned forward slightly. "I'm so sorry about Jake." It was exactly what he'd expected her to say. He nodded. “Yeah. Me, too." His voice came out sounding harsh and raspy, and he cleared his throat. "I tried to go to his funeral, but apparently he'd requested it be private and...they didn't let you go either, did they?" Crash shook his head no. "I'm sorry," she whispered. He nodded again. “I would've come sooner," she told him, "but it took me nearly a week to talk my way in here." A week. His chest felt tight at the thought of her going to bat for him day after day for an entire week. He wasn't sure what to say to that, so he didn't say anything. Her gaze slipped to the bandage he still had on his arm. "Are you all right?" When he didn't answer, she sat back, closing her eyes briefly. "I'm sorry. Stupid question. Of course you're not all right." She leaned forward again. "What can I do to help?" Her eyes were so intensely blue. For a moment he was back in Malaysia, gazing out at the South China Sea. "Nothing," he said quietly. "There's nothing you can do." She shifted in her seat, clearly frustrated. "There must be something. Are you happy with your lawyer? It's important to have a good defense lawyer

that you trust." "My lawyer's fine." "This is your life that's at stake, Billy." "My lawyer's fine," he said again. "Fine's not good enough. Look, I know a really good criminal defense lawyer. You remember Dex..." "Nell, I don't need another lawyer, particularly not—" He cut himself off short. Particularly not Dexter Lancaster. Crash knew he had no right to be jealous, especially not now. An entire year had passed since he'd willingly given up his right to be jealous. But there was no way he was going to sit down with Dexter Lancaster and plan a defense he wasn't even going to need. He'd spend the entire time torturing himself, wondering if Dex was planning to leave their meeting and head over to Nell's house and... Don't go there, don't go there, don't go there.... God, he was on the verge of losing it. All he needed was Nell finding out that he'd been keeping track of her this past year, that he knew she was seeing Lancaster socially. All she needed was to know that he'd made an effort to find out if she was okay—made a gargantuan effort, since he'd had to do it from some godforsaken corner of the world. And then she would read some deep meaning into it. She would think he'd kept track of her because he'd cared. And he would have to explain that it was only responsibility that had driven him to check up on her, and once again, she would be hurt. What he needed to do was make her leave. He'd done it before, he could do it again. "What really happened at the farm last week?" That was one question he could answer honestly. "I don't know. Someone started shooting. I wasn't ready for it, and..." He shook his head. Nell cleared her throat. "I was told that the ballistics reports prove that you killed Jake and most of the other men. That's pretty damning evidence." It was damning evidence, indeed. It proved to Crash that this "Commander" that Jake had spoken about, this man Jake himself had believed was responsible for setting up the assassination, was someone with lots of clout in Washington. He was a powerful man with powerful connections. He had to be, in order to have had the results of those ballistics tests falsified. And those test results had been falsified. Crash was being framed, and he was going to find out just who was framing him. He knew when he found that out, he'd also find the man responsible for Jake's death. It was possible whoever had framed him was watching him, even now. They surely would be aware Nell had come to see him. It was important for her own safety that she not make a habit of this. Nell leaned even closer to the protective glass. "Billy, I can't believe that you killed him, but...isn't it possible that in the chaos, your bullets accidentally hit Jake?" "Yeah, right. That must've been what happened," he lied. He stood up. The last thing he needed was her brain-storming alternatives and coming up with the theory that he'd been framed. If she did come up with that, and if she was vocal about it, she'd be putting herself in danger. "I've got to go." She stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Where?" He moved very close to the microphone that allowed her to hear him on the other side of the glass. He spoke very softly, very quickly. "Nell, I don't want or need your help. I want you to stand up and walk out of here. And I don't want you to come back. Do you understand what I'm saying?" She shook her head. "I still think of you as my friend. I can't just—" "Go away," he said harshly, enunciating each word very clearly. "Go away." He turned and shuffled toward the guards at the door, aware that she hadn't moved, aware that she was watching him, hating his chains, hating himself. One guard unlocked the door as the other held his rifle at the ready. Crash went out the door and didn't look back.

Chapter 10 People had turned out in droves to see the freak show. Crash's chains clanked as he was led into the courtroom for his hearing. He tried not to look up at all the faces looking down at him from the gallery. Tried and failed. The surviving members of his SEAL Team—his former SEAL Team—were sitting in the back, arms crossed, venom in their eyes. They thought he was responsible for Captain Lovett and the Possum's death. They believed the ballistics report. Why shouldn't they? Everyone else did. Except Nell Burns. God, she was sitting there as well. Crash felt a rush of hot and then cold at the thought that she hadn't stayed away. What was wrong with her? What did he have to say or do to make her stay away from him for good? Crash didn't want to waste any time at all worrying about Nell running around, proclaiming his innocence, stirring things up and catching the attention of a man who'd killed an admiral to keep his identity hidden. He would rather picture Nell safe at home. Sweet Mary, he'd rather picture Nell having breakfast in bed with Dexter Lancaster than have to worry about her becoming another target for a man with no scruples. He purposely didn't meet her eyes, even though he made it clear that he saw her. He purposely, coldly, turned his back on her, praying that she would leave. But as he turned, he saw another familiar face in the crowd. Lt. Commander Blue McCoy of Alpha Squad was sitting in the front row of the side balcony. Crash hadn't expected Blue McCoy to come to gape at him, to sit there mentally spitting at him, ready to cheer when the court expressed its desire to impose the death sentence. He'd liked working with Blue. He'd trusted the quiet man almost immediately. And he'd thought that Blue had trusted him as well. He tried not to look in Blue's direction, either, but a flash of movement caught his eye. He turned and Blue did it again. Moving quickly, almost invisibly, he hand-signaled Crash. Are you okay? There were no accusations in Blue's eyes—no hatred, no animosity. Only concern. Crash turned to face the judge without responding. He couldn't respond. What could he possibly say? He closed his hand around the bent piece of metal he had concealed in his palm, feeling its rough edges scrape against his skin. He couldn't wait to be free of these chains. He couldn't wait to see the sky again. He couldn't wait to find the man who had killed Jake, and send the bastard straight to hell. It was only a matter of minutes now. He sat through the procedure, barely hearing the droning of the lawyers' voices. He could feel his former SEAL Team members' hot eyes on his back. He could feel Blue watching him as well. And if he closed his eyes and breathed really deeply, he could pretend that he could smell Nell's sweet perfume. As the two guards escorted Crash from the courtroom, Nell willed him to turn his head and acknowledge that she was there. She didn't expect him to smile, or even to nod. All she wanted was for him to look into her eyes. She'd dressed in a bright red turtleneck so that she would stand out among all the drab winter coats and business suits. She knew he'd seen her. He'd looked straight at her when he came in—he just hadn't met her gaze. But he went out the door without so much as a glance in her direction, his actions echoing the words he'd said three days ago. Go away. But Nell couldn't do that. She wasn't going to do that. She stood up, squeezing past the knees of the people still in their seats, people who'd settled in to wait for Crash's bail hearing—which had quickly been set for later in the afternoon. That was going to be over before it even started. Crash's lawyer was going to request bail—after all, his client had pleaded not guilty. But then the judge was going to take a look at Crash sitting there, chained up like some monster because his hands and feet were considered

deadly weapons. The judge was going to realize that as a former SEAL, Crash could disappear, leaving the country with ease, never to be seen again. And the judge was going to deny bail. Nell hiked her bag higher up on her shoulder and, carrying her leather bomber jacket over one arm, went out into the hallway. Crash's lawyer, Captain Phil Franklin, a tall black man in a heavily decorated Navy uniform, was around somewhere, and she was determined to talk to him. She went out of the courtroom and into the hallway, spotting the captain stepping into an elevator. There were too many people waiting to go up or down, so Nell could only watch to see which direction the elevator was heading. Down. Directly down four flights, all the way to the basement. There was a coffee shop down there. With any luck, she'd find the Navy lawyer there. Nell opened the door to the stairwell. As she stepped inside, she was nearly knocked over by a man coming down from the floor above. He was taking two and three steps at once and wasn't able to stop himself in time. He recognized her at the same instant she recognized him. Nell knew because he froze. And she looked up into Crash's light blue eyes. He was alone—no guards, and his chains were gone. She knew instantly what had happened. He'd broken free. She thrust her jacket at him. "Take this," she said. "My car keys are in the pocket." He didn't move. "Go!" she said. "Take it and go!" "I can't," he said, finally moving. He backed one step away from her, and then two. "I'm not going to let you go to jail for helping me." "I'll tell them you grabbed my jacket and ran." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Right. Like they'd believe that, considering our history." "How will they know? I never told anyone about that night." Something flickered in his eyes. "I was referring to our friendship," he said quietly. "The fact that we lived in the same house for an entire month." Nell felt her cheeks heat with a blush. "Of course." Crash shook his head. "You've got to stay away from me. You've got to walk out of this courthouse and go home and not look back. Don't think about me, don't talk about me to anyone. Pretend that you never knew me. Forget I ever existed." She closed her eyes. "Just go, all right? Get out of here, dammit, before they catch you." Nell didn't hear him leave, but when she opened her eyes, he was gone. Four hours. It had been nearly four hours, and no one was allowed to enter or exit the federal courthouse. An alarm had sounded not more than thirty seconds after Crash had vanished in the stairwell, and within five minutes, the entire building had been locked up tight as the police searched for the fugitive. It didn't seem possible that he hadn't been caught, but Crash was indisputably gone. It was as if he'd simply turned to smoke and drifted away. Crash's lawyer had been questioned extensively by FInCOM agents but now Captain Phil Franklin sat alone in the coffee shop, reading a newspaper. Nell slipped into the seat across from him. "Excuse me, sir. My name is Nell Burns, and I'm a friend of your missing client's." Franklin looked at her over the top of his paper, his dark brown eyes expressionless. "A friend?" "Yes. A friend. I know for a fact that he didn't kill Admiral Robinson." Franklin put his paper down. "You know for a fact, hmm? Were you there, Miss...I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" "Nell Burns." "Were you there, Miss Burns?" he asked again. Nell shook her head. "No, but I was there last year. I was Daisy Owens's—Daisy Robinson's—personal assistant right up until the day she died. I lived in the same house with Jake and Daisy—and William Hawken—for four weeks. There's no way Billy could have conspired to kill Jake. I'm sorry, sir, but the man I came to know loved Jake. He would've died himself before harming the admiral." Franklin took a sip of his coffee, studying her with his disconcertingly dark eyes. "The prosecution has witnesses who overheard Admiral Robinson and Lieutenant Hawken arguing this past January," he finally said, "before Hawken left the country for an extensive length of time. Apparently my

client...your friend, Billy, and the victim had a rather heated disagreement." "I just don't see how that could have been," she countered. "Those witnesses had to have been mistaken. In the entire time I lived with Crash—I mean, we didn't live together," she corrected herself quickly. "What I meant to say was that during the time that we lived under one roof..." She was blushing now, but she staunchly kept going, "I never heard Lieutenant Hawken raise his voice. Not even once." "The witnesses claim the two men were arguing over a woman." "What?" Nell snorted, her embarrassment overridden by her disbelief. "That's impossible. The only woman in both of their lives was Daisy, and she died a few days after Christmas." She leaned forward. "Captain, I want to take the stand—be a character witness, isn't that what it's called?" "That's what it's called. But when the defendant does something like jump his guards, pick the locks on his chains with the equivalent of a paper clip..." Franklin shook his head. "The man ran away, Miss Burns. If they ever catch him, if we ever do go to trial, I'm not sure a character witness is going to do your Billy-boy much good. Because when a man runs, he looks pretty damn guilty in the eyes of a judge and jury." "He's not running away." There was no doubt about that in Nell's mind. "He went to find the person who's really responsible for Jake's death." Franklin gazed at her. "Do you know where he is?" "No. But I don't think they're going to find him until he comes back on his own. And you better believe that when he does come back, he's going to have the admiral's real killer in tow." "It is possible that he'll try to contact you?" Nell wished that he would. She shook her head. "No. He's been pretty adamant about me staying out of this." Franklin's eyebrows lifted. "And this is what you call staying out of it?" She didn't answer that. He was silent for several long moments. "To be honest with you, Miss Burns, in the conversations I've had with Lieutenant Hawken, I didn't get a real strong sense that he cared a whole lot about this hearing. He seemed very...distant and...odd, I guess would be the best word for it. When I asked, he told me he didn't conspire to kill Admiral Robinson. But the evidence those ballistic reports provides is damning. And I can't help but wonder if perhaps this man didn't suffer some kind of breakdown, or—" "No," Nell said. "...post-traumatic stress syndrome, or—" "No," she said more loudly. "It's just that he was positively strange." "That's just his way. When things get hard to deal with, he shuts himself down. He loved Jake," she said again, "and these past few weeks must've been hell for him. To lose a man he loved like a father, and then be accused of killing that man?" Nell held his gaze steadily. "Look, Captain, I've been thinking. Whoever did kill Jake knew about his relationship with Billy. They used him to get the assassins into Jake's house. That's the only reason Billy— Crash—was there that night." Franklin didn't hide his skepticism. "And the ballistic reports are totally wrong...?" "Yes," Nell agreed. "They're wrong. I think someone made a mistake in the lab. I think the tests should be run again. In fact, as Crash's lawyer, you should demand that the guns be tested again." The captain just looked at her. Then he sighed. “You really don't think Hawken did this, do you?" "I don't just think it, I know it," she said. "Billy did not kill Jake." Franklin sighed again. And then he pulled a notepad and a pen from his inside jacket pocket. He took a business card with his name and phone number on it and slid it across the table toward her. "That's my number," he said. "You better give me yours. Address, too. And spell your last name for me while you're at it." "Thank you." Nell felt almost weak with relief as she pocketed his card and gave him all the information he needed. "Don't thank me yet," he said. "I'll talk to the judge about the possibility of getting those weapons retested. It's a long shot. There's no guarantee the court will foot the bill for that kind of redundant expense." "I'll pay," she told him. "Tell the judge that I'll pay to have the ballistic tests redone. I don't care what it costs, I'll take care of it." Captain Franklin closed his pad and slipped it back into his pocket. As he got to his feet, he held out his hand for Nell to shake. "Thank you, Captain," she said again. He didn't release her hand right away. "Miss Burns, God forbid I should ever get into the kind of trouble Lieutenant Hawken is in right now, but if I do, I sincerely hope I'd have someone who believed in me the way you believe in him." He smiled. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but he's a lucky man to

have a friend like you." "Please call the judge, Captain," Nell said. "The sooner the better." Nell couldn't sleep. It was 2:00 a.m. before she finished writing a grant proposal seeking funds for the theater, but even after she E-mailed a copy of the draft to Amie, she still was far too restless to sleep. Crash was out there somewhere. For the first night in weeks, Nell didn't know exactly where he was. She prowled around the kitchen once, opening the refrigerator door but, of course, finding nothing exciting inside. She then pulled on her sneakers and leather jacket. Dunkin' Donuts was calling. Five blocks away, there was a very exciting honey-dipped donut with her name on it. Nell turned out the light and locked the door, ready to walk, but the air was so sharply cold, she hurried to her car instead. There had been a real cold spell like this last December, too, she remembered. It had even snowed. Crash had forced her to go sledding and... And he hadn't kissed her. Yeah, that had been just another of the many, many nights that he hadn't kissed her. She pulled out from the curb, gunning the engine, hoping her car would warm up soon so she could turn on the heat. That lawyer, Captain Franklin, had been really impressed by her loyalty to Crash. But the truth was, she was an idiot. She was a certified fool. There was nothing, nothing that bound the two of them together, except for her own, misguided wishful thinking. Nearly a year ago, she'd had sex with the man. That's all it had been. Sex. Period, the end. All the intensity and seemingly high emotions of the moment had nothing to do with his feelings for her. All the emotion of that night had been about Daisy's death. When Crash had kissed her so fiercely, when he'd driven himself hard inside her, it wasn't because he wanted to join himself emotionally with Nell. No, what they'd done had been purely physical. He'd been using sex as a release for his pain and anger. He'd been taking temporary comfort in surrounding himself with her warm body. She could have been any warm body, any nameless, faceless woman. Her identity truly hadn't mattered. The stupid thing was, Nell had been more hurt by the fact that Crash had ended their friendship than by his honest admission that the sex had been nothing more than sex. She'd written him letters. She'd been brutally honest, too, telling him that she hoped that what had happened between them wouldn't affect their friendship. She'd asked him to call her when he was in town. He hadn't called. And he hadn't written. And if this mess hadn't happened, Nell knew that she never would have so much as seen Crash Hawken again. As she approached, she saw that the orange-lettered Dun-kin' Donuts sign was dark. The all-night shop was inexplicably closed, and Nell said all of the absolutely worst bad words that she knew. She even said some of them twice. And then she kept driving. Somewhere in the District of Columbia there was a donut shop that was open right now, and dammit, she was going to find it. Nell took a right turn, suddenly aware that she was driving the still-familiar route from the city to the Robinson farm. She knew for a fact that there were no donut shops between here and there, but she kept going, pulled in that direction. The interstate was empty except for a few truckers. She kept the radio off during the twenty-minute drive, waiting for the hum of the tires to lull her into a state of fatigue. It didn't happen. When she pulled off at the exit for the farm, she was as wide awake as ever. It was more than six months since she'd come out here to pick up a painting of Daisy's that Jake had wanted her to have for the new house. It had been summer then, but now the trees were bare, their branches reaching up toward the sky like skinny arms with clawed hands, tormented by the cold wind. God, she hated winter. Why on earth had she bought a house here in D.C., rather than down in Florida? What had she been thinking? She hadn't really been thinking that sooner or later Crash would come back and knock on her door. She hadn't ac tually believed that he'd just appear in her bedroom one night, although for a while, she'd gotten a lot of mileage out of that fantasy. No, he'd made it more than clear that he didn't want her. And she wasn't the type to face that kind of rejection more than once. But despite the fact that he clearly felt otherwise, she was still his friend. She had been his friend before that one night they'd slept together. And she could be a grown-up about the whole thing, and still be his friend. But not if he didn't want to be hers. Slowing to a stop as she finally approached the gates of the farm, her eyes filled with tears.

The Robinsons' farm had always buzzed with life. Even in the dead of night, there had been an intensity about the place—the lights were always on, there was a sense of someone being home. But now the place was deserted. The dark windows of the house looked mournfully empty. Sagging yellow police tape flapped pathetically in the wind. And there already was a For Sale sign on the gate. Her first reaction was outrage. Jake had been dead less than two weeks, and already someone was selling off his beloved farm. But then reality crept in. The farm meant nothing to Jake now. Whichever of his distant relatives who'd inherited the place obviously realized that holding on to the property wouldn't do anyone any good. It wouldn't bring Jake back from wherever he'd gone—that was for sure. Wherever he' d gone... Wherever he was, she hoped he'd found Daisy again. When Nell closed her eyes, she could picture Jake danc ing with Daisy. The image was so clear, so real. In her mind's eye, they were both alive, vibrant and laughing. It was bitterly ironic. Even as ghosts Jake and Daisy were more alive than either Nell or Crash. The two who had survived were the ones who wouldn't let themselves live. They were quite a pair—one who willingly deadened himself by stepping back from his emotions, and one who was too afraid to live life to its fullest. Except Nell wasn't afraid anymore. She'd stopped being afraid on the night she'd found out Jake had died, but Crash was still alive. He was still alive, and dammit, she was going to be his friend, whether he liked it or not. He was still alive, and she was going to fight for him. She was going to do whatever she had to in order to tell the entire world that he was an innocent man, that he'd been falsely accused. In fact, she was going to go home and first thing in the morning, she was going to call every single reporter and news contact that she had in her media file. She was going to hold a press conference. And she was going to make damn sure those ballistic tests were redone. Hell, she was even feeling brave enough to ski down Mount Washington with a banner proclaiming Crash's innocence if that would help. Nell turned her car around and headed for home. It was 4:00 a.m., but there was a traffic jam on Nell's street. There was a traffic jam totally blocking the road, caused by four different fire trucks and three TV-news vans. And they were blocking the road because Nell's house was on fire. Her house was on fire. She didn't bother to park. She just turned off the engine right there in the middle of the road and got out of her car. She could feel the heat of the blaze from where she was standing. She could see flames licking out every single window. "You better move that car!" one of the firemen shouted to her. "I can't," she said dazedly. "My garage is on fire." "Are you the owner?" She nodded. She was the owner—but what she owned was going to be little more than a charred pile of ashes before this was over. "Hey, Ted, we found the lady who lives here!" Another, shorter man approached. His hat identified him as the fire chief. "Is there anyone else inside?" he asked. Nell shook her head, staring at the flames. "No." "Thank God." He raised his voice. "There's no one inside. Everyone get out of there, pronto!" "How could this have happened?"

"It's probably an electrical fire," the chief told her. "It probably started small, but an old place like this'll go up like a tinderbox, especially this time of year. We'll have a better idea of how it started after it's out and we can go in and look around. Whatever the case, you're lucky you weren't home, or we'd probably be pulling your body out of there right now." She was lucky. She was incredibly lucky. Nell couldn't remember the last time she'd not only been awake this late, but had left the house as well. She was damned lucky. She tried very hard to feel lucky as she stood in the early morning darkness and watched everything she owned but her car and the clothes on her back go up in smoke. There were things that were burning right now that couldn't be replaced. Photographs. She'd had a really great photo of her and Crash and Jake that Daisy had taken. All of her books and CDs, the dishes her grandmother had given her, Daisy's irreplaceable watercolor painting. It was all gone. She'd been out of the house for only two hours, and just like that, nearly everything she'd cherished was gone. Tears filled her eyes, and she fought them. She was lucky, dammit. She could have died. It was dawn before the fire was down to a smolder, mid-morning before the insurance forms were filled out and the paperwork was filed. Nell drove to the Ritz-Carlton—one of the fanciest hotels in town—and checked herself into a very expensive room. She deserved it. She was exhausted, but she took the time to call Captain Franklin's office, leaving the hotel phone number with the lawyer's administrative staff, with a message asking him to call if he heard any news of Crash's whereabouts. Tired to the bone, Nell peeled off her clothes, climbed into bed and fell almost instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 11 The curtains were hanging open an inch or two, and Crash quietly slid them all the way closed. They were effective in shutting out the last streaks of light in the late afternoon sky. He moved silently through the now complete darkness of the room, toward the bathroom that was next to the door. He closed the bathroom door all but an inch, and turned on the bathroom light. It was dim, but no longer pitch-black. He went back into the other room. Yeah, it was bright enough for him to be able to see Nell's face as she slept. She was curled up in the middle of the hotel room's king-size bed. The blankets covered all but her face and the very top of her head. She slept fiercely, eyes tightly shut. Crash stood for a moment, just watching her, wishing he didn't have to disturb her, wishing for things he couldn't have. But there was no time now to let her sleep, and there'd never been time for the other things he wanted. "Nell," he said quietly. She didn't move. He nudged the bed with his leg. "Nell, I'm sorry, but you've got to wake up." Nothing. He sat down on the bed, leaning over to gently shake her shoulder. "Nell." Her eyes opened and widened in fear. Crash knew at that moment that he'd made a mistake. With the bathroom light shining dimly behind him, she couldn't see his face. All she could see was a big, dark figure looming menacingly over her. She took a deep breath to scream, and he quickly put his hand over her mouth. "Nell, shhh! It's me. Crash. Billy.” She sat up, shaking herself free from his hand, all but launching herself into his arms. "Billy! God! You scared me to death! Thank God you're all right!" She pulled back to look at him in the darkness. "Are you all right?" She smelled so good. Crash wanted nothing more than to bury his face in her hair and just sit on that bed with his arms around her. But that wasn't why he'd come. And after that one initial hug, Nell seemed as eager as he was to put distance between them. She let go of him quickly when he released her, wrapping her arms around her knees as he stood up. "I can't believe you came here. How did you find me?" Her low, husky voice was so familiar, so warm. God, how he'd missed her. He had to keep distance between them, or he was going to be tempted to do something that he'd later regret. Again. Crash turned on the desk lamp. "It wasn't that hard." "My house burned down last night. I went out for a doughnut, and when I came back, my house was on fire." "I know." When he'd seen the picture in the newspaper and realized it was Nell's house that had burned, his heart had stopped beating. And when he'd read that no one had been killed or injured, he'd gotten dizzy with relief. And even though he'd had plenty of other things to do in his quest to find the man responsible for Jake's death, Crash had spent the entire afternoon tracking Nell down. There was no way, no way he was going to let her die, too. She ran one hand back through her hair as if she was suddenly conscious of the fact that it was rumpled from sleep. And she pulled the blanket up a little higher around her neck. Crash saw that her jeans and shirt were in a pile on the floor. Under those covers she was wearing only her underwear. Or less. He had to turn away from her. He couldn't let his thoughts move in that direction. "I can't believe you came to me for help," she said quietly. He couldn't keep himself from turning back to look at her. Was that really what she thought? That he'd come here because he wanted or needed her help? "I spoke to your lawyer about having the ballistic tests repeated," Nell told him.

She looked far too good in the soft, romantic light, sitting there, possibly naked beneath the covers of an Olympic-event-sized bed. Crash turned on another lamp, and then another, trying to make the room as glaringly bright as possible. "So that's what it was." She squinted slightly in the brightness. "That's what what was?" "That's why they tried to kill you." She stared at him. "Excuse me?" He couldn't keep himself from pacing. "You don't really think that fire was an accident, do you?" “According to the experts in the fire department, it was an electrical malfunction. The wiring was ancient, there was a power surge and—" "Nell, someone tried to kill you. That's why I'm here. To make sure that when they try again, they don't succeed." She was so completely blown away she almost dropped the blanket. "Billy! God! Who would want to kill me?" "Probably the same person who killed Jake and framed me," Crash told her. "Did you tell anyone you were coming to this hotel?" Nell shook her head. "No. Wait. Yes. I called your lawyer and left this phone number in case he needed to get in touch with me." He swore softly and Nell realized how infrequently she'd heard him use that kind of language. Even words like damn or hell—they just weren't part of his normal working vocabulary. He picked up her clothes and put them next to her on the bed. "I'll go into the bathroom while you get dressed. And then we have to get out of here. Fast." Nell quickly pulled on her shirt and slipped into her jeans before he'd even closed the bathroom door. "Billy, wait! You honestly think that whoever killed Jake is somehow privileged to your Navy lawyer's phone messages? Doesn't that sound just a little paranoid...?" He pulled open the bathroom door and looked at her. He was dressed entirely in black. Black fatigues, black boots, black turtleneck, black winter jacket. Underneath the jacket he was wearing what looked to be some kind of equipment vest—also black. His preference for wearing black had nothing to do with fashion, she realized. He was dressed to blend with the shadows of the night. "Here's what we know about the man we're after," Crash told her. "We believe him to be a U.S. Navy commander with a lot of connections. Whether he's that or not, we do know for certain that... We. God, listen to me." His voice shook. "I'm talking as if Jake is still alive." He swiftly turned away from her, and for a minute Nell was certain that he was going to put his fist through the bathroom door. Instead he stopped himself, and slowly, carefully laid the palm of his hand against the wood instead. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was steady. “I know for sure that this son of a bitch has got something to hide, something he was afraid Jake was about to uncover. And that something— whatever it is—is so important to him, he'd risk his eternal soul to keep it secret. He had Jake killed, and set me up to take the fall. Whoever he is, he's powerful enough to falsify the results of those ballistic tests and believe me, that couldn't have been easy to do." Crash turned to face her. "Since he's already killed once, I wouldn't put it past him to decide that it'd be easier to kill you than to do whatever he'd had to do to fake those test results all over again. So, yes, it sounds paranoid, but I can't assume that someone that powerful won't have access to the information coming into and out of Captain Franklin's law office." His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and the severe style emphasized his high cheekbones, making his face look starkly handsome. And his eyes... The burning intensity in those eyes had haunted her dreams. "Come on, Nell," he said softly as her silence stretched on. "Don't quit believing in me now." As crazy as his theory was, it was clear that he believed it. "You didn't come here to ask me to help you," Nell realized. "You came because you think / need your help." He didn't answer. He didn't have to answer. "What if I said I didn't want your help?" she asked. It was clear from the look on his face that he knew where she was going. She was revisiting the words he'd said to her. 'This is different." "No, it's not. We both think the other needs saving." Nell crossed her arms. "You want to save me? You better be ready to let me help save you." "Maybe we can argue about this in the car." She nodded, feeling lighter in spirit than she had in a long time. He may not have written. He may not have called. But he'd put in an appearance when he thought her life was in danger. Despite everything he'd said and done, he cared—he was still her friend. Friend, she repeated to herself firmly. He'd jumped back as if her touch had burned him. It was clear that he had no intention of letting their relationship move past the friendship stage ever again. And that was good because she felt that way, too. She had absolutely no intention of

making the same mistake twice. "I'll put on my boots, and we can go." She turned back to look at him. "Do we have a destination in mind?" "I'll tell you in the car." A loud knock sounded on the hotel-room door, and Nell jumped. She hadn't seen Crash move, but suddenly he had a gun in his hand. He motioned for her to be silent, and to back away from the door. Whoever was out there knocked again. "Room service. I have complimentary hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of nonalcoholic Chablis for Ms. Burns." Crash moved back toward her and spoke almost silently into her ear. "Tell him to leave it outside the door. Tell him you're just about to take a shower. Then get under the bed, do you understand?" She nodded, unable to pull her eyes away from his gun. It was enormous and deadly-looking. This was the closest she'd ever come to that kind of weapon. And it was amazing in more than one way—despite the fact that Crash was the subject of the biggest manhunt of the decade, he'd somehow managed to arm himself. He was holding her arm, and he gave her a quick squeeze before he released her. He moved quickly around the room, turning off all the lights that he'd turned on earlier. Nell cleared her throat, raising her voice so that the person on the other side of the door could hear her. "I'm sorry, you caught me at a bad time. I'm just about to step into the shower. Can you leave it outside the door?" "Will do," the voice cheerfully replied. "Have a good evening." Crash motioned for her to move. As she slid underneath the bed, she saw him go to into the bathroom and heard the sound of the shower going on. It all seemed kind of silly. The person who'd knocked on the door was probably a room-service waiter, just as he'd said. She lifted the dust ruffle and saw Crash come back out of the bathroom. He sure didn't seem to think it was at all silly. He stood in the shadows, out of sight of the door, his gun held at the ready. Holding the gun that way, with his mouth set in equally grim resolve, he looked incredibly dangerous. Crash had told her once that she didn't really know him, that he had only let her see a small, very whitewashed part of him. Nell had a feeling that if she was wrong and there really was someone outside her door who wanted to hurt her, in the next few minutes she was going to get a good look at the other side of Crash. She was going to see the Navy SEAL in action. And then she saw the door to her room open. The sound of the bolt being drawn back was drowned out by the noise from the shower. The bathroom door was ajar, and in the light that came through it, she saw a man come into the room. He wasn't carrying a plate of cheese or a bottle of wine. Instead, he held a gun like Crash's. Nell's heart was pounding. Crash had been right. This man had come here to kill her. The intruder gently closed the door behind him, careful not to make any noise. He was smaller than Crash, more wiry than Crash, and he had less hair on the top of his head than Crash. But his gun looked just as deadly. As Nell watched, he pushed open the bathroom door. That was when Crash moved. One moment he was in the shadows, and the next he was almost on top of the man, his gun pressed against the back of his head. Even his voice sounded different—harsher, rougher. "Drop it." The man froze but only for a second. Crash knew when the man didn't instantly drop his weapon that this guy was not going to go down easily. The gunman's hesitation only lasted a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Crash to anticipate his next move. He was, rightly, calling Crash's bluff. It didn't take the brain of a rocket scientist to figure out that, at this point, this gunman was the only potential link Crash had to the mysterious commander. The only real reason Crash had to shoot this man was to protect Nell. The gunman, on the other hand, had no reason whatsoever not to shoot Crash. But Crash was a nanosecond ahead of him. He hit the man hard on the side of the head with the barrel of his weapon, even as he disarmed him with a well-placed kick. The man's handgun hit the door frame and bounced back, skittering across the rug and into the center of the room. The blow to the head that Crash had delivered would have taken damn near anyone else in the world down, and down hard, but this guy wasn't about to call it a day.

Pain exploded as the gunman smashed his fist back into Crash's face and elbowed him hard in the ribs. The man tucked his chin against his chest, bending over in an attempt to throw the SEAL over his shoulder. But pain or no pain, Crash anticipated that move, too, and instead, the gunman hit the floor. But he went down willingly, diving out into the room, going for his weapon. The gun wasn't there. Crash silently blessed Nell as he leapt on top of the man. The bastard fought as if he was possessed by the devil, but Crash would have taken on Satan himself in order to keep Nell safe. He hit the man again and again and again until finally, finally he delivered a knockout punch and the son of a bitch sagged. Searching the gunman quickly, Crash came up with a smaller automatic and a large combat knife. Both weapons had been securely holstered and —luckily for him—totally unreachable during the fight. He looked up to see Nell peeking out from underneath the bed. "Are you all right?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Oh, God, you're bleeding." His cheek had been cut by the fancy ring the gunman wore on his pinky finger. Crash used the back of his hand to blot it "I'm fine," he said. A little scrape like that didn't matter. Nor was the bruise he was going to get along his ribs even worth mentioning. He'd hurt when he laughed for the next few days. But since he couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed, he didn't think that would be much of a problem. Crash pulled the man's wallet from the back pocket of his pants. There was a driver's license inside, along with several suspiciously new-looking credit cards. There were no papers, no receipts, no photos of child or wife, no little scraps of life. "Who is he?" "He's currently going by the name Sheldon Sarkowski," he told her. "But that's not his real name." "It's not?" She began inching out from her hiding place, gingerly pushing Sheldon's handgun in front of her. "Nope. He's a pro. He probably doesn't even remember his real name anymore." Crash took the weapon, pulled out the clip and stored both pieces in his vest, along with the other weapons he'd taken from the gunman. "What are we going to do with him?" "We're going to tie him up and take him with us. I have a question or two to ask him when he wakes up." Nell had climbed to her feet, but then backed up so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was so pale, she looked almost gray. "Are you all right?" he asked. "We've got to get out of here right now before this guy's backup comes to see what's taking him so long. Are you going to be able to walk?" "Yeah, I'm just...getting used to the idea that someone named Sheldon came in here to kill me." Crash stood up. "I'm not going to let anyone hurt you, Nell. I swear, I'll keep you safe if it's the last thing I do." Nell gazed up at him. "I believe you," she told him.

Chapter 12 “What exactly are we going to do with the guy in the trunk?" Nell laughed in disbelief as she turned slightly in her seat to face Crash. "I can't believe I just said that. I can't believe we've actually got a guy in the trunk. Isn't that very uncomfortable for him?" Crash glanced at her. "That's his tough luck. He should've thought of that before he broke into your hotel room to kill you." "Good point." Nell was silent for a moment, staring out the windshield at the stars. She looked over at Crash again. "So where are we going?" "To California." "By car?" He glanced at her again. "They'll be looking for me at all the airports." "Of course. I'm sorry. I..." Nell shook her head. "How long is it going to take us to get there?" “Depends on how many times we stop to sleep. We've got to stop at least once so that I can question Sarkowski." At least once. He wasn't kidding. They were going to drive all the way from the District of Columbia to California and they were quite possibly going to stop to sleep only once. The car was luxurious. It was compact, but the seats were covered with soft leather that would be comfortable for sleeping. The back seat was big enough for her to curl up on. Currently, it was covered by several gym bags, a suitcase and what looked to be a laptop computer case. "Where did you get all this stuff?" she asked. "This car?" "The car belongs to a Navy officer who's doing a six month tour on an aircraft carrier. I liberated it from storage. Same with the gear." Liberated was just a fancy word for stole. "I have every intention of returning everything," he told her, as if he knew what she was thinking. "Except maybe the bullets and some of the explosives." Explosives? Bullets? Nell changed the subject. "So what's in California?" she asked. "And where in California are we going? It's a pretty big state." He gave her another glance before turning his attention back to the road. He turned on the radio to a classic rock station, adjusting the controls so that the signal only went to the speakers in the back. "In case Sarkowski wakes up," he explained. "I don't want him to bored." What he really didn't want was for the man who was tied up in the trunk to regain consciousness and overhear their conversation. Nell waited for him to answer her question, but one mile rolled by and then two, and he still didn't speak. "Oh, please," she said, exasperated. "We're not going to play this game again, are we? I ask you a question and you don't answer it. Can't you do something different for a change? Like tell me the truth about what's going on?" It was starting to rain, and Crash put on the windshield wipers. He glanced at her again, but he didn't say a word. "Because if we're going to play that old, dull game," Nell continued, "you'd better get off at the next exit. In fact, if you don't tell me everything, and I mean everything, starting from what happened at Jake's house, you can just pull over and let me out right now." "I'm sorry," Crash said quietly. "I wasn't purposely not answering you. I was just thinking that..." He hesitated. "Your apology will go a whole lot further if you actually finish that sentence." "I was thinking that as a SEAL, I can't talk about any of this." He glanced at her again. His eyes looked almost silver in the darkness, his face shadowed and mysterious. "But I'm not a SEAL anymore." Crash had been stripped of his commission, his pride, his very soul. There was a very strong chance that he was going to lose his life as well, finding and taking down the mysterious commander. The truth was, he was prepared to die, if necessary. Most of what he'd already lost was more valuable to him than his life. But if he was going to die, he wanted someone to know the whole story. He wanted someone to know what had really happened. And he knew he could trust Nell. “You already know that I do—did—special assignments for Jake," he said. "Yeah." Nell nodded. "But I'm not really sure what that entailed."

"Jake would send me a coded file, usually electronically. These files were specially programmed so they couldn't be copied, and they were designed to self-delete after a very short time, so there'd be no information trail." Crash could feel her watching him. She was all but holding her breath, waiting for him to continue. With the exception of that one time he'd told her the story of how Daisy had pulled him out of summer camp, he knew she'd never heard him string together so many sentences. “The file would contain information about a situation that needed checking into, or correcting or...some other type of...revision, shall we say," he continued. "It would include a mission objective as well as recommended courses of action. Sometimes the objective was simply to gather more information. Sometimes it was more... complicated. But when I was out in the real world, working the op, my team and I—and Jake usually only assigned two or three other SEALs to work with me—we were on our own. “Anyway, Jake sent me an encoded file on the morning he was shot. I had just flown in to D.C. from California that same day. I was coming home after spending nearly six straight months out of the country. Usually the first thing I do when I get stateside is take a few days of leave— get a haircut and go out to the farm to see Jake and Daisy." He caught himself and shook his head. "Just Jake, now. But when I arrived at the base, Captain Lovett called me into his office and told me that he was organizing a special team. He said he'd received orders to go out to the farm and provide additional security. He said the admiral had been receiving death threats. And he asked if I wanted to be part of this special security team." "Of course you said yes." Crash nodded. “I tried calling the farm as soon as I left Lovett's office, but I couldn't get through. And then I didn't have time to do much more than organize my gear before I had to meet Lovett and the other members of the team." It had been lightly raining that night, too. He glanced at Nell and cleared his throat. "When I got to the chopper—our means of transport out to the farm— there were three men there I'd never seen before. I was tired. I hadn't slept in a full forty-eight hours, so I passed my suspicions off as fatigue-induced paranoia. Lovett knew these men, and he seemed to know them well. I figured everything was kosher." He paused. "I figured wrong." "When we got to the farm, Jake seemed really surprised to see us, like no one had told him a SEAL Team would be coming out," Crash continued. "That should have clinched it for me. I should have known then that something was off." He clenched his teeth. "But I didn't, and Jake died. But before he died, he told me about the file he'd sent." He turned to glance at Nell. "He believed that he was shot in an attempt to cover up the information he'd sent me in that file—that to keep his investigation from going any further, someone had set up this hit." Nell nodded slowly. "And you think he was right, don't you?" "Yeah." The rain was turning slushy and thick against the windshield. The night was getting cold, but it was nice and warm inside the car. Too warm. He glanced at Nell again. The way she was sitting, turned slightly toward him, her knee was only an inch and a half away from his thigh. Because of the car's compact design, she was sitting close enough to touch. She was close enough so that even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't have avoided breathing in her sweet perfume. He looked at the odometer. They'd only traveled forty-seven miles. Two thousand six hundred and fifty-three to go. Crash stared at the road, trying to clear his mind, to desensitize himself to the scent of her perfume and the sound of her voice. He tried to focus on the feel of the leather-covered steering wheel beneath his hands, but all he could think about was the soft down that grew at the nape of her neck, and the silky smoothness of her bare back. Her skin was impossibly soft, like a baby's. He'd let himself touch her, that night she'd spent in his room. After she'd fallen asleep, he'd allowed himself the luxury of running his fingers across her shoulders, down her back and along her arm until he, too, had fallen into a deep sleep. He forced the image away. This was not the time to be thinking of Nell that way—at the beginning of a 2700-mile journey, at the start of a mission that in all likelihood was not going to end well. “Can you tell me what was in the file Jake sent you?" she asked softly. Crash kept his eyes on the road. "No, but I'm going to tell you anyway." “You...are." Nell couldn't believe what she was hearing. He was going to tell her top-secret, classified information. "The mission objective was investigation. Jake believed there was a cover-up going on—that someone had screwed up bad during a SEAL training operation that took place six months ago. "See, there's a small island nation in Southeast Asia," Crash told her, "that for the past forty years has been one of the major ports for illegal drug trafficking. When the United States began actively trying to cut off drug dealers closer to their source, we worked to establish an alliance with this island's government. "Right up until recently," he continued, "we'd managed to build a foundation for a relationship that would be good for both countries." Nell leaned back against the headrest, watching Crash as he drove. He was a good driver, always checking the mirrors, holding the wheel with both hands. She felt safe sitting next to him, despite the fact that he was number one on FInCOM's most-wanted, armed-and-dangerous list.

"But then, about six months ago, I was part of a team that intended to use this island as a training site. I'd hooked up with some SEALs from Team Ten's elite Alpha Squad, and we took four FInCOM agents to this island on a training mission to show them how we can kick ass in a potential terrorists-with-hostage situation. We were going to execute a rescue op, going up against some Jarheads on the island, who were going to play the part of the tangos." "Whoa," Nell said. "Back up a sec. You lost me. Jar-heads and tangos?" "I'm sorry. Jarheads are marines—the nickname comes from their haircut. And tango's radio talk for the letter T, which is short for terrorists." "Got it. Go on," she ordered him. "When we inserted onto the island, we found ourselves jammed in the middle of one of the biggest training op snafus I've ever dealt with. See, as we approached the site where the simulated rescue mission was to take place, we found two KIAs." He interpreted before she could even ask. “We found the bodies of two of our marine friends— killed in action." "My God." Nell sat up, transfixed by his story. "What happened?" He glanced at her. "Apparently a firefight had broken out between the two major drug lords on the island between the time we left our ship and the time we hit the training site." "Firefight. You mean, a gun battle between the two gangs, right?" "Yeah," Crash told her, "but I wouldn't call them gangs. Both the drug lords had private armies with state-of-the-art technology. We're talking thousands of men and name-brand firepower. These armies were more powerful than the government's own armed forces. What started that day was more like a full-scale civil war." He glanced at her. “The average yearly income of the men who owned these armies was higher than the entire GNP of this country. One of 'em was an American expatriate named John Sherman—a former Green Beret, which really pissed off the Jarheads. The other was a local man named Kim, nicknamed 'the Korean,' because his father was from there. "Sherman and Kim had been careful not to go into each other's territory for years, and more than once, they'd helped each other out. But on that day, whatever agreement Sherman and Kim had between them disintegrated. And when they clashed, lots of innocent people were caught in the crossfire." He took a deep breath. "It wasn't easy, but we finally got all of Alpha Squad and the surviving marines off the island. But the fighting went on for days after that. When the smoke cleared, the body count was in the tens of thousands, and property damage was in the millions. The only good thing that came of it was that both Sherman and Kim were killed, too." He was silent for a minute, and the sound of the windshield wipers beat a rhythm that wasn't in sync with the Christmas pop song playing on the radio. "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree." "I don't get it," Nell finally said. "You said there was some kind of cover-up. What was there to cover up?" "The file Jake sent me contained a copy of a secret deposition taken from Kim's widow," Crash told her. "She claimed to have overheard a conversation in which an American Naval commander supposedly approached Kim and told him that the Americans would look the other way when he did business, on the condition that Kim use his army to destroy John Sherman and his troops. There's no single officer in the entire U.S. Navy— admirals included— who has authority to make this kind of bogus deal, but apparently Kim didn't know that. The deal was done and the Korean began planning a surprise attack on Sherman's stronghold. "But news of the so-called agreement and the impending attack was leaked—for all we know, Kim's wife sold him out—and Sherman struck first. It was during this initial attack that our marines were targeted, too, and two of them were killed." Crash glanced at Nell. Her face was only dimly illuminated by the greenish dashboard light, but he could see that she was hanging onto his every word, her eyes wide. It was clear that she trusted him. She believed every word that fell from his lips. Even now, after the way he'd abused her friendship—all those letters he never answered, all those times he'd kept himself from calling—she had total faith in him. Something inside him tightened and twisted, and he knew with a sickening certainty that he'd let far more than he'd ever dreamed possible walk out of his room when Nell had left that morning, nearly an entire year ago. And now it was too late. He held the steering wheel tightly, telling himself that he'd been right to let her go. He'd been home all of five weeks in the past twelve months. Of course, he'd volunteered for every overseas assignment he could get his hands on. If he'd wanted to, he could have spent most of that time in the States. But still, what he felt, what he wanted, shouldn't really matter. The truth was exactly the same now as it had been a year ago. Nell deserved better than he could give her. Of course, in Crash's opinion, she deserved better than Dexter Lancaster, too, but even the lawyer won points simply for being available. "Hey," Nell said. "Are you going to tell me the rest of this story, or do I have to figure out where to drop the quarter in to get you talking again?" Crash glanced at her. "Sorry. I was—"

"Thinking," she finished for him. "I know. Trying to figure out how to track down this commander, right?" "Something like that." "Are you sure it's not just a rumor? You know, things go bad, and everybody tries to figure out who's to blame." "In the aftermath, there were tons of rumors," he admitted. "There were people who believed that the U.S. did make a deal with Kim. There were people who believed that rumors of the agreement between Kim and the United States were falsely planted by the U.S. to cause Kim and Sherman to wipe each other out. But none of that was true. I'm very familiar with the policies used in dealing with this island, and I know we stood to gain far more by playing by the rules. "If this commander really did make a deal with Kim, and I believe he did, he's responsible for starting a war. Thousands of innocent civilians were killed. Not to mention the fact that our alliance with this country has totally crumbled—all of their trust in us is gone. All the work we'd done to maintain goodwill and cooperation in stopping the drug traffic closer to its source was for nothing. The entire program's been set back a good twenty years." "But if you don't know who the commander is," Nell said. "How are you going to find him? There must be thousands of commanders in the U.S. Navy. Kim's wife didn't know his name? Not even his first name? A nickname?" Crash shook his head. "No." "Can she describe him?" Nell asked. "Maybe make some kind of police composite sketch?" He glanced at her again. "She's disappeared." "And Jake really seemed to think she was telling the truth, huh?" Nell asked. "He told me," Crash said. He had to stop and clear his throat. "After he was shot, he was still conscious for a while, and he told me that whoever this commander was, he had to be behind the shooting. I believe that, too. This son of a bitch killed Jake and framed me. And now he's trying to kill you, too." Nell was silent, her eyes narrowed slightly as she stared out at the mixture of sleet and snow falling on the windshield. "What was his motive?" she finally asked. "This commander. What did he stand to gain by starting this civil war between Kim and what's-his-name?" "John Sherman," Crash supplied the name. "I've been running that same question through my mind ever since I read the file. It's entirely possible that things went as wrong for the commander as they went for the rest of us. And in that case, his intent probably wasn't to start a civil war." He glanced at her. "I have a theory." "Spill." He looked at her again. Yes, that was kind of what it felt like. After so many years of silence, everything inside of him was in danger of spilling out. "My theory is that the commander's motive was exactly what he'd told Kim. He wanted John Sherman dead. My theory is that this commander didn't give a damn about the drugs or the armies. My theory is that it was personal." "Personal?" "A man like Sherman's got to have lots of enemies. Over in Vietnam, his unit specialized in liberating large shipments of drugs and confiscating stashes of weapons. He spent quite a few years taking half of everything he liberated for himself—and turning around and selling it back to the highest bidder. It didn't matter that he was selling it to the enemy. Word got out that he was doing this, but before he was arrested he went AWOL." "And you think, what? This commander was getting back at him for having gotten away?" "I think it's possible that our commander served with Sherman in 'Nam. In fact, I've gained Internet access to some Navy personnel files, and I've hit on a list of three names—two commanders and one recently promoted rear admiral. They all served in Vietnam at the same time as Sherman. And they're all still on the active-duty list. I sent them vaguely threatening E-mail messages—you know, 'I know who you are. I know what you did.' But so far none of them have responded. I didn't really expect them to—it was kind of a long shot." He shook his head. "Think about all the people we called last year, about Daisy and Jake's wedding," Nell said. "It seemed like every other man was Colonel This or Captain That. The guy you're looking for could have been retired for years and still be addressed as 'Commander.'" "I know. And the list of retired Navy commanders who served in 'Nam when Sherman did is probably ten pages long." He looked over at Nell and smiled grimly. "If I want to find this bastard—and I do—my best bet is to try to shake some information loose from our friend who's napping in the trunk. But first I'm going to get you to a safe place." "Excuse me?" She was giving him her best are-you-kidding? look, brows elevated and eyes opened wide. "I thought we'd decided that help was a two-way street—that I'd let you help me, on the condition that you let me help you." "There's nothing you can do to help me." "Want to bet? I have an idea how I can help you get that information you need from our dear friend Sheldon. Without me, it'll be much harder. I may not be enough of an actress to win an Oscar, but I'm good enough to pull this off. We just need to stop at a convenience store and—"

"Nell, I don't want your help." Despite everything that Crash had told her, there was still so much that he hadn't said—so much that hadn't spilled out. He hadn't told her how sitting so close to her in this car was slowly driving him crazy from wanting to touch her. He hadn't told her about the sheer terror he'd felt when he picked up that newspaper and saw the picture of Nell's house engulfed in flames. He wasn't going to tell her about the way he'd stood in that hotel room and watched her as she'd slept, feeling a possessiveness he knew he had no right to feel, feeling an ache of longing and desire and need that he recognized as being something he had to push far, far away. Separate, distance, disengage. No, he didn't want any help from Nell. "Maybe you don't want my help," she said quietly. "Maybe you don't even need it. But this guy in the trunk came to kill me. I'm involved in this, Billy, as much as you are. At least hear me out."

Chapter 13 Nell was too nervous to eat. She tossed her half-eaten slice of pizza back into the box and watched as Crash unzipped one of the gym bags he'd brought in from the car. "Here's what we're going to do," he said in his deceptively soft voice, as he reached inside and pulled out a cylindrical tube that he screwed onto the barrel of his Dirty Harrv-sized handgun. "I'm going to ask you some questions, you're going to answer them and no one's going to get hurt." Sheldon Sarkowski's left eye was swollen shut and his lip was puffy and still bleeding slightly. He'd still been out cold when Crash had stopped along a deserted stretch of road and pulled him from the trunk and into the back seat. Sheldon's hands had been cuffed and his feet tied, but Crash had covered both rope and handcuffs with a blanket as he'd then carried the smaller man into the cheap motel room they'd rented for the night. There were only two or three other cars in the entire parking lot—none of them within shouting distance of their drafty room. And that was good—in case there was going to be shouting. And Nell suspected that there was going to be some shouting. Not that Crash would be doing it. She'd never heard him raise his voice to anything louder than mezzo piano. Crash had managed to rouse Sheldon once inside the room. An ice bucket full of cold water in the face had done the trick. The man now sat, sputtering and belligerent, tied very securely to a chair. The gunman clearly wasn't in a position of power, yet he still managed to laugh derisively at both Crash and the gun. "I'll tell you right now, I'm not saying anything. So what are you going to do, kill me?" Crash sat down on the bed, directly across from him, his gun held loosely on his lap. "Damn, Sheldon," he said. "Looks like you called my bluff." Nell spun to face him, turning away from the window where she'd been furtively peeking out at the parking lot. "Don't tell him that!" "But he's right," Crash said mildly. "Killing him doesn't do anyone any good." Nell took a deep breath, aware that her first line had been terribly overacted, and that she was in danger of breaking into giddy laughter. She went back to peeking out the window, praying that this would work. "I don't have a lot of options here," Crash was saying. He sounded kind of like Clint Eastwood—his voice was soft, almost whispery but with an underlying intensity that screamed of danger. "I guess I could shoot you in the knee, but that's so messy. And it's unnecessary. Because all I really want is to be put on the commander's payroll." Nell turned around again. "Hey—" Crash held up one hand, and she obediently fell silent. "Here's my deal, Sheldon," he said. "I've been set up. I didn't kill Admiral Robinson, but somehow those ballistic reports were fixed to say that I did. I haven't figured out yet how the commander managed that, but I will. And I haven't quite figured out the commander's connection to John Sherman, but I'll figure that out, too. Sooner or later, I'm going to know the whole nasty story—all the sordid little details." He paused and then said, still in that same quiet voice, "What I'm thinking right now is that my silence is worth something. See, I think both you and the commander know as well as I do that even if I were to prove myself innocent, even if I were acquitted for the charges that have been brought up against me, I'm never going to shake the damage that's been done to my name and my career. In fact, I know for a fact that my career with the SEALs is over. No one's going to want me on their team. "And since I'm no longer gainfully employed by my Uncle Sam," Crash continued, "I'm finding myself in a situation where I need a new source of income. I figure if the commander wants all the dirt I've already uncovered, and all the dirt I'm going to uncover about him to stay neatly under the rug, then he's going to have to pay. Two hundred and fifty thousand in small, unmarked bills." Crash stopped talking. Nell gave him several beats of silence just to make sure he really was done. Then she spoke. "I can't believe what I'm hearing." She really was a lousy actor. First she'd sounded too outraged, too over-the-top, and now she sounded too matter-of-fact. She wanted this guy to believe that she was intensely angry with Crash, not that she was bipolar. Anger, anger. How did people look and act when they were angry? More specifically, how did they look and act when they were angry with Crash? Nell had quite a bit of personal experience to draw on in that department. Over the past year, she'd spent a good amount of time angry as hell at herself, and angry at him, as well. Why hadn't he at least scribbled a two-line postcard, acknowledging her existence? “Dear Nell, got your letters, no longer interested in being your friend. Crash. P.S. Thanks for the sex. It was nice." Nice. He'd actually used that horribly insipid word to describe what they'd done that incredible, amazing, one-hundred-million-times-better-than-nice night.

Nell had been too emotionally overwhelmed to react at the time. But she'd had plenty of time to smolder in outrage since then. She invoked those feelings now, and shot a lethal look in Crash's direction. "I can not believe what you just said." Her voice had just the slightest hint of an angry quiver. Nice. Nice. He thought making love to her had been nice. "You're actually planning to sell out to these scumbags?" "I don't see too many choices here." Crash made himself sound wound tight with tension. "So just shut the hell up and keep watch." Shut the hell up? The words were so un-Crash-like, Nell took a step backwards in surprise before she caught herself. "No, I won't shut up," she shot back at him. "Maybe you don't have a choice, but—" He stood up. "Don't push me." The expression on his face was positively menacing. His eyes looked washed out and nearly white—and flatly, soullessly empty. Nell faltered, unable to remember what she was supposed to say next, frozen by the coldness of his gaze. It was as if nothing was there, as if nothing was inside him. She'd seen him look this way before—at Daisy's wake and funeral. She remembered thinking then that he may have been able to walk and talk, but his heart was barely beating. Had it been an act back then, too, or was he really able to shut down so completely upon command? He turned back to Sheldon. "You give up the commander's name, and seventy-five thousand of that money is—" "What about Jake Robinson?" That was what she was supposed to say. "Excuse us for a minute, Sheldon." Crash took her arm, and pulled her roughly toward the bathroom. He didn't turn on the bathroom light because there was a fan attached, and he didn't want it to drown out their whispered words. Part of the plan was for Sheldon to be able to hear what they were saying. "I thought you wanted to stay alive," he hissed through clenched teeth. The tiny bathroom was barely large enough for both of them. Even though she had pulled her arm free from his grasp, they were still forced to stand uncomfortably close. She rubbed the place where his fingers had dug into her arm. "I'm sorry about that," Crash said almost soundlessly. "I had to make it look real. Did I hurt you?" Concern warmed his eyes, bringing him back to life. He cared. Something surged in her chest, in her stomach, and just like that, her anger faded. Because just like that, she understood why he hadn't returned her letters. As much as she professed to want only to be friends, deep inside she wanted more. She'd given that truth away on the morning she'd begged him to give their relationship a try. He'd known that, and he'd also known that if he'd written to her, or if he'd called, his letters and phone calls would have kept alive the tiny seed of hope buried deep inside of her—the seed of hope that still fluttered to life at something so trivial as a flare of concern in his eyes. God, she was pathetic. She was pathetic, and he smelled so good, so familiar. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his shirt. It wouldn't have taken much—just a step forward an inch or two. Instead, she jammed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans and shook her head, no. “I thought you wanted to get back at the bastard who killed Jake Robinson!" she whispered loudly enough for the man in the other room to overhear. "Yeah, well, I changed my mind," he told her. "I decided I'd rather take the money and run. Disappear in Hong Kong." "Hong Kong? Who said anything about going to Hong Kong?" Nell lowered her voice. "Do you think he's buying this?" Crash shook his head. He didn't know. All he knew for certain was that it had been too damn long since he'd kissed this woman. She was really getting into this game they were playing. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright, making her impossibly attractive. He tried to put more space between them, but his back was already against the wall—there was nowhere else to go. "No way am I letting you drag me to Hong Kong!" she continued. "You promised me—" He cut her off. "I promised you nothing. What—do you think just because we got it on that suddenly you own me?" Nell took a step back and bumped into the side of the tub. Crash caught her even as she reached for him, and for one brief moment, she was in his arms again. But he forced himself to release her, forced himself to step back. What was wrong with him? True, bringing up the issue of sex would make their arguing more realistic, but it was definitely dangerous ground. And the words he'd spoken couldn't have been farther from the truth. They'd got it on, indeed, but then she'd let him go. Even the letters she'd written to him had been carefully worded. There was no question—she didn't have any expectations or demands.

Some of the sparkle had left her eyes as she looked up at him. "Oh, was that what you'd call what we did?" she said in a rough stage whisper loud enough for Sheldon to hear. "Getting it on? I think it's got to last longer than two-and-a-half minutes to be called anything other than 'getting off.' As in you getting off and me faking it so that you won't feel bad." She was making it up. Crash knew that everything she was saying was based on some fictional joining. But still, he couldn't help but wonder. The night they'd spent together had been over pretty quickly. He hadn't even managed to carry her all the way to the bed. But the way she had seemed to shatter in his arms—that couldn't have been faked, could it? Something, some of his doubt, must have flickered in his eyes because Nell reached out to touch the side of his face. "How could you forget how incredibly perfect it was?" she asked almost inaudibly. She lightly touched his lips with one finger, her eyes filled with heat from her memories of that night. But then her gaze met his and she pulled her hand away as if she had been burned. "Sorry. I know I shouldn't have...sorry." "Just do what I say and keep your mouth shut," Crash harshly ordered her for Sheldon's benefit. "Don't make me wish I'd let Sarkowski shoot you." He abruptly turned and went out of the room, afraid if he didn't leave he'd end up doing something incredibly stupid, like kiss her. Or admit that he hadn't forgotten. He'd tried to forget, God knows he had. But his memories of the night they'd spent together were ones he knew he'd take to his grave. She stayed in the bathroom as he sat down again across from Sheldon. "Women are always trouble," the gunman told him. "It's nothing I can't handle," Crash replied tersely. Nell slunk out of the bathroom then, her body language much like a dog with its tail between its legs. Despite everything she'd said to the contrary, she was good at acting. Unless her kicked-puppy look was the result of him rejecting her again. It was on a much smaller scale this time, but his lack of response to her nearly silent words was a rejection of sorts. Nell reached the other side of the room and, just as they'd planned, she bolted for the door, throwing it open and running out into the darkness of the night. Sheldon snorted. "Yeah, right, man, you can really handle her." Crash checked to see that the gunman was still securely tied to the chair and then he went after Nell, slamming the door behind him. He didn't have far to go—she was waiting for him right outside the door. "You should gag me," she whispered quietly. "Because if this was real, you better believe that I would scream. And if you just covered my mouth with your hand, I'd have to bite you." "I don't have anything to gag you with." Of course, if this was real, if he were desperate, he'd use one of his socks. He didn't think she'd go for that, though. Nell pulled the tail of her shirt out from her jeans. "Tear off a piece of this." Crash took out his knife to cut through the seam. And then, as the fabric tore with a rending sound, Nell met his eyes. He knew she was thinking the exact same thing that he was—that this was actually kind of kinky. With the undercurrent of sexual tension that seemed to follow them around, the idea of him tearing her shirt to gag her, with the intention of dragging her back into the motel room and tying her up... She gave him a smile that was half embarrassed and half filled with excited energy as he put his knife away. Damned if she wasn't getting into this. "You got the juice?" he asked. She'd poured some of it into a plastic baggie back in the car. "I put it under the bed that's farthest from the door. Remember, when you knock me onto the ground, let me crawl under the bed to get it. Give me a minute to stick it under my shirt." "How?" Crash asked. "I'm going to tie your hands behind your back. I thought you were going to have it on you now." "Are you kidding? And have it open too early?" His news slowed her down, but it didn't stop her. "Well, you're just going to have to do it. When you grab me to pull me out from under the bed, stick it up under my shirt." "I can't believe we're doing this. If this actually works, I'm going to be amazed." Nell smiled at him. "Prepare to be amazed," she said. “Come on. Let's make this look real." She took off, running out into the parking lot. Crash sighed, and went after her. He caught her in less than four steps and grabbed her around the waist, swinging her up and into his arms. She was harder to hold on to than he'd thought, though—she was fighting him. "Nell, take it easy! I don't want to hurt you," he hissed.

She took a deep breath and opened her mouth, and he knew without a single doubt that she was going to scream. Talk about taking role-playing a little too seriously. He wadded up the fabric from her shirt and put it in her mouth, trying really hard to be careful. She bit his fingers and he swore. He all but kicked the motel room door open and did kick it closed behind them, swearing again as one of her legs came dangerously close to making him sing soprano for a week. He flung her onto the bed, flipping her onto her stomach, and holding her hands behind her back. He had to sit on her as he tied her wrists together, resting nearly his full weight upon her after she tried to kick him again. Dammit, she was actually trying to kick him in the balls. He cursed as he tied her, choosing words he couldn't remember using in years, and she was trying to get free, kicking and wriggling beneath him like a wild woman. Her torn-off shirt rode up, exposing the pale smoothness of her back and making him feel like a total degenerate. How could this possibly turn him on? But this was just a game. He wasn't trying to hurt her— in fact, he was trying to do the opposite. He was tying her up using knots that she'd be able to slip out of. He was taking care that the roughness of the rope didn't abrade the soft skin of her wrists. It was the sight and feel of Nell beneath him on a bed, his body pressed against hers, that was making him heat up. It wasn't the ropes or the struggle—that wasn't real. But Nell was real. Dear God, she was incredibly real. He grabbed another rope from his bag and tied her feet, also with slipknots, aware that Sheldon Sarkowski was watching, disgust in his eyes. He lifted Nell up, depositing her on the floor as gently as he could while making it look to Sarkowski as if he'd damn near thrown her there. As she said she would, she immediately began wriggling, rolling all the way under the bed. She was smart—she didn't leave a leg or a foot sticking out for him to grab. He had to lift up the dust ruffle and crawl halfway under himself just to pull her out. There, just where she said it was, was a thin plastic baggie, closed with a twist-tie like a little balloon, filled both with air and tomato juice, ready to be popped. Of all the absurd ideas he'd ever tried, this one had to take the cake. Nell had rolled onto her back, and he grabbed the baggie, careful not to pop it, and thrust it up, underneath her shirt. He hooked part of the loose plastic around the front clasp of her bra, trying to ignore the sensation of his fingers brushing against her smooth, warm skin. God, why was he doing this? Because there was a .001 percent chance that it would work. As ridiculous as it was, it could work. People often saw what they expected to see, and as long as Sarkowski didn't have too acute a sense of smell, he wouldn't see tomato juice spilling out onto Nell's shirt, he'd see blood. Crash hauled Nell out from under the bed, making it look as if he'd hit her hard enough across the face to make her lie still, dazed from the blow. He stood up then, straightening his combat vest and quickly running his fingers through his hair, putting himself back into order. He drew his weapon from his holster, and sat down across from Sarkowski as if none of that had happened. "I want the commander's name," Crash said, "and I want it now. My patience is gone." "Sorry, pal." Sarkowski shook his head. "The best I can do for you is to pass along your message about the two hundred and fifty thousand. But you're not dealing from a position of strength here. Unless you can guarantee the girl's silence as well as your own, my employer isn't going to consider paying that price." "I can guarantee the girl's silence." The gunman laughed derisively. "Yeah, right." Crash didn't blink. He didn't move a muscle in his face. He simply turned and discharged his weapon, aiming directly at Nell's chest. She rolled back, as if from the force of the bullet, and then fell forward. She struggled briefly against the ropes that held her and then was still. Crash took a deep breath, but all he could smell was the pizza—its box left open on the top of the TV set. He watched Sarkowski's face as a red stain slowly appeared from beneath Nell's body. The gunman had lifted his heavy eyelids higher than usual, and when he turned to look at Crash, there was wariness in his eyes. Crash set his weapon in his lap, the barrel pointed casually in the other man's direction. "I want to know the commander's name," he said again. "Now." Sarkowski was searching his eyes for any sign of remorse, any hint of emotion, and Crash purposely kept his face devoid of expression, his eyes flat and cold and filled with absolutely nothing. From the gunman's perspective, he had no heart, no soul—and absolutely no problem with doubling the current body count. "Kill me and you've got nothing," Sarkowski blustered. "You'll never know who I work for then.” But he spoke a little too quickly, his anxiety giving a little too much of an edge to his voice.

"That would only be a temporary problem," Crash pointed out. "I'd just have to wait for the commander to send someone else after me. Chances are that guy will talk. And if not him, then maybe the next. It doesn't matter to me. Time's one thing I've got plenty of." He lifted his weapon with the same kind of blase casualness that he'd pointed it at Nell and aimed directly at Sarkowski's forehead. "Wait," Sarkowski said. "I think we can make some kind of a deal." Jackpot. Nell didn't move. Crash couldn't even tell that she was breathing, but he knew that she was smiling.

Chapter 14 The motel window was dark as Crash pulled back into the parking lot. A string of blinking Christmas lights had slipped from the edge of the roof, drooping pathetically across the front of the motel. The artificial tree visible through the lobby window listed to the left, its branches sagging under the weight of garish decorations. Christmas was a grim undertaking here at this fleabag motel in the middle of nowhere. The festive trappings had all been brought out, but there was nothing merry about them. There was no hope, just resignation. Another season of bills that couldn't be paid and dreams that couldn't come true. Somehow it all seemed appropriate. Crash was exhausted. It had taken him longer than he'd hoped to find another motel in which to deposit Sheldon Sarkowski. He'd planned to take Sarkowski out to the state park and leave him locked in the men's room, but the two men had made a deal of sorts. Sheldon had been bought by the promise of a cut of the blackmail money and the hope that if he gave up his employer's name, Crash wouldn't kill him. The deal was bogus, of course. Crash had no intention of taking any money from the commander who had engineered Jake Robinson's death. His goal was still—and had always been—justice. But Sheldon thought they were a team now. And team members didn't lock other team members in a freezing-cold men's room. Instead, Crash had taken the highway, going nearly twenty miles back in the direction they'd come before finding another appropriately ancient motel. And once inside, he'd handcuffed Sheldon to the radiator in the bathroom. He'd even apologized before tapping him on the side of the head with the butt of his handgun. His apology was accepted. Sheldon would have done the very same thing to him. They were supposed to be teammates now, but unlike members of a SEAL Team, they didn't fully trust each other. And Sheldon Sarkowski—or whoever he really was— was the last person Crash ever would have trusted. The man liked his work way too much. Just from the short conversations they'd had, Crash knew Sheldon enjoyed pulling the trigger and delivering death. He'd volunteered to get rid of Nell's body and Crash got the sense that the offer was made not so much to help Crash, but for the pleasure doing so would give Sheldon. The thought of Sheldon touching Nell was enough to make Crash's skin crawl. He fought a wave of fatigue as he unlocked the door to the first motel room. He didn't have time to be tired. It was probably true that Sarkowski wouldn't be found by the maid until morning, but he wasn't about to take any chances. He'd wake up Nell and they were going to get back on the road. She would be shocked to find out that she'd danced with the man responsible for this entire fiasco at Jake and Daisy's wedding. Senator—and retired U.S. Navy Commander—Mark Garvin was the man they were after. There were no lights on at all in the room. Nell had no doubt showered and climbed into bed by now. God help him, he was going to have to stare down temptation and pull her out of bed rather than climb in with her, the way he so desperately wanted to and— Nell hadn't moved. In the darkness, Crash could see her, still lying on the floor where he'd left her. Dear Lord, the bullet he'd fired at her had been a blank, hadn't it? He'd double-checked and triple-checked it. But God knew he was exhausted. And when men were exhausted, they made mistakes. He slapped the light switch on the wall and the dim light only verified what he already knew. Nell was lying on the floor, hands still tied behind her back, eyes closed, almost exactly the way he'd left her. Crash's chest was tight with fear, and his throat was clogged with the closest thing to panic he'd ever felt in his life as he crossed toward her. "Nell!" She still didn't move. He knelt next to her and pulled her into his arms, tearing at her clothes, praying that the sticky redness was indeed the result of the tomato juice they'd picked up at the convenience store, praying that he wasn't going to find some awful, mortal wound beneath the stained fabric. Buttons flew everywhere as he ripped her shirt open. He swept his hands across the smoothness of her skin and looked down in her eyes, which were now opened very, very wide. She was all right. The blood wasn't blood after all, the bullet he'd fired had been a blank. Relief made him so dizzy he nearly lost his balance. But he wasn't too dizzy to realize that his hand was still on her chest, his fingers against her delicate collarbone, his wrist between her lace-covered breasts. She was in his arms, her face inches from his, her shirt torn and stained, her hands and feet still tied. Nell cleared her throat. "Well, this is quite the little fantasy come true." Crash moved his hand, but then didn't quite know where to put it. "Are you all right? When I saw you still lying here, I thought..."

"I couldn't get free." “I purposely used slipknots to tie you." "I tried," she admitted, "but they just seemed to get tighter." "You're not supposed to pull at them." He helped her up into a sitting position and swiftly used his knife to cut her hands free. "You're suppose to finesse them. Pulling just tightens them." "So much for my lifelong dream of becoming an escape artist." Crash's ribs hurt as he cut her feet free, and he realized that she had made him laugh. He wanted to pull her back into his arms, but she had turned away from him, as if suddenly self-conscious that her torn shirt was hanging open, all its buttons neatly removed. She rubbed her wrists. "Damn—that tomato juice stings!" "It's acidic. Come here." Nell let him help her up and lead her to the set of double sinks right outside the bathroom door. He turned on the water and she held her wrists under the flow as he turned on the light. "I'm sorry about this." His hands were so gentle as he lifted her hands to look at her rope burns. She looked up at him. "It worked, didn't it?" "Yeah." "Then it's worth it." His gaze flickered down to the open front of her shirt, "You better take a shower. I'll find you something clean to wear." He was still touching her, still holding her hands. Nell knew that it was now or never—and she couldn't bear for it to be never. Not without trying one more time. She reached out and touched the edge of the front pocket of his pants. In his haste to make sure she was all right, he'd knelt in the puddle of tomato juice. "You look like you could use a shower yourself," she said softly. "And I could use a little company." Crash didn't move. For a minute, she wasn't even sure if he was still breathing. But the sudden rush of heat in his eyes left her little doubt. The sexual tension she'd felt building over the past few days was not a figment of her imagination. He felt it, too. He suffered from it, too. Thank God. "That was your big cue," she prompted him. "That was where you were supposed to kiss me and pull me with you into the shower." "Why are you here?" he asked hoarsely. "What do you want? Why did you even come to the jail?" Nell knew she should break the spell by saying something funny, something flip. But in a flash of clarity, she realized that she used humor to maintain a distance—much in the same way that Crash separated from his emotions. So she didn't make a joke. She told him the truth. "I want to help you prove your innocence. You once told me that I didn't really know you, but you were wrong." She held his gaze, daring him to look away, to step away, to pull away from her. "I do know you, Billy. My heart knows you. Even though your heart doesn't seem to want to recognize me." He touched the side of her face, and she closed her eyes, pressing her cheek into his palm, daring to hope that he felt even a fraction of what she did. "So that's why you're here," he whispered. 'To try to save me." "I'm here because you need me." Nell opened her eyes and let slip another dangerous truth. "And because I need you." He was looking at her, and she could see everything he was feeling mirrored in his eyes. For once, he wasn't trying to hide from her. Or from himself. "I want you," she told him softly. "All these months, and I still haven't stopped wanting you. I dream about your kisses." She smiled crookedly. "I've been sleeping a lot lately." Crash kissed her then. It was so different from that night after Daisy's funeral, where one minute he was looking at her and the next he was inhaling her. It was different, because this was a kiss that she actually saw coming. She saw it in his eyes first, in the way his gaze dropped to her mouth for just a fraction of a second. And she saw it in the way his pupils seemed to expand, just a little. Then he leaned toward her, slowly, as his hand tilted her chin up. And then his mouth met hers, softly, sweetly. He tasted like tomato juice. He deepened the kiss, pulling her gently toward him, and Nell felt herself melt, felt her pulse kick into double time, felt her heart damn near burst out

of her chest. This was what she'd been waiting for. This was why she had never invited Dex Lancaster inside after a dinner date. She'd tried to deny it so many different times. It wasn't pure attraction and simple sex. It wasn't friendship, either. It wasn't anything she'd ever felt before. She loved this man. Completely. Absolutely. Forever. "Nell." He was breathing hard as he pulled back slightly to look at her. "I want you, too, but..." He took a breath and let it out quickly. "We shouldn't do this. Bottom line— nothing's changed between us." He laughed. "Truth is, it's gotten even more impossible. I can't give you—" She stopped his words with a kiss. "Honesty's all I need. I know exactly what you can't give me and I'm not asking for that. All I want is another night with you." She knew he didn't love her, but she told herself that she didn't need him to love her. And she didn't need false promises of forever, either. She just wanted this moment. She kissed him again. "I can't think of anything I want more than to spend tonight in your arms." She watched his eyes, holding her breath, praying he wouldn't turn away, knowing that she was risking so much by telling him this. He touched her face again, the edges of his mouth twisting up into what could almost be called a smile. "You're looking at me like you don't have a clue what I'm going to do next," he said perceptively. He softly traced her lower lip with his thumb. "You don't really think I'm strong enough to hear you say all that, then walk away, do you?" Nell's breath caught in her throat. "I think you're the most remarkable man I've ever met, and you're right. I never have a clue what you're going to do next." "Tonight I'm going to be selfish," he said quietly. He kissed her slowly, completely. It was a kiss that promised her all of the passion of their first joining and even more. She clung to him, breathless and dizzy and giddy with desire, barely aware as he pulled her with him into the tiny bathroom. They'd stood right here just hours ago. Nothing had changed, Crash had said. But everything had changed. Two hours ago she'd had her hands in her pockets to keep from touching him. Now those same hands were unfastening the buckle of his belt, even as his hands helped her out of her own clothes. She was covered with tomato juice and he stepped into the tub, pulling her with him, and turned on the water, rinsing her clean. He washed her so slowly, so carefully, stopping to give her deliciously long, exquisitely sweet kisses that made her weak-kneed with desire. She could feel his arousal, hot and hard against her, and she opened herself to him, winding one leg around him in an attempt to pull him even closer. He'd taken a foil-wrapped condom from his vest and tossed it into the soap-holder as they'd stepped into the shower. He opened it now, covering himself. She kissed him again and he groaned, pulling her up, lifting her, pressing her back against the cool tile wall as he filled her. It was heaven. The water raining down from the shower seemed to caress her sensitized body as he kissed her, touched her, claimed her so completely. She was moments from release when he pulled back, breaking their kiss to gaze down at her. His gaze was hot, his breathing ragged. "I want to make love to you in a bed," he told her. "I want to look at you and touch you and taste every inch of you. I want to take my time and be absolutely certain that you're satisfied." She pushed herself more deeply on top of him. "I'm satisfied," she told him. She was already more satisfied than she'd thought she'd be ever again. "Although the bed thing sounds really nice. Maybe we can do that later." "We don't have time. We have to leave," he told her. Nell opened her eyes. "Now?" "Soon." He kissed her. "I'm sorry. I should have told you right when I came in." She tightened and released her legs around him, setting a rhythm that he soon obligingly matched. "You were too busy tearing off my shirt." "I was." He held her gaze as he drove himself deeply inside of her again and again and again. His beautiful eyes were half-closed and he was smiling very, very slightly—for him it was the equivalent of an all-out grin. He knew damn well what he was doing to her. He knew damn well that she was seconds away from total sensual meltdown. But she could feel his heart pounding and she could read the heat in his eyes. She knew that when she exploded, she would take him with her. He was that close, too. "Can we pretend tonight doesn't end when the sun comes up?" he asked softly. "I want to drive as far from here as possible before we stop again and...Nell, I need to make love to you in a bed." He needed her. Dear God, he was actually admitting that he needed her.

"I would like that, too." She laughed. "Understatement of the year." Hope filled her. The tiny seed that she'd tried to crush for so long burst to life inside her. He needed her. He didn't want tonight to end. She never dreamed he'd ever confess to either of those things. At that moment, anything was possible. At that moment, she didn't need wings to fly. She left the ground in an explosion of sensation and emotion that was deliriously intense. She felt herself cry out, heard an echo of her voice shouting his name. She felt him kiss her, possessing her mouth as completely as he possessed her body, felt him shake from his own cataclysmic release. It was wonderful. And it was even more wonderful knowing this time that she was going to get a chance—soon—to make love to him like this again. Nell slept in the front seat of the car, her head resting in Crash's lap. She'd folded up her jacket to use as padding over the lump from the parking brake. She was wearing one of his shirts and a pair of his pants, the cuffs rolled up about six times and the waistband cinched with a belt. Her golden hair gleamed in the dim light of dawn. He ran his fingers through its baby-fine softness, loving the sensation. She slept so ferociously, her eyes tightly shut and her fists clenched. What on earth had he done? Crash felt sick to his stomach. It could have been from fatigue, but he suspected it was, instead, a result of that look he'd seen in Nell's eyes while they were making love. He'd made a mistake and admitted that he wanted more—more than quick, emotionless sex in the shower. He'd opened his mouth, and now she was no doubt dreaming of their wedding. He glanced down at her again and had to smile. She looked so fragile and tiny, nearly lost in his too-large clothes. And yet even in sleep she looked like she was ready at any given moment to hold her own in a boxing match. No, she wasn't dreaming of their wedding. She was probably dreaming about getting her hands on Senator Mark Garvin and tearing him limb from limb. He was the one who was dreaming about their wedding. God help him, he was in love with this woman. Crash wasn't sure exactly when he'd realized it. Maybe it was when he walked into that motel room and thought for one god-awful moment that he'd actually shot and killed her. Or maybe it didn't sink in until she looked him in the eye and bared her soul, telling him that she needed him, that she wanted him, that she ached for him. Or maybe it was when they made love in the shower, and she held his gaze while he moved inside her. Maybe it was the realization that mere sex had never felt remotely like what he was feeling at that moment. Or maybe it was when he hadn't been able to keep his fool mouth shut. Maybe it was when he'd told her that he wanted more, and she just lit up from within, her eyes shining with hope. His initial reaction hadn't been instant regret. No, he was double the pathetic fool. He'd actually been glad. That light in her eyes had made him feel happy. That was when he knew he loved her. When he'd found himself happy at the thought that maybe she loved him, too. The really stupid thing was that he'd been in love with her for years. Years. Probably since the very first time they'd met. Certainly during the previous year, while they'd lived together in Jake and Daisy's house, their beds separated only by one thin wall. He'd loved her, but he'd refused to acknowledge it, refused to believe that she would want the kind of life she'd have with him. She was the real reason he'd spent most of last year out of the country. Somehow he knew that if he'd seen her again, if he'd so much as run into her on the street, he wouldn't have been able to keep away from her. Somehow he knew that he had no control at all when it came to Nell. The sky lightened behind him as he drove relentlessly west. The morning sky was pewter-gray and dull, promising rain or maybe even more sleet or snow. His future was just as bleak. As hard as he tried, Crash couldn't see any kind of happy ending for him and Nell. What he could see was heartbreakingly tragic. Unless he was able to hunt down and destroy Commander Garvin, USN Retired, the woman he loved was a target. Unless Crash could win, Nell would die.

But Crash would win. His career might be over. His name and his reputation were definitely ruined. He was wanted by every law-enforcement agency in the country, and probably some that were outside of the country as well. He had no kind of life left and what he did have, he didn't deserve—not after the way he'd let Jake die. First Daisy, then Jake. There was no way in hell he was going to let Nell die, too. He was willing to give up everything he had left to save her—and all he had left was his life. Nell awoke to find herself alone in the bed. They'd stopped shortly after crossing the border into New Mexico, and she had fallen asleep with Crash's arms around her. But first, they'd made the most incredible love. Crash had delivered everything he'd promised and then some. He'd made love to her so thoroughly, so sweetly, Nell had almost let herself believe that he loved her. Almost. Now he was sitting, half-naked, in front of a powerful-looking laptop computer that he'd hooked up to the room's phone system. His hair stood up, as if he'd frequently run his fingers through it, and the screen lit his bare chest with a golden glow. He pushed his chair back with a sigh and stood up, stretching his long legs and twisting a kink from his back. He turned, as if he felt her watching, and froze. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Nell shook her head, suddenly uncertain, suddenly wondering if their night together had officially come to an end. "Have you slept at all?" "Not yet." He looked exhausted. His eyes were rimmed with red and he reached up to rub the back of his neck with one hand. "I've been trying to find the connection between Garvin and Sherman. But I need to sleep. I'm starting to go in circles." He sat down on the second of the two double beds in the room, and Nell thought for a second that he was sending her a message. Their night was over. He was going to sleep alone. But when he looked at her, she realized that he was feeling as uncertain as she was. "You look like you could use a back rub," she said softly. He met her eyes. "What I really want is to make love to you again." Nell's mouth was suddenly dry. She tried to moisten her lips, tried to smile. "The odds of that actually happening will increase enormously if you sit on this bed instead of over there on that one." He smiled tiredly at that. "Yeah. I just didn't want to..." He shook his head, running his hand down his face. "I don't want to take advantage of you." "Come here. Please?" He stood up, crossing the short distance between the two beds. Nell sat forward, pulling him down so that he was sitting, facing slightly away from her. The covers fell away from her as she knelt behind him, gently massaging the tight muscles in his shoulders and neck. He closed his eyes. "God, that's good." "Did you find anything about Garvin at all?" "He was definitely in 'Nam in '71 and '72—the same time as John Sherman served with the Green Berets." Nell gently pushed him down, so that he was lying on the bed, on his stomach, arms up underneath his head. She straddled his back to get real leverage as she tried to loosen the muscles in his shoulders. "I hacked my way into Garvin's tax records. He inherited a substantial sum of money in 1972—money his first wife used to buy a house while he was still in Vietnam. I searched the tax records of the elderly relative he claims the inheritance came from, but there's no record of income from the interest for a sum of money that large. Unless the old guy kept a quarter of a million dollars under his mattress." "So what are we going to do?" "I sent him a coded message that should be easy enough for him to break. I told him I had proof that his so-called inheritance was really the money he'd made dealing in the black market with John Sherman." "But you don't have proof." "He doesn't know that. I need to talk to him, face-to-face, record the conversation, and hope that he slips and says something that incriminates him."

Nell paused. “Face-to-face? This is a man who wants to kill you." "That makes two of us." "Billy—" "I could just go after him. Take him out. An eye for an eye. A commander for an admiral. It wouldn't be the first time I've played the part of the avenging angel." Nell took a deep breath. "But—" "But if I do it that way, no one will know what he did. He killed Jake, he killed all those people in that war he started, and I want the world to know it. God, you're beautiful." Nell turned her head, following his gaze, and realized that he was watching her in the wall mirror opposite the bed. The only light in the room was from his computer screen, but it was enough to give her breasts and her stomach and the curve of her rear end an exotic cast. She looked like some wild, hedonistic version of herself. A naked love slave ministering to the needs of her master. All he had to do was turn over, and he could watch as she kept caressing him, kissing her way down his chest, down to his stomach, down... She met the fire of his gaze in the mirror, feeling her cheeks heat with a blush. It wasn't the first time she'd believed him capable of reading her mind. He didn't look tired any longer. He turned, rolling beneath her so that he could look up at her, so that the hardness of his arousal pressed against her. "This is the closest I figure I'll ever actually get to heaven," he said softly. Nell leaned forward to kiss him and he held her close, telling her again, although not in so many words, just how much that he needed her. She kissed his neck, his throat, his chest, trailing her mouth across his incredible body as she reached between them to unfasten his pants. She turned to look, and, just as she'd imagined, found him watching her in the mirror. She smiled at him. And then she took him to heaven.

Chapter 15 “I'm not going." “Nell—" "But you don't even have a plan to..." Nell broke off, gazing at him wide-eyed from the other side of the car. "Oh, my God," she said softly. "You do have a plan to get the evidence you need against Garvin, don't you? And you weren't even going to tell me." It would have been easier if she'd shouted at him. He tried to explain. "There are some things that are better if you don't know." She turned to look out the window. "The things I don't know—particularly about you—could fill a book." "I'm sorry." She looked back at him. "You say that a lot." "I mean it a lot." "So this is it," she said. "You're just going to drop me off here in Coronado, at the house of somebody named Cowboy. And I'm just supposed to hide until you either come back or you don't." The southern-California streets were filled with lengthening shadows and heavy traffic as the sun began to set. Crash had never been to the house that his swim buddy Cowboy shared with his young wife and infant son. But he had the address and he'd checked the map back when they'd last stopped for gas. He knew exactly where he was going. "Silence," she said quietly. "With you, silence tends to imply an affirmative." She turned toward him then, reaching for him. "Billy, please don't shut me out now." He let her take his hand, lacing their fingers together. "I know you want to help me, but the best way you can help me right now is to let me make sure that you're someplace safe." He braked to a stop at a traffic light and turned to look at her. "I need to know that you're okay, so that I can do what I have to do without being distracted—without worrying whether or not you're in danger." "Please." Nell's husky voice broke very slightly. "Please tell me what it is that you're going to do." Crash lost himself for a moment in the perfect blue of Nell's eyes. The car behind him honked—the light had turned green and he hadn't even noticed. He looked back at the road as he drove, wishing he had an eternity to fall into the blue ocean of her eyes and knowing that he only had hours left. Minutes. "A guy I know, a SEAL instructor, has a cabin in the mountains, not far from here. I know he's not going to be using it—the latest class of candidates are going through Hell Week. This guy's disabled and he does almost all of his teaching in a classroom, but he's still going to be busy this week." "So you're going to use his cabin to wait for Garvin to contact you?" He glanced at her again. "Actually, I got a response from Garvin this morning. Via E-mail. He's accepted my deal." “My God. Isn't that the proof that you need? I mean, if he's letting himself be blackmailed..." Crash smiled. "Unfortunately he didn't send me back a message that said. 'Yes, I'll pay you a quarter of a million dollars to make sure that you keep silent about the fact that I not only killed Jake Robinson but also started a war in Southeast Asia.' No, I've got to go face-to-face with Garvin, try to get something he says down on tape. I need something concrete." "Face to...? But he's going to try to kill you! There's no way he's going to pay you all that money to be quiet when killing you guarantees your silence." Crash signaled to make a left turn onto the street where Cowboy lived. "I'll be ready for him. I have enough C-4 in my bag to take out the entire mountain if I have to." "C-4?" "Explosives." "Oh, God." There was a break in the oncoming traffic and Crash made the left turn into the residential neighborhood. He swore sharply as he saw the cars idling further down the street. "Nell, kiss me, then laugh, make it big, like we're on our way to a party. No worries." She didn't hesitate. She slipped her arms around his neck, turning his head, forcing him to watch the road with only one eye as she kissed him full on the mouth. She tasted like coffee with sugar, like slow, delicious early-morning lovemaking, like paradise on earth. When she finally pulled back, she threw back her head and laughed—just as he'd asked. "Who's watching us?" she asked, nuzzling his neck again. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. That was such a good performance, she'd nearly fooled him. "I'm not sure exactly, but there's at

least one car that's got to be FInCOM, one I know is NIS, and one other a little further down the road, a little harder to pick out, that I'd bet my life savings belongs to whoever's working for Gar-vin." She kissed him again, even longer this time. "Where did they come from? Are they following us?" "No." He glanced in the rearview mirror. None of the cars had moved. "They're all doing surveillance outside of Cowboy's house—waiting for me to show up." He swore again. "They found the one man I know I can still trust. I should've known they'd figure that out." "Is there some other way you can contact your friend? By phone or at work?" Crash shook his head. "If they're watching Cowboy's house this closely, they've surely put a tap on his phone. And they'll follow him to work. Besides, my goal was to bring you into his house, not just talk to him. But there's no way that's going to happen now." "So what happens now?" "We go to Plan B." "Funny, I didn't know about Plan A until minutes ago, and now we're already onto Plan B. What's Plan B?" He checked the rearview mirror again before he glanced at her. "I'll let you know when I figure it out." As Nell got an apple from the car and went back across the clearing toward the cabin, she could feel Crash's eyes on her. She knew what he was thinking. He was wondering what on earth he was going to do with her. It didn't matter how many times she protested. It didn't matter how brilliantly she argued with him. He was con vinced that he needed to find some kind of haven for her, while he went one-on-one with a man they both knew had killed before to keep his secrets safe. She sat down next to him on the cabin's front steps. ''What's that?" He'd taken several blocks of gray, putty-colored modeling clay and several spools of wire from one of his gym bags. The clay was soft, so he was easily able to tear it into smaller chunks. He looked up at her. "It's C-4." She nearly choked on her apple. "That's an explosive? Don't you need to be really careful with it?" He gave her one of his rare smiles. "No. It's stable. I could hit it with a hammer if I wanted to. It's no big deal." She tossed what was left of her apple into the woods. "I remember watching western movies where the bank robbers all sweated bullets when they got out the nitroglycerine." "We've progressed a long way since those days." "That depends on your definition of progress." Nell looked around. "It's nice here. So peaceful and quiet. So naturally, you've decided to blow it up." Crash put down the chunk of C-4 he was working with and kissed her. Of all the things she'd expected him to say or do, a kiss wasn't one of them. It wasn't just a quick kiss, either. It was a very well-planned kiss, as if he'd been thinking about doing it for a good long while. It was more than just an I-want-your-body kiss. It was filled with a flood of emotions, most too complicated to name, and the rest too risky to acknowledge. He couldn't quite meet her eyes when he pulled away. Instead, he held her close for several long moments, lightly running his fingers through her hair. "I've been thinking," he finally said. Nell held her breath, praying that he'd finally come to the realization that what tied them together was uncontrol lable and inevitable. He loved her. She knew he loved her. He wouldn't have been able to kiss her that way if he didn't. "At sundown we're heading back into town. There's a SEAL I know, the executive officer of Alpha Squad. His name's McCoy. He was at the hearing, and he signaled me, you know, with hand signals—asked if I was all right. He wasn't like the guys from Team Twelve, ready to help strap me in for the lethal injection without even hearing my side of the story." Crash took a deep breath. "So I'm going to tell Blue McCoy my side of the story and ask him to take care of you. I know that he might feel obligated to turn me in, but I won't give him that opportunity. And I also know if I ask him, he'll make damn sure that you stay safe." Nell fought her disappointment, keeping her face pressed against his shoulder, breathing in his warm, familiar scent. Those weren't the words she'd wanted to hear. In fact, they were words she hadn't wanted to hear. "Can't we stay here until the morning? Spend one more night together?" His arms tightened around her. "God, I wish we could." He spoke so quietly, she almost didn't hear him. "But I've already sent Garvin an encoded message, giving him these coordinates. He's up at his home in Carmel right now. By the time he breaks the code—and I know he won't be able to do that in less than six hours—by the time he gets down here, even if he takes a private plane, it'll be dawn." She straightened up. "Don't you think he's going to take those coordinates and send an army of Sheldon Sarkowskis here to kill you?" "My message was very clear. If he doesn't make an in-person appearance, I'll evade whoever he does send. I'll disappear—until I conjure myself up some night in one of the dark corners of his bedroom. And then—I told him— I'll show him how a covert-assassination op is done right.

No one will ever know it was me—except for him. I'll make sure he knows." Nell shivered. "But you're only bluffing, right? I mean, you wouldn't really just kill him...would you?" He released her and went back to his work with the C-4 explosives. Silence. A silent affirmative. Dear God, what was he planning to do? "I know you believe Garvin killed Jake, but Billy, God! What if you're wrong? You'd be killing an innocent man!" "I'm not wrong. Garvin's credit-card records show him paying for a plane ticket to Hong Kong three days before the fighting started between Sherman and Kim. There's no record of him leaving Hong Kong during that time, but there wouldn't be. He would've paid cash and made sure that any side trips he took wouldn't show up on his passport." "That's all circumstantial evidence." He gave her a long look. "Maybe. But when you put them together with a few more facts I dug up, such as that the Hong Kong trip was a week before his wedding to Senator McBride's daughter... He didn't try to claim the trip as a business expense on his tax return, and I find it hard to believe he took a three-day vacation in the middle of the week, five days before his wedding to the daughter of the man who would secure him the Vice Presidential nomination in two years' time." "Yeah, okay, that looks bad, but it's not proof—" "I've also found out that Dexter Lancaster has been Mark Garvin's tennis partner for fifteen years." Nell sat back. "What?" Crash nodded. "I figure Garvin was being blackmailed by John Sherman for a while—probably since he won the senate seat last November. Certainly by the time he attended Jake and Daisy's wedding. My bet is that six months later, after everything hit the fan, Garvin remembered that his pal Dex couldn't take his eyes off you and—" "Wait a minute. Are you telling me that you think Dexter is somehow involved in Jake's murder?" Nell felt dizzy. "No." He shook his head. "Actually, I don't. Not knowingly, anyway. But I think if you ask Lancaster, he'll admit that Garvin was the one who urged him to call you. You'll probably also find out that it was Garvin's idea to steer you in the direction of working for Amie and the theater. You'll also find that the theater recently received a private donation to help defray the cost of a personal assistant for its director—Amie. If you want, I'll get my laptop and show you the records that state the name of the donor. Guess who? Mark Garvin." "But...why?" She didn't understand. "My thinking is that Garvin was well-connected enough to know that an investigation had been started. He probably knew about the deposition Kim's wife gave, found out Jake would be handling the file. The fact that he was responsible for starting a war wouldn't have gone over real well when the time came to run for Vice President. And that's not even taking into consideration whatever despicable thing he did back in 1972— whatever Sherman was blackmailing him about. He had a lot to lose." "Garvin was probably covering his bases by keeping track of you," he continued. "He probably suspected that you and I had something going and figured that keeping track of you could possibly be the only way he'd even remotely keep track of me." "He must've been disappointed." "He figured—correctly—that I would be his biggest threat if he had to take Jake out. One thing I'm still not sure of, though, is if he knew that I worked for Jake as part of the Gray Group. And if he did know, how did he find out?" "I haven't said anything to anyone, Billy. I swear it. I wouldn't do that." "I know you wouldn't." He was quiet for a moment, but then he looked up at her again. "So all that—along with his message agreeing to meet me—makes Garvin look extremely guilty. I still haven't figured out what leverage he used to make Captain Lovett and the Possum sell out. But that's something I may never know." "You'll definitely never know if you kill Garvin," Nell said hotly. "You'll never get his confession, either. And you may never find the proof you need to clear your name." He glanced up at her. "Even if I'm cleared of all charges, my good name's gone. It'll always be connected to betrayal, no matter what I do. There's always going to be this cloud of doubt hovering over me. How much did Hawken really know? Why did he let those killers into the admiral's house?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Truth is, I am at least partly responsible for Jake's death." Nell couldn't believe what she was hearing. "But this is all moot," he continued. "Garvin is going to show up here at dawn. He's not going to risk having me hunt him down—particularly since I led him to believe I'd enjoy it. And on top of that," he added, "he knows that I don't have a whole hell of a lot to lose." He was serious. He honestly didn't believe that despite everything he'd been through, he had more to lose than most men even started with.

"If I agree to go to this SEAL'S house," she said slowly, "What's-his-name's house—McCoy's—then you've got to promise me that you'll be careful." "I'll be careful," he told her. "But..." She looked at him in disbelief. "How can you dangle a 'but' off a promise to be careful?" He wasn't even remotely amused. In fact, when he looked up at her again, his eyes seemed distant, his expression detached. “Whatever happens with Garvin—whoever's left standing when the smoke clears—it will mean only one thing to you. If he's the one who's still standing, then you've got to run and hide because you'll be next on his list. But I'm telling you right now that I'm going to do everything humanly possible to make sure that's not going to happen. By this time tomorrow, you're not going to have to worry about Garvin anymore." Nell stood up, wiping the seat of her pants with her hands. "Good. Then let's make a date to have dinner tomorrow night when you come back from —" "I won't be coming back," he said quietly. She stared at him. "But you said—" "There's no tomorrow night, Nell. Whatever happens with Garvin," he said again, "it won't change the fact that we have no future. / have no future. Even if I live, I won't come back." Nell was aghast. Won't, he'd said, not can't. Even if he lived, he wouldn 't come back. He didn't want to come back for her. "Oh," she said, suddenly feeling very small. He cursed. "You only wanted one more night, remember? It was sex, Nell. It was great sex, but it wasn't anything more than that. Don't you dare turn it into something that it's not." She couldn't breathe. "I'm sorry," she somehow managed to say even though there wasn't any air left in her lungs. "I just..." She shook her head. "I thought I'd made my feelings clear," he said tightly. "You did," she whispered. He had. He'd been up-front and direct about the impossibility of a relationship right from the very beginning. "I guess I just let my imagination run away with me for a while." He didn't look up from the work he was doing, building bombs that would allegedly protect him from a man who would go to great lengths to see him dead. "You still have to promise that you'll be careful," she told him before she turned away. The colorful lights of a Christmas tree shimmered through the side window of Blue McCoy's house. It was a nice house, quietly unassuming, rather like the man himself. Crash had driven around the block four times but had seen no sign of surveillance vehicles. He'd finally parked on a different side street, cutting through a neighbor's yard to approach Blue's house from the back. Blue was at home—he could see him passing back and forth in front of the kitchen window. Cooking dinner. Crash hadn't known that Blue could cook. There was a lot he didn't know about Blue McCoy, he realized, crouched there between a pickup truck and a little subcompact car that were parked in the drive alongside the man's house. He felt Nell shift beside him. "What are we waiting for?" Good question. He motioned for her to hang back as he approached the back door. He could tell from one quick glance that the door didn't open into the kitchen, but rather into a smaller area—a mud room. The door was locked, but he had the tools to get through it in about fifteen seconds. It opened and he nodded to Nell, gesturing with his head for her to follow him. He drew his sidearm and slipped inside the house. Crash could smell the fragrant aroma of onions sauteing. Blue was standing at the counter, with his back to him, chopping green peppers on a cutting board. He didn't turn around, didn't even stop chopping as he said in his deep Southern drawl, "We missed y'all at Harvard's wedding." Crash held his weapon on the other man as he spoke from the shadows. "I sent my regrets. I was out of the country." Blue set down his knife and turned around. His quiet gaze took Crash in from the top of his too-long hair to the tomato-juice stains on the knees of his black BDUs. He focused for about a millisecond on the barrel of Crash's sidearm, but then dismissed it. He knew as well as Crash did that the weapon was a formality. Crash was no more prepared to use it on Blue than he was likely to use it on himself or Nell.

"Ma'am." Blue nodded a greeting at Nell before he turned back to Crash. "Before I invite you in, Hawken, I've got to ask you just one question. Did you kill, or conspire to kill, Admiral Robinson?" "No." "Okay." The blond-haired SEAL nodded, turning back to stir the onions that were sizzling in a saucepan on the stove. "I was wondering when you were going to show up. Why don't you sit at the table? Stay low, the window's got no shade." Crash didn't move. "I'm guessing you're here because everyone and their dim-witted second cousin is watching Cowboy's place," Blue continued. He laughed as he added the chopped peppers to the pot and stirred the vegetables together. "Every time that boy goes anywhere, there's about four cars behind him. At first he thought it was funny, but now it's kind of getting on his nerves." He turned back to Crash. "So what can I do to help?" "Wait a sec," Crash said. "Rewind. You ask me one question, and that's it? I say no, I didn't kill Jake, and you're satisfied?" Blue considered that for a moment, then nodded. "That's right. I just wanted to hear you say what I already knew. Everyone in the Spec War business with half a brain can see as clear as day that you've been set up." He laughed in disgust. "Unfortunately it looks as if Alpha Squad is the only team with more than half a brain these days." "You understand that by helping me, you'll be an accomplice." "But you didn't do anything wrong. To believe that— and I do—and do nothing to help you...now, that would be a real crime." Blue lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Besides, I figure you wouldn't be here if you weren't close to catching whoever did kill the admiral. Am I right?" Crash still didn't move. He didn't lower his weapon, he didn't do much more than breathe as Blue added several cans of whole tomatoes and some spices to the saucepan. Blue glanced at him again. "I can understand how you might be a little paranoid right about now, so I won't take that weapon you're holding on me personally. But I have to tell you that—" "You may not hold it personally, but I sure as hell do." There, in the door to the dining room, stood a pretty, dark-haired woman wearing a welltailored pantsuit and holding an automatic pistol in her hand, aimed directly at Crash. "Lucy will," Blue finished. Crash hadn't heard her come in. He'd heard no cars approaching or pulling into the driveway. He hadn't heard the front door open or shut. But of course, she'd been home all along. There'd been two cars in the drive when he'd approached. He'd made the mistake of assuming that simply because Blue was cooking dinner, his wife wasn't home. That would teach him to make assumptions based on gender-role stereotypes in the future. Except he didn't have a future. Crash lifted his sidearm higher, holding it on Blue. "Please put down your weapon, Mrs. McCoy." The brunette's mouth tightened. "I'm going to count to three, and if you don't—" Blue moved, crossing the kitchen in two very long steps, stepping directly in front of his wife's deadly-looking pistol. "Everything's fine," he said to her, gently pushing the barrel down toward the floor. "You can put that away. Hawken's a friend of mine." "Everything's not fine! There's a man in our kitchen holding a gun on you!" "He'll put it away." "I can't do that," Crash said tightly. "It looks like he can't put his weapon away right now," Blue told his wife. "I'm not sure I'd be able to do it myself if I were in his shoes." He turned back to Crash. "Can you do me a favor and at least lower it?" Crash nodded, his eyes never leaving Lucy's handgun. As Lucy reholstered her weapon, he lowered his. "Good." Blue kissed his wife gently on the lips before he went back to the stove. "Lucy, meet Crash Hawken. You've heard me talk of him plenty of times." Lucy's brown eyes widened as she turned to look at Crash again. ''You're Lieutenant Hawken?" "Crash, this is Lucy, my wife," Blue continued. "She's a detective with the Coronado police." Crash swore softly. "And you must be Nell Burns," Blue greeted Nell with a smile. "On the news, they're saying you were abducted. But it looks to me like you're here of

your own free will." Nell nodded. "Billy and I both thought that I'd be safer with him—after the second attempt was made on my life." Blue lifted his eyebrows as he looked at Crash. "Billy, huh?" "Look, we're just going to turn around and walk out of here," Crash said. Blue McCoy's wife was a police detective. His current streak of dismal luck was absolutely unending. Blue turned to his wife. "Yankee, you better plug your ears, because I'm about to ask a suspected felon to join us for dinner." "Actually, I'm long overdue for a soak in the tub," Lucy said. "And your friend looks like he's got someplace he needs to be in a hurry." She nodded to Nell and Crash. "Nice meeting you, Lieutenant. Or was it Captain? I'm sorry, I've never been very good with names. I've already forgotten yours." As Crash watched, she disappeared into the darkness of the other room. He could hear the sound of her footsteps going up a flight of stairs. He could sense Nell standing right beside him, her anxiety nearly palpable. He ached to reach out and slip his arm around her shoulder, to pull her in close for an embrace. But doing that would undermine everything he'd worked so hard to do this afternoon—telling her how he wouldn't come back, making it sound as if he had a choice when the real truth was he honestly didn't think he'd live to see another sunset. And touching her would also undermine all that he'd done today to separate from the tornado of emotions that threatened to throw him into uncharted territory. "Tell me what you need me to do," Blue said simply. Crash glanced in the direction in which Lucy had disappeared. "She's not calling the SWAT Team, I promise. She knows we're friends." "Are we?" Blue turned back to stir his tomato sauce. "I thought so." Crash looked at Nell, and forced himself to detach even more completely than he had earlier that afternoon, after he'd allowed himself one more kiss. One last kiss. This was one of the most difficult decisions of his life, but he knew it had to be done. "I need a place for Nell to stay that's safe," he said, as ready as he'd ever be to put the one person he cared more about than anyone on the planet into another man's hands. The blond-haired SEAL nodded as he turned back to meet his gaze. "I'll see to that." Nell's throat felt tight. Just like that, Crash was handing her over. Just like that, he was going to walk out of the house, into the darkness. And just like that, she was never going to see him again. "Are you set for supplies?" Blue asked. "Ammunition?" "I could use an extra brick of C-4, if you've got any lying around." Blue didn't blink. "You know we're not allowed to bring that stuff home." "I know the rules. I also know that when a team is called out on an op in the middle of the night, there's not always time to go back to the base to pick up supplies." Blue nodded. "I can spare half a block. But unless you're intending to take out more than a single house, that ought to be enough." Nell couldn't believe what she had just heard. A half a block of C-4 could "take out" an entire house? Crash had already used at least three entire blocks, strategically planting the bombs he had made around the edges of the clearing surrounding the cabin. If a half a block could destroy all that, then surely he'd already used enough to blow up the entire mountainside. She'd realized with icy-cold shock that she'd figured out Plan B. Crash was prepared to blow himself up if necessary, in order to take down Commander Mark Garvin.

Chapter 16 The warm golden light of the kitchen seemed suddenly washed-out and much too bright. And Nell's ears were roaring so loudly, she almost couldn't hear as Blue said, "It's locked in the basement. I'll get it and be right back." He vanished through the same door his wife had disappeared through earlier. Nell fumbled for one of the kitchen chairs, nearly knocking it over in her haste to sit down. She actually had to put her head between her legs and close her eyes tightly to keep from falling over. "Are you all right?" Crash had crouched next to her. She could sense him, smell his familiar scent, hear the concern in his voice, but he didn't touch her. She didn't expect him to. She shook her head no. "I'm in love with you." She opened her eyes and lifted her head slightly to find herself gazing directly into his eyes. Her words had shocked him. Her blunt non sequitur had penetrated the emotional force field he'd set up around himself. "I've been in love with you ever since that night you made me go sledding. You remember that night, don't you?" He stood up, moving away from her. "I'm sorry, I don't." She sat up, indignation replacing dizziness. "How could someone who's such a bad liar specialize in covert ops?" He shook his head. "Nell—" "Let me refresh your memory," she told him. "That was the night you told me about Daisy coming to get you from that summer camp. Remember? That was the night you told me how it had felt to know, to really know that Daisy and Jake both wanted you around. You told me how strange it had felt to know that you were loved. Totally. Unconditionally." He moved closer to the door, and she stood up, following him, angry and upset enough not to care any more that she was making him uncomfortable. This could well be the last time she ever spoke to him. If he had his way, it would be. Because—oh God!—he believed that in order to bring down Garvin, he was going to have to die. "Well, guess what?" she said, stepping in front of him so that he was forced to look at her. "Jake and Daisy are gone, but I'm here to carry on. I love you unconditionally. And I want you to come back to me after this is over." To her total shock, she saw that there were tears in his eyes. Tears, and absolute misery. "I didn't want this to happen. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid." He ran his hands down his face, trying hard to get back into control. "If you love me, then I'm going to hurt you. And God help me, Nell, I don't want to hurt you." Back in control was the last place Nell wanted him to be. She couldn't believe she'd managed to break through his detachment as much as she already had. She pushed, trying to see more, to get more from him. "So don't hurt me. How are you going to hurt me?" He lowered his voice. "The odds of my surviving this altercation are low. I've known that from the start. If you love me—and please, Nell, don't love me—then I'm going to hurt you the same way Daisy hurt Jake." He met her gaze and she knew at last that she had uncovered the truth. He was doing unto others the way he wished they would do unto him. He was so terrified of losing someone he loved, he tried to keep himself from loving, he tried to shut all his feelings down. And he'd tried to keep her from loving him, to prevent her from being hurt as well. Nell reached for him, touching his arms, his shoulders. "Oh, my God, is that really what you think? That Daisy hurt Jake by dying?" His voice was ragged. "I know she did. If Jake had lived, he still wouldn't be over her, he still would be in pain, missing her every day for the rest of his life." "Yes, Daisy made Jake hurt. Yes, he missed her right up to the moment he drew his last breath, but think of all she gave him along with that pain. Think of all those years, all the laughter they shared. I've never known two people who were as happy as they were. Do you really, honestly believe that Jake would've traded all that joy simply to avoid the pain he felt at the end?" Nell touched the unrelenting lines of his face. "I can tell you absolutely that he would not have traded even one single moment, because I wouldn't trade, either. If I could, I wouldn't choose to go back and keep myself from falling in love with you. I don't care, even if you are hell-bent on killing yourself." She stood on tiptoe, pulling his head down to kiss the grim line of his mouth. "There's one more kiss I'll always remember," she told him. She kissed him again, longer this time, lingering. "One more moment I'll cherish forever." She kissed him a third time, and with a groan, he pulled her close, kissing her with all the passion and longing and sweet, sweet emotion he'd tried so hard to keep buried deep inside. "Please," Nell whispered as he held her so tightly she could barely breathe. "Come back to me." She was begging again. This man had the power to force her to abandon her pride, force her to her knees. "Is avenging Jake's death really worth losing your own life?"

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" He pulled back to look at her, searching her eyes. "Don't you know I'm doing this for you?" She shook her head, not understanding. "Unless Garvin is in custody with absolute proof connecting him to his crimes, or unless he's dead, I'd never know for certain that you were safe." She gripped his arms. "I'd be safe if you were with me." An avalanche of emotions crossed his face. "I can't ask you to do that—to come away with me, to run and hide, to spend the rest of your life hiding." "Try asking!" "That's no way to live!" She wanted to shake him. "Getting yourself killed isn't living either, in case you haven't noticed!" He shook his head. "This way I'll know you're safe." "So you're doing this for me?" She couldn't keep her eyes from brimming with tears. "You're telling me that you're willing to die. For me" "Yes." "Why?" He kissed her and she knew that he was telling her why. He loved her. He couldn't say the words, but she knew it to be true. "If you're willing to die for me," she asked him, her heart in her throat, "then why won't you live for me?" He just looked at her for several long seconds as Nell prayed her words would make him stop the chain of events he'd already set in motion. But then he shook his head, turning away. Following his gaze, Nell saw that Blue had come back into the kitchen. As Crash stepped back, away from her, Nell knew with a sudden wrenching pain that she'd lost. He wasn't going to stay. And he wasn't going to come back. She pushed her pain away, refusing to stand there weeping as the man she loved walked away from her for the last time. She forced everything she was feeling, all that terrible emptiness and loss, far, far back, deep inside of her. She'd have plenty of time later on to mourn. She'd have all the rest of her life. She watched as Crash took the C-4 Blue had wrapped up for him and slipped it into one of his pockets. She watched as the two men shook hands. Did Blue know it was the last time he was going to see his friend? She watched, feeling oddly detached and remarkably in control as Crash paused in front of her. Was this how he did it? Was this how he stayed so cool and reserved and distanced? It almost didn't hurt. He kissed her again, his mouth sweet and warm, and she almost didn't cling to him for just another few seconds longer. And when he walked out the door and vanished into the night, she almost didn't cry. * * * Crash left his car out by the main highway and traveled the last ten miles to the cabin on foot. He sat in the darkness outside the cabin as one hour slipped into two, watching and waiting—making sure that no one had approached the area while he had been gone. He went into the cabin cautiously, then searched it to be doubly certain he was alone up here. He was alone. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so totally alone. Normally, he didn't mind sitting quietly with his thoughts. But tonight, his thoughts wouldn't behave. He couldn't stop thinking about Nell, about what she had said. If you're willing to die for me, then why won't you live for me? I love you, unconditionally. Unconditionally. When he closed his eyes, he saw her, her face alight, laughing at something Daisy or Jake had said. He saw her, her eyes filled with tears at the

thought that she'd ruined one of Daisy's last sunsets. He saw her, blazing with passion as she leaned forward to kiss him. He saw her, that first time he'd seen her again in close to a year, sitting in the visitors' room at the jail, hands folded neatly on the table in front of her, her expression guarded, but her eyes giving away everything she was feeling, everything she hadn't dared to admit aloud until just hours ago. She loved him. Unconditionally. And he knew it was true. If she could sit there, loving him even as she visited him in jail, an accused murderer, then she truly did love him unconditionally. As Crash got out his roll of wire and laid out his tools to rig the last of the explosives that would guarantee Gar-vin's death—and his own death as well—he stopped for a moment. Because when he closed his eyes, if he concentrated really hard, he could see a glimmer—just a tiny flicker—of his future. If he didn't die here this dawn, he could have a future. It might not have been the future he'd always imagined, working for the Gray Group as a SEAL until he hit his peak, then moving into more standard career as a SEAL instructor until he was too old to do the job right. He'd always figured he'd be with the Teams, or he'd be dead. But now when he closed his eyes, he could see a shadowy picture of himself, a few years from now, with Nell standing at his side. Loving him unconditionally, whether he was a SEAL or working nights at the counter of a Seven-Eleven. What he did didn't matter to her. And Crash realized that it wouldn't matter to him, either. Not as long as she was there when he came home. He looked down at the C-4, at his own private cup of hemlock, and he knew in that instant, without a single doubt, that he did not want to die today. He had been wrong. He wasn't expendable, after all. He should have asked Blue McCoy and the rest of Alpha Squad for help. It would've have been a whole lot easier. Crash stood up. It was too late to contact Blue, but it wasn't too late to do a little rewiring. He smiled for the first time in hours. Maybe his luck was finally about to change. * * * Nell couldn't stand it another second. She put down her fork, done pushing the pasta around her plate, done pretending that she had any kind of appetite at all. "He's going to die if we don't do something." Blue McCoy glanced across the table at his wife before putting his own fork down. He knew Nell was talking about Crash. "I'm not sure exactly what it is we can do at this point." In a low voice, Nell told the SEAL about all the C-4 that Crash had rigged, about the cabin, about the message to Senator Garvin, about everything. She didn't need to speak of the low odds of Crash's survival. Blue had already figured that out. "There's got to be a way for Billy to beat Garvin," she said. “To implicate him in Jake's death, and to stay alive as well. But he's going to need help. Lots of help." As she watched, Blue glanced again at his wife. "This sounds more like your department than mine, Superman," Lucy said softly. "You told Billy how your squad—Alpha Squad—all thought he was being set up," Nell persisted. "Who do I have to call to ask them to help?" Blue lifted one hand. "Whoa. Do we even know where Crash is?" Nell's heart was pounding. Was he actually considering her outrageous request? "Yes. I could find my way back there, I'm sure of it. I could lead you there." Blue was silent for a moment. "It's one thing for me to offer to help a man I personally trust," he finally said. "It's a whole other story to bring Alpha Squad in. If this goes wrong..." "Billy spoke so highly of the Alpha Squad," Nell said. Her heart was beating so hard she could hardly speak. Please, God, let them agree to help. “If the men of Alpha Squad have even one-tenth the respect for him that he has for them, how can they refuse to help?" "You're asking a lot." Lucy leaned forward, her brown eyes sober. "They'd be putting their careers—not to mention their lives—on the line."

Blue pushed back his chair and stood up. "I'll call Joe Cat—Captain Catalanotto," he told Nell. "I can't promise anything, but..." He reached for the phone. Nell held onto the edge of the table, allowing herself to dare to hope. Garvin appeared, right on schedule. Dawn was breaking, but the west side of the mountain was still in heavy shadow. As Crash watched, Garvin drove right up to the cabin, the headlights of his car still on, still necessary. He'd brought a half a dozen shooters with him, but they'd come in a different vehicle and parked down the road—as if they didn't think Crash would notice them, creeping through the woods, not quite as noisy as a pack of Boy Scouts on a camping trip, but pretty ridiculously close. Garvin was a tall, handsome man with a full head of dark hair. He didn't look capable of starting a war or conspiring to kill a U.S. Navy admiral, but Crash knew that looks could often be deceiving. As he watched, Garvin climbed out of his car, hands held out to show that they were empty, that he was unarmed. Crash, too, had left his weapon inside the cabin. But he was far from unarmed. "Call your shooters off." Garvin pretended not to understand. “I came alone, just as you said." Crash stepped forward, opening his jacket, letting Senator Garvin, a former commander in the U.S. Navy, get a good look at all of the C-4 plastic explosive he'd rewired and attached directly to his combat vest. He also showed the man the trigger mechanism that he'd rigged. He'd turned himself into a walking bomb. "Call your shooters off," he said again. "If one of them makes a mistake and shoots me, my thumb will come off this button, and this entire hillside will be one big fireball." Garvin raised his voice. "He's got a bomb. Don't shoot. Don't anyone shoot. Do you understand?" "There now," Crash said. "Isn't the truth so much more refreshing?" "You are one crazy son of a bitch." "Hey, I'm not the one who wants to be Vice President." Garvin was backing away, slowly but surely, inch by inch. Crash laughed at him. "Are you trying to sneak away from me? Turn around and look down the trail," he ordered the older man. "See that tree with the white marker tied around it? I tied it there, just for you. Can you see the one I'm talking about, way over there?" Garvin nodded jerkily. "That's the edge of my kill zone," Crash told him. "Start there and draw a circle with me in the middle. Anyone and anything inside that circle is going straight to hell when I lift my thumb from this trigger." Garvin's face was chalky as he realized that edging away wasn't going to do him much good. "You'd never do it." Crash lowered his voice, leaning forward until he was mere inches from Garvin's face. "Is that a dare?" He raised the trigger so the man could see his thumb, started to move his thumb— "No!" Crash nodded, backing down. "Well, then. It seems like I've got something you want—your life. And since you've got something / want—the truth—I think we can probably—" "I do have something you want," Garvin interrupted. Sweat was rolling down his face. "I have something you want bad. I have that girl. Nell Burns." Crash didn't move, but something, something must have flickered in his eyes. Some uncertainty. Some doubt. "Am I bluffing? That's what you're thinking right now, isn't it?" Garvin somehow managed to smile. "That's a very good question." "You don't have her." "Don't I? Maybe you're right. Maybe I didn't send Mr. Sarkowski into your SEAL friend's house. Maybe he didn't put a bullet into your friend's brain. Maybe he doesn't have the girl with him right now. And maybe he's not waiting for 7:00 a.m. to come—knowing that if I don't show up by then, he'll get to do whatever he wants with your girlfriend. Poor thing." Crash didn't move. Garvin was bluffing. He had to be bluffing. There was no way Sarkowski could have gotten past Blue. No way. "The real beauty of it is that the ballistics reports will show that the bullet that killed her came from your gun," Garvin continued. "So unless you disarm that bomb you're wearing—"

"No." Crash turned to look at him. "You don't know it, but by telling me you've got Nell you lost the game. I just won. Check and mate, scumbag." He kept his voice low, his face expressionless, his eyes empty, soulless. "Because if you have Nell, I truly have nothing left to lose. If you have Nell, I'd just as soon die as long as it means that I'd kill you, too." Everything he was saying had been true. Just hours ago, it had been true. He could say it with a chilling believability because he knew exactly what it felt like to be ready to die. "Here's what I'm thinking," he told Garvin. "If I disarm this bomb, you'll kill me, and then you'll kill Nell, too, anyway. Hell, if Sarkowski really does have her, she's probably already dead. So you see, Senator, you've just severed the last of my ties to this world. I have no reason at all not to start my search for inner peace in the afterlife right now." He smiled tightly. "And I know I'll go to heaven, because my last act on this earth will be ridding the world of you." Garvin bought it. He swallowed it whole. Every last word. "All right. Jesus. I was bluffing. I don't have the girl. Christ, you're a crazy bastard." Crash shook his head. "I don't believe you," he said in the same quiet voice. "In fact, I think you already told Sarkowski to kill her." He moved his thumb on the trigger. "I didn't—I swear!" Garvin was nearly wetting himself with panic. Crash reached into his jacket and took out his cell phone. "If you want to live, here's what you've got to do." With his spare thumb he dialed Admiral Stonegate's direct number. It would be after 9:00 a.m. in D.C. right now. The admiral would be in. "Stonegate," the admiral rasped. "Sir, this is Lt. William Hawken. Please record this conversation." Crash held the phone out to Garvin. "Tell him everything. Start with the money you got illegally in 'Nam, and the house you bought with it. Tell him about your meeting with Kim and how you killed Jake Robinson to keep it covered up. Tell him everything, or I'll be more than happy to escort you straight to hell." Garvin took the phone and began to talk, his voice so low that Crash had to step closer to hear him. He'd made over one hundred thousand dollars selling confiscated weapons back to the Viet Cong. It was a onetime thing, a temporary, momentary lapse in judgment. John Sherman had orchestrated the deal. He'd merely had to look the other way to earn more money than he'd ever dreamed of having. But then just last year, after he'd won the senate seat, he'd been contacted by John Sherman and blackmailed. Over the next few months, he'd paid nearly five times the money he'd made illegally, with no end in sight. He'd finally gone to Hong Kong in an attempt to rid himself of Sherman once and for all. He'd worn his old naval uniform when he'd met with Kim and led the man to believe he was acting on behalf of the United States. He'd had no idea that the battle between the two rival gangs would get so out of control. He'd only wanted Sherman dead. He'd had no idea thousands of innocent people would die as well. He knew when word came down that Jake Robinson was looking into the matter that he had to stop the investigation at the source. He was in over his head, but it was too late to stop. He set Crash Hawken up for the fall, had the ballistics report falsified—and it would have worked, too, if Hawken hadn't been so damned hard to kill. On and on he talked, giving details—times, dates, names. The three men who'd been part of the alleged SEAL Team assigned to protect Jake had been compatriots of Sheldon Sarkowski's. Captain Lovett and the Possum hadn't been part of the conspiracy to kill the admiral. They'd been told that Admiral Robinson had been acting oddly since the death of his wife. They were told they were being sent in to make certain he didn't harm himself or become a threat to national security. They'd been told that the three strangers on the team were psyche experts—men in white coats— who were going to restrain the admiral and bring him to a special hospital. Lovett had been ordered not to tell Crash the "real" reason they were going out to the farm. The entire affair had been a serpent's nest of lies. Finally, Garvin handed the phone back to Crash. "The admiral wants to speak with you," he said. But then he dropped the phone, and the batteries came out. By the time he got them back in, the line had been disconnected. It didn't matter. Crash pocketed the phone. "Tell your shooters to come forward and surrender their weapons." Garvin turned toward the woods and repeated Crash's order. Nothing moved. The silence was eerie and the hair on the back of Crash's neck suddenly stood on end. There had been at least six men out there, he knew there had been. But now they were all gone. The rising sun was starting to thin out the shadows, but the early morning was misty, making it even harder to see. The strangest thing was, Crash hadn't heard anyone leave. Yet he'd heard them all approach. It didn't seem possible, or likely, that they'd been able to leave without his being aware of it. "Tell them again," Crash ordered. "Come forward and surrender your weapons!" Still no movement.

But then a man stood up, stepping from the cover of the bushes. It was as if he'd been conjured out of thin air. One moment he wasn't there, and the next he was. It was Blue McCoy, his face streaked with black-and-green greasepaint. "We've taken care of the opposition and already confiscated their weapons," he told Crash. We? Crash turned, and not one or two but five men appeared silently from the woods. SEALs. He recognized them first as SEALs by the way they moved. But then he realized they were the men of Alpha Squad. He recognized Harvard beneath his camouflage paint. And the captain—Joe Cat. Lucky, Bobby and Wes—they were all there. All except Cowboy, who no doubt was still being trailed by FInCOM and NIS. They moved to stand behind him in a silent show of force. And with the streaks of black and green and brown on their faces, they put on one hell of a show. And then, damned if Nell didn't step out of the bushes, too. She was actually carrying an M-16 that was nearly as big as she was. She had greasepaint on her face as well, but as she moved closer, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. "Don't be mad at me." Nell wanted to touch him. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but she was holding this huge piece of hardware, and he was still covered in C-4. "Please, will you disarm that bomb now?" Crash looked at Garvin. "Looks like you were bluffing about Nell." He held up the trigger and released his thumb. Nothing exploded. Nothing happened at all. "I was bluffing, too." He looked at Nell. "I was only bluffing," he repeated, as if he wanted to make absolutely certain that she knew that. He took off his jacket, and peeled off his combat vest and the heavy weight of all that C-4. Garvin stared at Crash. And then he started to laugh. "You son of a bitch." Captain Catalanotto stepped forward, motioning to Garvin. "Let's get this piece of garbage into custody." But Garvin stepped back, away from him. "You still don't win," he told Crash. "I disconnected that call to Stonegate before I started to talk. It's your word against mine. You have no proof of any wrongdoing on my part." He looked at the captain and the rest of Alpha Squad. "You'll go to jail—all of you. He's the one you should be arresting. He's the one wanted for murder and treason." Crash reached down into one of the pockets of his combat vest and pulled out a hand-sized tape recorder—one of those little things people used to record letters and take dictation. "Sorry to disappoint you, Senator, but I've got every word you said on tape. This game is over. You lose." The game was over. And Nell had won. She knew she'd won from the look in Crash's eyes as he turned to smile at her. But then, as if in slow motion, Garvin drew a gun from the pocket of his jacket. And, in slow motion, Nell saw the early-morning sun glinting off the metal barrel as he aimed the weapon directly at Crash. She heard herself shout as, in the space of one single heartbeat, Garvin fired the gun. The force of the bullet hit Crash square in the chest and he was flung back, his head flopping like a rag doll's as he was pushed down and back, into the dirt. Crash was dead. He had to be dead. Even if he was still alive, there was no way they could get him to a hospital in time. The nearest medical center was miles away. It would take them hours to get there and he'd surely bleed to death on the way. She ran toward him and was the first at his side as the SEALs disarmed Garvin and wrestled him to the ground. Crash was struggling to breathe, fighting to suck in air, but she didn't find the massive outpouring of blood that she'd expected. She took his hand, holding it tightly. "Please don't die," she told him. "Please, Billy, don't you die...." Harvard—the big African-American SEAL—knelt in the dirt, on the other side of Crash's body. He tore open Crash's shirt and she closed her eyes, afraid of what she would see. "Status?" another man asked. It was the squad's captain. "He got the wind knocked out of him," Harvard's rich voice said. "Could be he's got a broken rib, but other than that, as soon as he catches his breath, he should be fine." He should be...? Nell opened her eyes. "Fine? He's got a bullet in his chest!" "What he's got is a bullet in his body armor—his bulletproof vest." Harvard smiled at her. "Just be careful not to hug little Billy too hard, all right?" Crash was wearing a bulletproof vest. She could see the bullet embedded in it, flattened. He had been bluffing with the C-4. She hadn't quite

believed it—until now. He'd had no real intention of blowing himself up along with Garvin. If he had, he wouldn't have bothered wearing a bulletproof vest. He was alive—and he wanted to be. Nell couldn't stop herself. She burst into tears. Crash struggled to sit up. "Hey." His voice was whis pery and weak. He reached for her, and she slipped into his arms. "Aren't you always telling me that you never cry—that you're not the type to always cry?" She lifted her head to look at him. “This must be just another fluke." He laughed, then winced. "Ouch." "Will it hurt if I kiss you?" "Yeah," Crash said quietly, aware that Alpha Squad had taken Garvin away, that he and Nell were alone in the clearing. He touched her cheek, marveling at the picture she made with that war paint on her face. Nell, his unadven-turous Nell, who'd rather stay home and sit by the fire with a book than risk getting her feet cold, was cammied up and ready for battle. She'd done that for him, he realized. "It's always going to hurt a little bit when you kiss me. I'm always going to be scared to death of losing you." "You can't lose me," she said fiercely. "So don't even try. I've got you, and I'm not going to let go." Crash kissed her. "And if I ever leave you, it won't be because I want to." Her eyes filled with fresh tears as she kissed him again. "I don't know where I'm going from here," he pulled back to tell her bluntly. "Even if the Navy wants me back, I'm not sure the SEAL Teams will want anything to do with me. I know the Gray Group won't touch me after this. Too many people know my face now. And I also know I can't handle some backroom Navy desk job, so..." "You don't have to decide any of that right now," she told him, smoothing his hair back from his face. "Give yourself some time. You haven't even let yourself properly mourn Jake." "I feel like I..." He stopped himself, amazed at what he'd almost revealed, without even thinking. But now that he was thinking, he knew he had to say it. He wanted to say it. "I feel like I can't ask you to marry me without making sure you realize that right now my entire life is kind of in upheaval." "Kind of in upheaval? That's kind of an understatement, don't you..." Crash knew the moment when she realized exactly what he had said. Ask you to marry me... She started to cry again. "Oh, my God," she said softly. "I know about the upheaval. So you can. Ask me. I mean, if you want." "You're crying again," he pointed out. "This doesn't count," she told him. "Tears of happiness don't count." Crash laughed. "Ouch!" "Oh, God, I've got to stop making you laugh." He caught her chin, holding her so that she had to look into his eyes. "No," he said. "Don't. Not ever, okay?" "So...you love me because I make you laugh..." Crash lost himself in the beautiful blue of her eyes. "No." He whispered the words he knew she wanted to hear, the words he could finally say aloud. "I love you...and you make me laugh." He kissed her, losing himself in the softness of her lips. "You know I'd die for you." She fingered the edge of his bulletproof vest. "I know you'd live for me, too. That's much harder to do." "So, do you want to..." his lips were dry and he moistened them "...marry me?" He realized how offhanded that sounded and quickly reworded it. "Please, will you marry me?" Nell made a noise that sounded very much like an affir mative as she reached for him. He held her tightly, aware that she was crying. Again. He tasted salt as he kissed her. "Was that a yes?" "Yes." This time she was absolutely clear. Crash kissed her again as the shadows finally shifted, as the sun finally cleared the mountain, bathing them in warmth.

And he knew that the next leg of his journey—and he hoped it was going to be a long, long stretch—was going to be made in the light.

Chapter 17 “Where are we?" Crash asked. The driver didn't answer. He simply opened the door and stood back so that Crash could climb out. He snapped to attention, and Crash realized that there was an admiral standing by the front door of the building. An admiral. They'd sent an admiral to escort him to his debriefing...? Crash was glad Nell had made him wear his dress uniform. The row of medals across his chest nearly rivaled those the admiral was wearing. The admiral stepped forward, holding out his hand to shake. "Glad to finally meet you, Lieutenant Hawken. I'm Mac Forrest. I don't know why we haven't met before this." Crash shook the older man's hand. Admiral Forrest was lean and wiry, with a thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes that looked far too young for a face with as many wrinkles as his had. "Is this where the debriefing is being held?" Crash looked up at the elegant architecture of the stately old building as the admiral led him inside. He took off his hat as he looked around. The lobby was large and pristine, with a white-marble-tiled floor. "I don't think I've ever been here before." Forrest led the way down a hall. "Actually, Lieutenant, not many people have been here before. This is a FInCOM safe house." "I don't understand." Mac Forrest stopped in front of a closed door. “Hold on to your hat, son. I've got an early Christmas present for you." He nodded at the door. "Go on in," he said as he turned and started down the hall. "I'll be back in a bit." Crash watched him walk away, then looked at the door. It was a plain, oak door with an old-fashioned glass doorknob, like a giant glittering diamond. He reached out and turned it, and the door swung open. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to see on the other side of that door, but he sure hadn't expected to see a bedroom. It was decorated warmly, with rich, dark-colored curtains surrounding big windows that made the most of the weak December sunshine. In the center of the room was a hospital bed, surrounded by monitors and medical equipment. And in the center of the bed was Jake Robinson. He looked pale and fragile, and he was still hooked up to quite a few of those monitors, with an IV drip in his arm, but he was very, very, very much alive. Crash couldn't speak. Tears welled in his eyes. Jake was alive! "Let me start by saying that I wanted to tell you," Jake said. "But it was a week before I was out of intensive care, and nearly another week before I was even aware that you didn't know I was still alive. And then you were gone and there was no way to let you know." Crash closed the door behind him, fighting the emotion that threatened to choke him, to make him break down and cry like a baby. Detach. Separate. Distance... What the hell was he doing? This was joy he was feeling. This was incredible relief, heart-stopping happiness. Yes, he wanted to cry, but they would be good tears. "I'm sorry you had to go through all that thinking that I was dead," Jake said quietly. "Mac Forrest made the decision to release the news that I'd died. He thought I'd be safer that way." Crash laughed, but it sounded kind of crazy, more like a sob than real laughter. "This is so unbelievably great." His voice broke. As he crossed to Jake, he pulled a chair over to the bed and clasped the older man's hand in both of his. "Are you really all right? You look like hell, like you've been hit by a truck." If Jake noticed the tears that were brimming in his eyes, he didn't comment. "I'm going to be fine. It's going to take a little while, but the doctor says I'll be up and walking in no time. No permanent damage—a few more scars." Crash shook his head. "I should have known. It was so easy to escape after the hearing. I should have realized I was being let go." "They gave you a little bit of help, but not much. There were only a few people who were allowed to know I was alive." He squeezed Crash's hand. "Good job with Garvin. That was one hell of a tape you made." "I'm lucky I had Alpha Squad there to back me up." "Speaking of Alpha Squad—you met Mac Forrest on your way in?" Crash nodded.

"Alpha Squad's under his command. He asked me to let you know that there's been a special request made for your reassignment. Captain Joe Catalanotto's asking for you to be placed on his team. He sent a personal note to Mac along with all the paperwork. These guys really want you to work with them." Crash couldn't speak again. "I'm honored they want me," he finally said. "I'm glad to see you finally got a haircut. The pictures they kept flashing of you on the news were pretty scary-looking." Crash ran his hand back through his freshly cut hair. "Yeah, Nell likes it better this way, too." "Nell." Jake said. "Nell. Would that be the same Nell who used to work for Daisy? Pretty girl? Great smile? Head-over-heels in love with you?" "Don't be a jackass." Jake grinned. "That's Admiral Jackass to you, Lieutenant." "Jake, I can't tell you how glad I am that you're not dead." "Back at you with that, kid. I'm also glad you finally opened your damn eyes and saw what you had right there in front of you, ready to fall into your lap." He paused. "You did manage to get yourself straightened out about Nell?" "Actually, I haven't," Crash admitted. "I'm totally tied in knots when it comes to her." He smiled ruefully. "But I'm loving every minute of it. She's crazy enough to want me, and I'm sane enough to know that I'd be an idiot to let her get away. You know, she's marrying me on Christmas. Will you stand up for me, Jake—be my best man?" Now there were tears in Jake's eyes, but still he tried to joke. "I'm not sure if I'm going to be standing by then." "Can we have the wedding here? There's no law that says the best man literally has to stand." Jake held his hand more tightly. "I'd love that. It would be an honor." It had only been a year since Crash had done Jake that very same honor. "Daisy always knew that Nell was perfect for me," Crash said quietly. "Daisy was...extraordinarily good at seeing the truth, even when it was hidden from the rest of the world's view." Jake looked away, but not before Crash saw the flash of pain in his eyes. "God, I still miss her so much." "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." Jake looked up at him. "Shouldn't have what? Said her name? Remembered how much we both loved her? Are you kidding?" "I don't know. I just thought—" "Twenty years," Jake said. "I had her for over twenty years. I would've loved forty or sixty, even. But twenty wasn't bad. Twenty was a gift." He looked up, pinning Crash with the intensity of his gaze. "Make every minute count, kid. Pay attention and really make sure you experience every step of the dance. You never know how many times you'll get to go around the floor." Crash nodded. "I'm glad you didn't die." "Me too, Billy. Me too, kid." It was supposed to be a private wedding. But when Nell's father opened the door to Jake Robin son's hospital room in the FInCOM safe house, there were so many people there, he and Nell almost couldn't fit inside. Lucy and Blue McCoy were there. Harvard and his wife, P.J., were there, too. Even Captain Catalanotto and his family had come. Bobby and Wes and Lucky were present, as was Crash's swim buddy Cowboy and his new wife. Cowboy was holding a baby who was his exact spitting image— and he was holding the little boy comfortably, as if the kid were an extension of his arm. It was a pretty amazing sight to see. But it wasn't half as amazing as the sight of Nell, walking into that room on her father's arm. She was wearing a beautiful antique gown she'd found downtown in a secondhand shop. Although it was a traditional-style wedding dress, with long sleeves and a high collar, it looked incredible on her. Even Daisy would have approved. "I thought this was supposed to be a wedding," she said, still looking around at all the extra guests with a smile, "not a surprise party." "I called Blue to see if anyone was going to be in town, because we needed another witness," Crash told her. "Turns out everyone was in town." Nell looked around, and Crash knew she realized that each and every one of his friends had come here purposely to support him. Like her parents, they'd changed all of their Christmas plans to be here today. Her father raised her veil and kissed her before giving her to Crash.

"I'm so glad all your friends could come," she whispered to him as she squeezed his hand. The ceremony passed in a blur. Crash tried to slow it down, tried to pay complete attention to the promises he was making, but the truth was, he would have promised this woman anything. And he would fight with his last breath to keep those promises. The pastor finally told him that he could kiss his bride, and as he kissed his new wife's sweet lips, he tasted salt. She was crying again. He looked at her questioningly, touching her cheek, and she shook her head. "Tears of joy don't count," she whispered. He laughed and kissed her again, holding her close and knowing that no matter how long they had together—one year or one hundred—he would cherish every moment. END

7 - The Admiral's Bride (1999)

For Nancy Peeler. We miss you guys!

Prologue Vietnam, 1969 Sergeant Matthew Lange had been left to die. His leg was badly broken and he had shrapnel embedded in his entire right side. It hadn't hit anything vital. He knew, because he'd been hit hours ago and he wasn't dead yet. And that was almost a shame. His morphine wasn't working. He not only hurt like hell but he was still alert enough to know what was coming. The soldier next to him knew, too. He lay there, crying softly. Jim was his name. Jimmy D'Angelo. He was just a kid, really—barely eighteen—and he wasn't going to get any older. None of them were. There were a dozen of them there, United States Marines, hiding and bleeding in the jungle of a country too small to have been mentioned in fifthgrade geography class. They were too badly injured to walk out, but most of 'em were still conscious, still alive enough to know that sometime within the next few hours, they were going to die. Charlie was coining. Probably right before dawn. The Vietcong had launched a major offensive yesterday morning, and Matt's platoon had been one of several trapped by the attack. They were now God knows how many clicks behind enemy lines, with no chance of rescue. Hours ago, Captain Tyler had radioed for help, but help wasn't coming. There were no chopper pilots insane enough to fly into this hot spot. They were on their own. But then the bomb dropped—close to literally. Well, at least it would be dropping literally, come morning. The captain had been ordered out of the area. He was told that in an attempt to halt the Vietcong, the Americans would be napalming this very mountain in less than twelve hours. There had been twenty injured men. They'd outnumbered the uninjured by more than two to one. Captain Tyler had played God, choosing the eight least wounded to drag out of there. He'd looked at Matt, looked at his leg, and he'd shaken his head. No. He'd had tears in his eyes, not that that helped much now. Father O'Brien had been the only one to stay behind. Matt could hear his quiet voice, murmuring words of comfort to the dying men. If Charlie found them, he'd use bayonets to kill them. He wouldn't want to waste bullets on men who couldn't fight back. And Matt couldn't fight back. His right arm was useless, his left too weak to shoulder his weapon. Most of the other guys were worse than he was. And he couldn't picture Father O'Brien picking up someone's machine gun and giving Charlie a mouthful of lead. No, bayonets or burning. That's what their future had come down to. Matt felt like weeping along with Jimmy. "Sarge?" "Yeah, Jim. I'm still here." Like Matt might've walked away. "You have a family, don't you?" Matt closed his eyes, picturing Lisa's sweet face. "Yeah," he said. "I do. Back in New Haven. Connecticut." He might as well have said Mars, it seemed as far away. "I got two boys. Matt, Jr., and Mikey." Lisa had wanted a little girl. A daughter. He'd always thought there'd be plenty of time for that later. He'd been wrong. "You're lucky." Jimmy's voice shook. "I don't have anyone besides my ma who's gonna remember me. My poor ma." He started to cry again. "Oh, God, I want my ma...." Father O'Brien came over, but his calm voice didn't cover Jimmy's sobbing. The poor bastard wanted his ma. Matt wanted Lisa. It was the stupidest thing. When he'd been there, back in that stifling little crummy two-bedroom apartment in one of the worst neighborhoods in New Haven, he'd thought he'd go absolutely mad. He hated working as a mechanic, hated the way his money was already spent on groceries and rent before he even brought home his paycheck. So he'd re-upped. He'd told Lisa he'd reen-listed for the money, but the real truth was he'd wanted to get the hell out of there before he suffocated. And he'd left, even though she'd cried.

He'd married too young—not that he'd had a real choice about it. And he'd liked it, at first. Lisa, in his bed every night. No need to worry about getting her pregnant, since he'd already done that. He'd loved the way she'd grown heavy with child, with his child. It made him feel like a man, even though at twenty-two, fresh out of the service, he'd been little more than a child himself. But when the second baby had come right after the first, the weight of his responsibilities had scared him to death. So he'd left. He'd come here, to Nam. It was much different from his first tour, when he'd been stationed in Germany. And right now all he wanted was to be back in Lisa's arms. He was the stupidest fool in the world—he didn't realize how much he had, how much he truly loved that girl, his wife, until he was hours away from dying. Bayonets or burning. "Dear God." Father O'Brien's soft voice had quieted Jimmy, and he now turned to Matt. "Sergeant—Matthew. Would you like to pray?" "No, Father," he said. Not even prayer could help them now. "Their captain just left them there?" Lieutenant Jake Robinson kept his voice even, kept his voice low, even though he absolutely could not believe what his chief had just told him. Wounded marines, left behind by their CO in the jungle to die. "And now the good guys are going to finish them off with friendly fire?" Ham nodded, his headphones still plugged into the radio, his dark eyes grim. "It's not as heartless as you're thinkin', Admiral. There's only a dozen or so of them. If Charlie isn't stopped before he gets to the river, we'll have casualties in the thousands. You know that." He spoke in a barely audible voice, too. The enemy was all around them tonight. And well they should know. Jake's team of Men with Green Faces, U.S. Navy SEALs, had spent the past twenty-four hours marking the Vietcongs' location in this target area. They'd radioed the info in and now had exactly four hours to get out before the bombing raid began. "Only a dozen men," Jake said. "Or so. Any chance of giving me an exact number, Chief?" "Twelve wounded, one priest." Fred and Chuck materialized from the jungle. "Only nine wounded now," Fred corrected him in his soft Southern drawl. "We found 'em, Admiral. Near a clearing, like they hoped a chopper would be able to come in and grab 'em. Didn't approach—didn't want to get their .hopes up if we didn't think we could help. What we could see, three of 'em are already KIA." KIA. Killed in action. It was one of Jake's least favorite acronyms. Along with POW and MIA. But he didn't let his aversion show on his face. He never let anything like that show. His men didn't need to know when he was shaken. And this one had shaken him, hard. The commanders-in-chief knew those men were there. U.S. Marines. Good men. Brave men. And those commanders had given the order to proceed with the bombing regardless. He met Ham's eyes and read the skepticism there. "We've pulled off some tough missions before," Jake said. His words were as much to convince himself. Ham shook his head. "Nine wounded men and seven SEALs," he said. "Against thirty-five hundred Vietcong? Come on, Lieutenant." The chief didn't need to say what he was thinking. This wasn't just a tough mission, it was insanity. And the chief had called Jake by his true rank, a sign of his disapproval. It was funny how accustomed he'd become to the nickname this team of SEALs had given him—Admiral. It was the ultimate expression of respect from this motley crew, particularly since he'd gone through BUD/S cursed with the label Pretty Boy, PB for short. Yeah, he liked Admiral much better. Fred and Chuck were watching him. So were Scooter and the Preacher and Ricky. Waiting for his command. At age twenty-two, Jake was one of the two old men of the team—a full lieutenant having served three back-to-back tours of duty in this hell on earth. Ham, his chief, had been there with him for the last two. Steady as a rock and, at twenty-seven years of age, as gnarled and ancient as the hills. But he'd never questioned Jake's authority. Until now. Jake smiled. "Nine wounded men, seven SEALs and one priest," he pointed out lightly. "Don't forget the priest, Ham. Always good to have one of them on our side." Fred snickered, but Ham's expression didn't change. "I wouldn't leave you to die," Jake quietly told the man who was the closest thing to a friend he had in this armpit of a jungle. "I will not leave those men out there."

Jake didn't wait for Ham's response, because frankly, Ham's response didn't matter. He didn't need his chiefs approval. This wasn't a democracy. Jake and Jake alone was in command. He met Fred's eyes, then Scooter's and Preacher's and Rickie's and Chuck's, infusing them all with his confidence, letting them see his complete faith in their ability as a SEAL team to pull off this impossible task. Leaving those poor bastards to die was not an option. Jake couldn't do it. Jake wouldn't do it. He turned to Ham. "Get on the radio, Chief, and find Crazy Ruben. If anyone'll fly a chopper in this deep, it'll be him. Pull in all those favors he owes me, promise him air support, and then get on the wire and get it for him." "Yes, sir." Jake turned to Fred. "Go back there and get their hopes up. Get them ready to move, then get your ass back here on the double." He smiled again, his best picnic-in-the-park smile. The one that made men under command believe they'd live to see another sunrise. "The rest of you gentlemen get ready to cut some very long fuses. Because I've got one hell of a plan." * 'They musta parachuted in!" Jimmy had real excitement in his voice. "Listen to that, Sarge! How many of 'em do you think are out there?" Matt painfully pulled himself up, trying to see something, anything in the darkness of the jungle. But all he could see were the flashes in the sky from an enormous battle just off to the west. Deep in VC territory. ' 'God, there must be hundreds." Even as he said the words he couldn't believe it. Hundreds of American soldiers, appearing out of nowhere? "They had to've dropped 'em in," Jimmy said again. It seemed impossible, but it must have been true—because there came the air support, then, big planes screaming overhead, dropping all kinds of nasty surprises on Charlie. Two hours ago a big, dark-skinned man had appeared, rising out of the jungle like an apparition, his face savagely painted with green and brown, a cammy-print bandanna tied neatly around the top of his head. He'd ID'd himself as Seaman Fred Baxter of the U.S. Navy SEALs. Matt had highest rank among the men left behind, and had asked what the hell a sailor was doing this far inland? Apparently there was a whole group of sailors out there in the jungle. A team, Baxter had said. Jake's team, he'd called them, as if that meant something—whoever the hell Jake was. And they were going to get Matt and Jimmy and the rest of 'em out of there. Stand ready for extraction, Baxter had said, and he'd disappeared. Matt had been left wondering if the entire conversation hadn't been some weird morphine hallucination. Seals. Who would name a special forces group after a circus animal? And how the hell was an entire team of them going to get out of the jungle with nine wounded men? "I've heard of the SEALs," Jimmy said, as if he'd somehow been able to follow Matt's drug-hazed thoughts. "They're some kind of demolitions experts. Even underwater, if you can believe that. And they're kinda like nin-jas—they can move right past Charlie—within feet of Charlie—without being seen. They go miles behind the line in teams of six or seven men and blow stuff up. And I don't know what kind of voodoo they use, but they always come back alive. Always." Six or seven men. Matt looked up at the flashes of explosions lighting the sky. Demolitions experts... No. Couldn't be. Could it? "Chopper!" Father O'Brien shouted. "Praise our Lord God Almighty!" The roar was unmistakable. The hurricane-force wind from the blades felt like a miracle. Holy Jesus, they actually had a chance. Tears were running down the padre's round face as he helped the medics lift the wounded men up and into the chopper. Matt couldn't hear him over the roar, over the sound of weapons discharging as the men with green faces suddenly appeared, keeping Charlie back, away from the clearing. Matt didn't need to hear O'Brien to know that his mouth was moving in a continuous prayer of thanks. But Matt wasn't Catholic, and they hadn't made it out yet. Someone lifted him up and the sudden knifelike pain in his leg made him scream. "Sorry, Sergeant." The voice held the quiet confidence of a seasoned officer. "No time to ask where it hurts." And then the pain was worth it, because he was inside, his cheek pressed against the olive-drab U.S.-made riveted metal of the chopper floor. And then they were lifting up and away, on an express flight out of hell. But fear cut through his waves of relief. Dear God, don't let them have left anyone behind! He forced himself over, onto his back, and the pain nearly made him retch. "Head count!" he somehow managed to shout. "We got all of you, Sarge." It was the steady voice of the man who'd carried him aboard. He was crouched by the open doorway, a grenade launcher in his arms, aiming and firing even as he spoke. He was younger than Matt had imagined from his voice. He wore no insignia, no rank, no

markings on his camouflage gear at all. Like the other SEALs, his face was streaked with green and brown, but as he turned to glance over his shoulder at the wounded men, Matt could see his eyes. They were an almost startling shade of blue. And as he met Matt's gaze, he smiled. It wasn't a tense, tight grimace laced with fear. And it wasn't a wolfish expression of adrenaline-induced high. It was a calm, relaxed, "let's get together and play softball sometime" kind of smile. "We got everyone," he shouted again, no room for doubt in his voice. "Hold on, Sergeant, it's going to be a bumpy ride, but we will get you out, and we will get you home." When he said it like that, as if it were an absolute truth, even Matt could believe him. The hospital was the pits, filled with pain and stink and death, but Matt knew he was only going to be there a little while longer. He'd been given his orders, his medical discharge. He was going home to Lisa. He was going to walk with a limp, probably for the rest of his life, but the doctors had managed to save his leg. Not bad for a guy who'd been left for dead. "You're looking much better today." The nurse that stopped by his bed and checked his leg was a pretty brunette with two deep dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. "I'm Constance. You can call me Connie for short." He hadn't seen her before, but he'd only been here about forty-eight hours. He'd spent most of that time in surgery and recovery. "Oh, you're one of Jake's Boys," Connie said as she checked his chart, her Georgia peaches-and-cream accent suddenly hushed with respect. "No," he said, "I'm not a SEAL. I'm a sergeant with—" "I know you're not a SEAL, silly." She dimpled up again. "Jake's SEALs don't turn up in our hospital beds. We sometimes have to give them extra penicillin, but perhaps I shouldn't mention that in mixed company." She winked. "Jake's Boys," she repeated. "That's what we call you—the wounded men that Lieutenant Jake Robinson brings in. Someone started keeping count here at the hospital about eight months ago." At his blank look, she tried to explain. ' 'Jake has developed the habit of resurrecting U.S. soldiers from the dead, Sergeant. Last month, his team liberated an entire prisoner-of-war camp. Don't ask me how, but Jake and his team came out of that jungle with seventy-five POWs, each one looking worse than the last. I swear, I cried for a week when I saw those poor souls." She shook her head. "I think there were ten of you this time, weren't there? Jake's up to...let's see...I think it's four hundred and twenty-seven now." She dimpled again. "Although if you ask me, he should get extra points for the priest." ' 'Four hundred and..." "Twenty-seven." Connie nodded, taking his blood pressure, her touch businesslike, impersonal. "All of whom owe their lives to him. Of course, we only started counting eight months ago. He's been in-country much longer." "A lieutenant, huh?" Matt mused. "My captain couldn't get even get one single chopper to fly in to pull us out." Connie bristled. ' 'Your captain is a word I will not use because / am a lady. Shame on him for leaving you boys that way. He better not come to this hospital for his annual checkup. There are a dozen doctors and nurses who are dying to get a chance to tell him to turn his head and cough." Matt laughed, but then winced. "Captain Tyler tried," he said. "I was there. I know he tried. That's what I don't understand. How could this lieutenant make things happen when a captain couldn't?" "Well, you know Jake's nickname." Connie looked up from her gentle but methodical checking of his shrapnel wounds. "Or maybe you don't. His teammates call him Admiral. And it wouldn't surprise me one bit if he made it to that rank someday. He's got something about him. Oh, yes, there's something very special in those blue eyes." Blue eyes. "I think I met him," Matt said. "Sergeant, you wouldn't just think it if you'd met him. You'd know it. He has a face like a movie star and a smile that makes you want to follow him just about anywhere." She sighed, then smiled again. "Oh, my. I am getting myself worked up over that young man, aren't I?" Matt had to know. "So how did a lieutenant manage to get all those soldiers dropped into the area? There must've been hundreds of them, and—" Connie laughed but then stopped, her eyes widening as she looked at him. "My goodness," she said. "You don't know, do you? When I heard about it, I didn't quite believe it, but if they managed to fool you, too..." Matt just waited for her to explain. "It was a ruse," she said. "Jake and his SEALs rigged a chain of explosives to fool the VC into thinking we'd launched a counteroffensive. It was just a distraction so he could get Captain Ruben's chopper in to pull you out. There weren't hundreds of soldiers in that jungle, Sergeant. What you saw and heard was solely the handiwork of seven U.S. Navy SEALs, led by one Lieutenant Jake Robinson."

Matt was floored. Seven SEALs had made him believe there was a huge army out there in the darkness. Connie's dimples deepened. "Gracious, that man might be more than an admiral someday. He just might go all the way and become our president." She raised her eyebrows suggestively. "I'd give him my vote, that's for sure." She made a note on Matt's chart, about to move on to the next bed. "Connie?" She turned back patiently. "Sergeant, I can't give you anything for the pain for another few hours." "No, that's not... I was just wondering. Does he ever come around here? Lieutenant Robinson, I mean. I'd like to thank him." "First off," she said. "As one of Jake's Boys, you and he are on a first-name basis. And secondly, no. You won't see him around here. He's already back out there, Sergeant. He's sleeping in the jungle tonight—that is, if he's sleeping at all."

Chapter 1 Washington, D.C., Today The Pentagon. Dr. Zoe Lange gazed out the window of the limo as the driver pulled up to the Pentagon. Damn. She was way underdressed. Her boss, Patrick Sullivan, had told her only that she was a candidate for an important and potentially long-term assignment. Zoe had figured that appropriate dress for such a meeting meant comfortable—blue jeans, running shoes, a T-shirt with a little blue flower print, and hardly any makeup. She was who she was, after all. If she were going to join a long-term mission, everyone might as well know exactly what to expect right from the start. She didn't dress up unless she had to. Unless she were going someplace like, oh, say, the Pentagon. If she'd known she was coming to the Pentagon, she would have put on her skintight black cat suit, her three-inch heels, dark red lipstick and worn her long blond hair in some kind of fancy French braid, rather than this high-school cheerleader ponytail she was wearing. Because men in the military tended to think female agents who looked like Emma Peel or one of James Bond's babes could hold their own when the going got tough. But little blue flowers, nuh-uh. Little blue flowers meant they'd have to hand her hankies to mop her frightened tears. Never mind the fact that little blue flowers didn't compromise her ability to run hard and fast, the way three-inch heels did. Well, okay. She was here now. The little blue flowers were going to have to do. She put on her sunglasses and picked up her oversize handbag that doubled as a briefcase and let herself be escorted by the guards into the building, through all the security checkpoints and into a waiting elevator. Down. They headed down, further even than the B that marked the basement floor. Even though no more letters or numbers flashed on the display over the door, they kept sinking. What could possibly be this far down besides hell? Zoe smiled tightly at the idea of being summoned for a meeting with the devil himself. In her line of business, it was entirely possible. She just hadn't expected to meet him here in D.C. Finally the elevator stopped and the doors opened with a subdued chime. The hallway was a clean off-white and very bright, not the dimly lit, smoky magentas and red-oranges of hell. The guards waiting for her outside didn't carry pitchforks. Instead they wore naval uniforms. Navy, huh? Hmm, wasn't that interesting? U.S. Navy Lieutenant Clones One and Two led her down that nondescript corridor, through countless doors that opened and closed automatically. Maxwell Smart would've been right at home. "Where are we heading, boys?" Zoe asked. "To the Cone of Silence?" One of the lieutenants looked back at her blankly, either too young or too serious to have seen all those late night Get Smart reruns she'd watched as a kid. But as they stopped at an unmarked doorway, Zoe realized her joking question had been right on the mark. The door was ridiculously thick, reinforced with steel, layered with everything else—lead included, no doubt—that would render the room within completely spy-proof. No infrared satellites could look through these walls and see who was inside. No high-powered microphones could listen in. Nothing that was said inside could be recorded or overheard. It was, indeed, the equivalent of Maxwell Smart's Cone of Silence. The outer door—and it was only the first of three she passed through—closed with a thunk, followed by the second. The third door was like a hatch on a ship—she had to step over a rim to get inside. It, too, was sealed tightly behind her. Apparently, she was the last to arrive. The inner chamber was not a big room. It was barely sixteen by thirteen, and it was filled with men. Big men, wearing gleaming white naval dress uniforms. The glare was intense. Zoe resisted the urge to pull her sunglasses down from where she'd pushed them atop her head as they all turned to look at her, as they all rose to their feet in a unison display of chivalry. She looked at them, scanning their faces, looking for someone, anyone familiar. The best she could do was count heads—fourteen—and sort through the various ranks on their uniforms. "Please," she said, with her best professional smile. "Gentlemen. No need to stand on my account."

There were two enlisted men, four lieutenants, one senior chief, two commanders, a captain, a rear admiral lower grade and three—count 'em, three—full-grade admirals, complete with scrambled eggs on the hats that were on the table in front of them. Seven of the men were active-duty SEALs. Two of the admirals wore budweisers, as well—the SEAL pin with an anchor and an eagle in flight gripping Poseidon's pitchfork in one talon and a stylized gun in the other—which meant they'd been SEALs at one time during their long military careers. One of the SEALs—a blond lieutenant with an even, white-toothed smile and a much too handsome face, who looked as if he might've come straight from the set of Bay-watch—pulled out a chair for her. Nodding her thanks, she sat next to him. "Name's Luke O'Donlon," he whispered, holding out his hand. She shook it quickly, absently, smiling briefly at both O'Donlon and the SEAL on her other side, an enormous African-American man with a shaved head, a diamond stud in his left ear, and a wide gold wedding band on his ring finger. As she set her bag down in front of her, her attention was held by the men on the other side of the big table. Three admirals. Holy Mike. Whatever this assignment was, it required this spy-proof room and three full-grade admirals to launch it. The admiral without the budweiser had snow-white hair and a face set in a permanent expression of disgust—as if he carried bad fish in his inside jacket pocket. Stonegate, that was his name. Zoe recognized him from his newspaper picture. He was always showing up in the Washington Post. He was part politician, something she didn't quite approve of in a man of his rank and standing. Beside her, O'Donlon cleared his throat and gave her his most winsome smile. He was just too cute, and he knew it, too. "I'm sorry, miss, I didn't catch your name." "I'm afraid that info's need-to-know," she whispered back, "and probably beyond your security clearance level. Sorry, sailor." The senior chief next to her overheard and deftly covered his laughter with a cough. The admiral who had reclaimed his seat next to Stone-gate had a thick head of salt and pepper hair. Admiral Mac Forrest. Definitely a cool guy. She'd met him at least twice in the Middle East, the last time just a few months ago. He nodded and smiled as she met his eyes. The admiral on Mac's left—the man directly across the table from her—was still standing, his face hidden as he quickly rifled through a file. "Now that we're all here," he said, "why don't we get started." He looked up then, and Zoe found herself looking into eyes that were amazingly, impossibly blue, into a face she would've recognized anywhere. Jake Robinson. The one and only Admiral Jake Robinson. Zoe knew he was in his early fifties—he had to be unless he'd performed his heroics in Vietnam as a twelve-year-old. Still, his hair was thick and dark, and the lines around his eyes and mouth only served to give his handsome face strength and maturity. And handsome was a complete understatement. Jake Robinson was way beyond handsome. He needed a completely new word invented to describe the sheer beauty of his face. His mouth was elegant, gracefully shaped and ready to quirk up into a smile. His nose was masculine perfection, his cheekbones exquisite, his forehead strong. His chin was just the right amount of stubborn, his jawline still sharp. Lieutenant Cutie-Pie sitting next to her—now he was merely handsome. Jake Robinson, on the other hand, was the Real Deal. He was looking around the table, quickly making introductions that Zoe knew were mostly for her benefit. Everyone else here knew each other. She tried to listen. The two enlisted SEALs were Skelly and Taylor. One was built like a pro football linebacker, the other looked like Popeye the sailor man. Which was which, she didn't have a clue. The African-American senior chief was named Becker. She'd met O'Donlon. Hawken, Shaw, Jones. Try as she might to memorize names, to attach them permanently to faces, she couldn't do it. She was too busy flashing hot and cold. Jake Robinson. Great glorious God, she was being given a chance to work a long-term assignment under the command of a living legend. His exploits nearly thirty years ago in Vietnam were legendary—along with his more recent creation of the Gray Group. Robinson's Gray Group was so highly classified, so top secret, she could only guess the type of assignments he handed out. But she could guess. Dangerous. Covert. Intensely important to national security. And she was going to be part of one. Zoe's heart was pounding as if she had just run five miles. She took a deep breath, calming herself as the admiral introduced her to the rest of the room. By the time fourteen pairs of very male eyes focused on her, she was completely back in control. Calm. Cool. Collected. Positively serene.

Except thirteen of those fourteen pairs of very male eyes didn't seem to notice how absolutely serene she was. Instead, they all focused on her ponytail and her little blue flowers. She could read their speculation quite clearly. She was the secretary, right? Sent in to take notes while the big strong men talked. Guess again, boys. ' 'Dr. Zoe Lange is one of the top experts in the country—possibly in the world—in biological and chemical weapons," Jake Robinson told them in his husky baritone voice. Around the room, eyebrows went up. Zoe could almost smell the skepticism. Across the table, the admiral7 s eyes were sparkling with amusement. Clearly, the skepticism's stench was strong enough for him to smell it, as well. "Dr. Lange works for Pat Sullivan," he added matter-of-factly, and the mood in the room instantly changed. The Agency. He didn't even need to say the name of the organization. They all knew what it was—and what she did for a living. Admiral Robinson had known exactly what to say to make them all sit up and take notice of her, little blue flowers or not. She sent him a smile of thanks. "I truly appreciate your being able to join us here today, Doctor." The admiral smiled at her, and it was all Zoe could do not to melt at his feet. It was true. Everything she'd ever read or heard about Jake Robinson's smile was absolutely true. It was warm and genuine. It was completely inclusive. It lit him from within, made his eyes even more blue. It made her want to follow him anywhere. Anywhere. "It's my pleasure, Admiral," she murmured. "I'm honored that you invited me. I hope I can be of assistance." "Actually—" his face sobered "—it's unfortunate that we need your assistance." He looked around the table, all amusement gone from his eyes. "Two weeks ago, there was a break-in at the Arches military testing lab just outside of Boulder, Colorado." Zoe stopped watching the man's eyes and started paying attention to his words. A break-in. At Arches. Holy Mike. She wasn't the only one shifting uneasily in her seat. Beside her, Senior Chief Becker was downright uncomfortable, as were most of the other SEALs. Like Zoe, they all knew what was tested at Arches. They all knew what was stored there, as well. Anthrax. Botulinum toxin. Sarin. The lethal nerve gas VX. And the newest man-made tool of death and chemical destruction, Triple X. The last time Zoe had been in Arches, she'd written a hundred-and-fifty-page report on the weaknesses in their security system. She wondered now if anyone at all had bothered to read it. "The break-in was done without force, without forced entry, even," the admiral continued. "Six canisters of a deadly nerve agent were removed and replaced—it was only by dumb luck we discovered the sw7itch." Zoe couldn't stand it a minute longer. "Admiral, what exactly was taken?" Stonegate and several of the other high-ranking officers were looking at her as if she deserved to get her mouth washed for speaking out of order. But she didn't give a damn. She needed to know. And Jake Robinson didn't seem to mind. He met her gaze steadily, and she saw the answer in his eyes even before he opened his mouth to speak. It was the worst possible scenario she could imagine. Trip X. Six canisters? Oh, God. She realized she'd said the words aloud as he nodded. "Oh, God is right," he agreed with rather grim humor. "Dr. Lange, perhaps I could impose upon you to explain exactly what Triple X is, as well as our options for dealing with this little problem." Little problem? Holy Mike, this was no little problem. "Our options for dealing with it are extremely simple, sir," she said. ' 'We have only one option —there are no choices here. We need to find and regain possession of the missing canisters. Believe me, gentlemen, Triple X is not something we want floating around out there. And particularly not six canisters' worth." She looked at the admiral. "How in God's name did this happen?" "How's not important right now," he told her almost gently. "Right now we need to focus on what. Please continue, Doctor." Zoe nodded. The thought of six canisters of Triple X set loose on the unsuspecting world made her blood feel like ice water as it flowed through her veins. It was terrifying. And she wasn't used to feeling terrified, even though her job was a frightening one most of the time. She spent hours upon hours learning the awful details of all the different weapons of mass destruction that were out there, ready to wreak havoc on the planet. But she'd learned to sleep dreamlessly at night, untouched by nightmares. She'd learned to sit impassively while reading reports of countries that tested chemical weapons on prisoners and the infirm. Women and children. But six missing canisters of Trip X... That scared her to death. Still, she took a deep breath and stood up, because she'd also learned how to give tight, to-the-point, emotionless information even when she was badly shaken.

"Triple X is currently the nastiest chemical weapon in the world," she reported. "It's twenty times more potent than the nerve agent VX, and like VX, it kills by paralysis. Get a noseful of Triple X, gentlemen, and you choke to death, because your lungs, like the other muscles in your body, slowly seize up. Trip X or Tri X or T-X. It's all the same thing—airborne death." Zoe moved around the table to the white board that was on the wall behind Admiral Robinson. She picked up a marker and scribbled the two chemical components on the board, labeling them A and B. ' 'Trip X is a triple compound, which makes it far more stable to store and transport. It also makes it far more adaptable as a weapon." She pointed to the board. "These two compounds are stored dry, in powder forms that are, on their own, relatively harmless. But just like Betty Crocker's dromedary gingerbread mix, just add water. And then it's time to put your gas mask on. Instant poison. It's that easy, boys. You get me two balloons, about a teaspoonful each of Trip X compounds A and B, both harmless in dried form, remember, and a little H2O laced with some acid or lye, and I can make a weapon that will take out this entire building—the entire Pentagon—as well as a good number of people on the street. Water sealed in one balloon, which is tucked inside of the other, which is also filled with air and that little bit of compounds A and B. A little acid or lye in the water eats through the rubber. Balloon springs a leak, water hits old A and B. It causes a chemical reaction that creates both a liquid and a gaseous form of Triple X, sending it out into the air, and eventually through the building's ventilation system, killing everyone who comes into contact with it." The room was dead silent as she put the marker down. Jake Robinson had taken his seat as she'd started her little lecture, turning to face her as she'd stood in front of the white board. She was directly in front of him now. He was close enough to reach out and touch. And smell. He wore a subtle amount of Polo Sport—just enough to smell completely delicious. She drew in a deep breath to steady herself—and to remind herself that although her world was fraught with evil, there was good in it, too. It held men like Jake Robinson. "That's what two teaspoons of Trip X can do, gentlemen," she said. "As for six canisters..." She shook her head. "I know it's hard to imagine a disaster of this magnitude," the admiral said quietly, "but in your opinion, how many thermos-size canisters would it take to wipe out this city?" "Washington, D.C.?" Zoe chewed her lower lip. "Rough guess? Four? Depending on which way the wind was blowing." He nodded. Clearly he'd already known that. And six were missing. She looked around the room. "Any other questions?" Senior Chief Becker lifted his hand. "You said our only option was to find the Triple X and regain possession of it. Is there any way to destroy it?" "The two powders can be burned," she told him with a tight smile. "Just don't put the fire out with water." Lieutenant O'Donlon raised his hand. "I have a question for Admiral Robinson. After two weeks, sir, you must have some idea who was behind the theft." The admiral stood up. He towered over her by a solid six inches. She started toward her seat, but he caught her elbow, his fingers warm against her bare skin. "Stay," he commanded softly. She nodded. "Of course, sir." "We have identified the terrorist group that stole the Trip X," Jake told them, "and we also believe we've found the location of the missing canisters." Everyone started talking at once. "That's great," Zoe said. "Yeah, well, it's not as great as it sounds," the admiral told her in a low voice. "Nothing's ever that easy." "When do we ship out?" she asked just as quietly. "I'm guessing our destination is somewhere in the Middle East." "Guess again, Doctor. And maybe you should wait for all the facts and details before you agree to sign on. I've got a feeling you're not going to like this assignment very much." Zoe met his steady gaze with an equal air of calm. "I don't need to know the details. I'm all yours—if you'll have me." It wasn't until the words left her mouth that she realized how dreadfully suggestive they were. But then she thought, why not? She was attracted to this man on virtually every level. Why not let him know it? But something shifted in his eyes, something unidentifiable flitted across his face, and she realized in another flash that he wore a wedding band on his left hand.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said swiftly. "I didn't mean for that to sound—" His smile was crooked. "It's okay, I know what you meant. It's a juicy assignment. But you won't be going to the Middle East." He turned and knocked on the table to regain the room's attention. "The terrorists who took the Triple X live right here in the United States. We've traced the canisters to their stronghold in Montana. They're U.S. citizens, although they're trying hard to secede from the union. They're led by a man named Christopher Vincent, and they call themselves the CRO, or the Chosen Race Organization." The CRO. The admiral glanced at her, and Zoe nodded. She knew all about the CRO. And this was what he'd meant about waiting to find out the details. The CRO was mysogynistic as well as being neo-Nazi, antigovernment and downright vicious. If Jake Robinson's plan was to send her into the CRO fortress as part of an undercover team assigned to retrieve the Trip X, it wasn't going to be fun. Women were treated little better than slaves in the CRO. They served, silently, tirelessly, unquestioningly. They were treated as possessions by their husbands and fathers. And they frequently were physically abused. Jake was passing around satellite photos of the CRO headquarters—a former factory nestled in the hills about two miles outside of the tiny town of Belle, Montana. Zoe was familiar with the pictures, and with the extensive high-tech security the independently wealthy CRO leader, Christopher Vincent, had set up around the place. If the lab in Arches had had even half the security of the CRO headquarters, this wouldn't have happened. "We don't want to get in by force," the admiral was saying. "That's not even an option worth considering at this point." Admiral Stonegate spoke up. "Why not simply evacuate the surrounding towns and bomb the hell out of the bastards?" Admiral Forrest rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Jake," he said. "That worked so well at Waco." "Surround 'em, then," Stonegate suggested, unthwarted and possibly even unaware of Mac Forrest's sarcasm. "Give our soldiers gas masks and let the CRO use the Triple X to wipe themselves out." Admiral Robinson turned to Zoe as if he'd sensed her desire to respond. "There are a number of reasons we wouldn't want to risk that," Zoe explained. "For one, if they waited for the right weather conditions—strong winds or even rain—the amount of Trip X they've got could take out more than just the immediately surrounding area. And then there's the matter of runoff. We don't know what would happen if that much Trip X got into the groundwater. We don't have enough data to know the dilution point—or, to be perfectly honest, if there even is a dilution point." The room was silent, and Zoe knew they were all imagining a lethal poison spreading through the groundwater of the country, making its way down to the Colorado River.... She took a deep breath. "I'll say it again, gentlemen, our sole option in this situation is to retrieve—or destroy—the six canisters of Triple X in its powder form." "My plan is to continue surveillance," Admiral Robinson said. "I've already got teams in place, watching the CRO fort, trailing everyone who goes outside of their gates. We'll continue to do that, but we'll also be sending someone inside to track down the exact whereabouts of the Triple X. That's not going to be easy. Only CRO members are allowed in." Senior Chief Becker lifted his hand. "Permission to speak, sir?" "Please. If we're going to work together as a team, let's not stand on formality." Becker nodded, but when he spoke, it was clear he chose his words carefully. "I think it's obvious that I'm not likely to be accepted as a member of the CRO any time in the near future. Seaman Taylor, here, either. And as for Crash—Lieutenant Hawken—his face may be the right shade of pale, but it's only been a year since he was on the national news. He's got to be too well-known. And while my intent is not to suggest that lieutenants O'Donlon, Jones and Shaw aren't capable of a mission of this magnitude, sir, it seems to me we might want to have a team leader with more experience. I'm sure either Captain Catalanotto or Lieutenant Commander McCoy of Alpha Squad would appreciate the chance to be included in this op." The admiral listened carefully, waiting courteously until the senior chief had finished, despite the fact that Zoe could tell from his body language that everyone he wanted to be part of this operation was already right here in this room. "I appreciate your thoughts, Senior Chief. And I'm aware of both Joe Cat and Blue McCoy's well-deserved reputations." He paused, glancing around the room before he casually dropped his bomb. "But I'll be leading this team, hands-on, from out in the field. And I'll be the one gaining entry into the CRO fort."

Chapter 2 Jake lifted his hands, halting the words of outrage, doubt and concern. He was too old to go into the field. He was too out of touch. It had been years since he'd last been in the real world. It was too dangerous. What if he were killed? What if, what if, what if? "Here's the deal," he said. "I know Christopher Vincent. I met him about five years ago—he had a book published by the same company who released my wife's art books. We met at a party in New York, and I talked to him for a very long time. He's extremely dangerous, a complete megalomaniac. And it just so happens that he liked me. I know with a little help and the right cover story, I can get us inside." "Admiral, this is highly irregular and—" Jake cut Stonegate off. "And six missing canisters of T-X isn't?" He looked around the room. "I didn't call you here to ask your permission. / run the Gray Group. / call the shots. And this is a Gray Group mission. The President gave me this assignment with a direct order not to fail.

Those of you who haven't worked for the Gray Group before need to know that I don't take that order lightly. What I need right now from the SEALs and from Dr. Lange is to know whether or not you want to be part of my team." He hadn't even put the final "m" on team before Zoe Lange spoke up, her clear alto voice ringing out into the room. "I'm in and I'm behind you one hundred percent, Admiral." She was just too cute, standing there in her blue jeans and blue-flowered T-shirt. She looked like a college student, but Jake knew better. She was Pat Sullivan's top operative. She'd come highly recommended. She was bright, she was beautiful and she was so freshly young it almost hurt to look at her. Her hair was blond, long and straight. She wore it in classic California-girl style, with no bangs to soften her face. But she had a face that didn't need softening—it was already soft enough. She had baby-smooth skin, a face that was nearly a perfect oval, and equally perfect, delicately shaped features. From her fair skin and her light coloring, he'd expected her eyes to be blue. But they weren't. She had brown eyes. Not a light, hazel shade of brown, but deep, dark chocolate brown. Was it possible for someone with eyes that dark to be a natural blonde? He knew exactly how to find out. I'm all yours—if you'll have me. Don't go there, pal! She hadn't meant it that way. Jake focused his attention on his SEAL team. Harvard Becker. He'd never worked with the African-American senior chief, but when it came to electronic surveillance, he was the best. And right now Jake needed the best. Seamen First Class Wesley Skelly, short and skinny, and Bobby Taylor, built double-wide, could've been any of the enlisted guys he knew back in Nam. Loyal to the bitter end, they drank too much, played too hard and were always right where you needed them, when you needed them. Right now, their loyalty was to Harvard, though, and they waited for their senior chief to nod his acceptance before they, too, agreed to sign on. Lieutenant Billy Hawken, nicknamed Crash, was Jake's wife, Daisy's, cousin. Jake had helped raise him from the time the boy was ten. He thought of him as a son, but there was real reservation in the kid's eyes as he gazed at Jake across the table. Are you sure you know what you're doing? He could read the words in Billy's eyes as clearly as if he'd spoken them aloud. Jake nodded. Yeah. He knew exactly what he was doing. He'd thought about it long and hard. This was more than just an excuse to get back into the real world. Although— he couldn't kid himself—he did want to do it just a little too much. Still, the timing was right and he trusted himself, trusted his instincts. Billy turned to look at Lieutenant Mitchell Shaw, sitting on his right. Mitch and Billy had both worked for Jake's Gray Group more times than any of them could count. Mitch had been there at the conception of the group. He'd been part of the first mission. At five feet ten, he was shorter than most of the other SEALs, lean and compact, with long, dark hair and hazel eyes that gave nothing away. Including his doubt. His silence broadcast that, though, loud and clear. Jake knew how Mitch thought, and he could practically see the progression that led to the lieutenant's short nod. He was in—but only because Mitch believed he and the rest of the SEALs would be able to keep Jake out of harm's way. Jake was going to have to set him straight, but not here, not now. "I'm in," Lieutenant Luke O'Donlon announced, his words echoed by Lieutenant Harlan Jones. Lucky and Cowboy. Both blond and blue-eyed, Jake had chosen them based on their fair-skinned complexions as well as their reputations. Both were hotshots, that title well-earned, and both would be accepted into the CRO as easily as possible, if they had to go that way.

And that was that. He had his team. The SEALs had all agreed, if not quite as enthusiastically as Zoe Lange. "Gather your gear, gentlemen—and Doctor," Jake said, glancing at the young woman. "And prepare to meet at Andrews in two hours. Bring a sweater or two. We're going to Montana." Senior Chief Harvard Becker was the first to reach the door. He hit the buzzer that signaled the guards in the outer chambers and the hatch swung open. The SEALs cleared out, none of them uttering another word. They probably knew Admiral Stonegate would handle all the uttering necessary. "I will be registering my official protest," he told Jake stiffly. "An admiral's place is not in the field. You are far too valuable to the U.S. Navy to put yourself into a position of such high risk that—" "Didn't you hear anything Dr. Lange said?" Jake asked the older man. "With die magnitude of this kind of potential disaster, we're all expendable, Ron." "It's been years since you've been in the field." "I've been keeping up," Jake told him evenly. "Mentally, perhaps, but physically, there's just no way—" Since he'd gotten out of the hospital, Jake had put himself into the best physical shape he'd been in since Vietnam. "I can keep up physically, too. Ron, you know, fifty-three's just not that old—" "Dammit, this is all John Glenn's fault." Jake had to laugh. "Excuse me for laughing in your face, pal, but that's ridiculous." Stonegate was offended. "I will be registering a protest." "You do that, Admiral," Jake said, tired of the noise. "But not until this mission is over. Everything you've heard today in this room is top secret. You leak any of it even in the form of a protest, and I will throw your narrow-minded, pointy ass in jail." Well, that did it. Stonegate stormed out. Mac Forrest followed. "And I'll help," he murmured to Jake with a wink. "Anything I can do, Jake, you just let me know." The room was finally empty. Jake drew in a deep breath and let it all out in a rush as he collected and organized his notes and papers. That had gone far better than he'd hoped. He'd been sure his age was going to be an insurmountable issue, that none of his first choice of SEALs would accept the assignment. He'd gone so far as to have his hair colored for the occasion, covering the silver at his temples with his regular shade of dark brown. He'd figured looking as young as possible couldn't hurt. And it had made him look younger, there was no doubt about it. He'd liked the way his colored hair looked more than he cared to admit. But he had admitted it. He'd forced himself to confront the issue. He hated the thought of growing old. He'd fought it ever since he'd turned thirty with every breath he took, cutting red meat and high-cholesterol-inducing foods out of his diet. Eating health foods and seaweeds and exercising religiously every day. Aerobics. Weights. Running. He hadn't lied to Ron Stonegate. He was in top-notch, near-perfect shape, even for a man fifteen years his junior. There was only one type of exercise he no longer participated in regularly and that was Jake closed his briefcase with a snap and turned around and found himself staring directly into Zoe Lange's eyes. Sex. Yes, it had definitely been nearly three years since he'd last had sex. Jake swallowed and forced a smile. "God, I'm sorry," he said. "How long have you been standing there? I didn't realize you were still in the room." She shifted her briefcase to her other hand, and Jake realized that she was nervous. He made Pat Sullivan's top operative nervous. The feeling was extremely mutual—but for what had to be an entirely different reason. He found her attractive, college-girl getup and all. Much too attractive. "I just wanted to thank you again for including me in this assignment," she said, all but stammering. She was trying so hard to be cool, but he knew otherwise.

"Let's see if you're still thanking me after you get an up-close look at the CRO compound." Jake headed for the door to get away from her subtle, freshly sweet scent. She wasn't wearing perfume. He had to guess it was her hair. Hair that would slip between his fingers like silk. If he were close enough to touch it. Which he wasn't. "I've spent years in the Middle East. At least I won't have to walk around wearing a veil in Montana." She followed, almost tripping over her own feet to keep up. "I'm just...I'm thrilled to be working with you, sir." He stopped in the corridor just outside the third door. There was no doubt about it. "You've read Scooter's damn book." For seventeen years, that book had been coming back to haunt him. Scoot had written his memoirs about his time in Nam. Who knew the monosyllabic, conversationally challenged SEAL was a budding Hemingway? But he'd written Laughing in the Face of Fire both eloquently and gracefully. It was one of the few books on Nam that Jake had actually almost liked—except for the fact that Scooter had made Jake out to be some kind of demigod. Zoe Lange had probably read the damn thing when she was twelve or thirteen—or at some other god-awful impressionable age—and no doubt had been carrying around some crazy idea of Lieutenant Jake Robinson, superhero, ever since. "Well, yeah, I've read it," she told him. "Of course I've read it." She was looking at him the way a ten-year-old boy would look at Mark McGwire or Danny Sosa. He hated it. Hero worship without a modicum of lust. What the hell had happened to him? He'd turned fifty, that's what. And children like Zoe Lange—who hadn't even been born during his first few tours in Vietnam—thought of him as someone's grandpa. "Scooter exaggerated," he said shortly, starting down the hall toward the elevators. He was mad at himself for giving a damn. So what if this girl didn't see him as a man? It was better that way, considering they were going to be working together, considering he was not interested in getting involved with her. ' 'Extensively." "Even if only ten percent of the stories he told were true, you would still be a hero." "There's no such thing as a Vietnam war hero." "You don't really believe that." "Yeah? You can't be a hero alone in a room. You need the crowd. The ticker-tape parade. The gorgeous blonde rushing the convertible to kiss you silly. I know—I've seen pictures of U.S. soldiers coming home after the Second World War. They sure as hell didn't get egged by college students." "The Vietnam era was a confusing time in history." Jake winced. "History. Jeez, it wasn't that long ago. Make me feel old, why don't you?" "I don't think you're old, Admiral." "Okay, then start by calling me Jake. You're on my team, we're going to get to know each other pretty well by the time this is over." Jake stopped at the elevators and punched his security code into the keypad. "And I am old. I've been around a half a century, and I've seen more than my share of terrible, violent, monstrous acts. The things people do to each other appalls me. But I'm going to use that in my favor. Everything I've seen and learned is going to help me keep Chris Vincent and the CRO from doing some awful, permanent damage to this country that I love." She laughed. Her teeth were white and straight. "And you claim you're not a hero." The elevator doors slid open and she followed him inside. "I think you're wrong. I think you can be a hero alone in a room. I think you would've shied away from the ticker-tape parade anyway." "Are you kidding? I would've eaten it up with a spoon." He punched in the code that would take them to the ground floor. "Look, Doc, I appreciate your support, I do. Just...don't believe everything you read in Scooter's book." "Four hundred and twenty-seven." "Four hundred and twenty-seven what?" "Men." His first thought was surely a sign that he'd had sex on his mind far too frequently of late. But there was no innuendo in Zoe Lange's face, no hint of a suggestion in her eyes that she wanted Jake to be number four hundred and twenty-eight in a very, very long line. In fact, such a long line, it was preposterous. He tried not to laugh and failed. "I cannot begin to guess what you're talking about. I mean, I'm trying, but..." He laughed again at his own clueless-ness. "You've lost me, Doctor." "My father was number four hundred and twenty-seven," she said quietly. "He's one of Jake's Boys." Jake didn't know what to say. It happened sometimes. Someone would come up to him with emotion brimming in their eyes and shake his hand, whispering that their husband or

son or father was one of Jake's Boys. As if he still had some kind of hold over them. Or as if, upon saving their lives, he'd somehow become responsible for them until the end of time. He'd learned to be courteous and brief. He'd shake their hand, touch their shoulder, smile into their eyes and pretend he remembered Private This or Corporal That. The truth was, he didn't remember any of them. The faces stuck in his mind were only of the men he hadn't been able to save. The men who died, who were already dead. Empty eyes. All those awful, empty eyes... "Sergeant Matthew Lange," she told him. "He was with the forty-fifth—" "I don't remember him." He couldn't lie to this woman. Not if she was going to be on his team. She didn't even blink. "I didn't expect you to, sir. He was only one out of hundreds." She smiled and reached out to take his hand, to squeeze his fingers. "You know, I owe my life to you, as well. I wasn't born until a year after he came home." Which meant her father was probably younger than Jake was. Perfect. His one completely loyal ally, the one person on his team who honestly didn't have any reservations about his age or ability, had just managed to make him feel undeniably old. And not just old, but nasty and old. Like some kind of complete degenerate. As he gazed into her perfect brown eyes, as she held onto his hand and he felt the warmth and strength of her fingers, the smoothness of her skin against his palm, he forced himself to admit that for the first time in the two and a half years since Daisy had died, he'd finally met a woman he could imagine himself making love to. And he didn't want that. He didn't want to imagine himself capable of wanting anyone but the only woman he'd ever loved, the woman he still loved. But he couldn't deny that he missed sex, that he wanted sex. And he didn't know how to reconcile his physical needs with the indisputable fact that Daisy was forever gone. Forever, permanently gone. And she wasn't coming back. For just a second, he let himself really look at Zoe Lange. She was brilliant, she was brave, she was tough, yet her beauty held a sweetness to which he was powerfully drawn. Her eyes were alight with intelligent wit, her mouth quick to smile. Her laughter was contagious, and her body... Jake let himself look, for just a second, at Dr. Zoe Lange's near-perfect body. Her legs were long, her jeans slightly loose on her hips and thighs. She was not particularly tall, not particularly short, but average wasn't a word that could ever be used to describe her. Her arms were well-toned, lithe. She was trim in all the right places, and, God, all right, yes, he was a breast man, and she had a body that pushed all his buttons in a very big way. Her T-shirt clung to her full figure enticingly, making her demure little flowered print look decadent and sexy. In a flash, in his mind's eye, Jake saw her, tumbled back on his bed with him, her T-shirt and jeans gone, his mouth locked on hers, her perfect breasts filling his palms, his body buried deeply inside her as they moved together and... Oh God, oh God, oh God. Sheer wanting slammed into him so hard he nearly gasped aloud. But that wanting was followed just as quickly by guilt and shame. He still loved Daisy. How could he still love Daisy and want someone else so badly? Sweet Lord, he missed her so much. The hole in his gut that he'd been trying to heal for nearly three years tore wide open. And he released Zoe's hand and took a step backward, bumping awkwardly against the elevator wall. He realized almost instantly that he was well on his way to becoming completely aroused. Ah, jeez, terrific. Just what he needed—a souvenir from his little guilt trip. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So he did neither, casually holding his briefcase in front of him. Zoe kept her eyes carefully on the numbers above the elevator door, and he knew she'd seen something in his eyes that embarrassed her. No wonder—he'd been eyeing her like the hungry old fox checking out the gingerbread girl. Good job, Robinson. Way to feel even older and nastier. And somehow it was even worse since his attraction was clearly one-sided. But when she turned toward him, she was the one who apologized. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. You must get approached by people all the time and—" "I like it when they've done something really right with their lives—the way your father obviously did. He must be very proud of you. God knows I'd be proud as hell if you were my kid." He tried his best to sound fatherly. But all he sounded was pathetic.

She smiled tentatively. "Well, thanks." The elevator opened, and this time Jake stood back, courteously letting her out first. She looked both ways, up and down the deserted corridor as the elevator doors closed behind them. "Exit to the street's down that way." Jake pointed. "Take the—" "First right," she said. "I know, thanks. Listen, Admiral—" "Jake," he said. "Please." "Actually, Admiral works a little better for me." "All right," he said quickly. "That's fine. It's not like I'm ordering you to call me Jake or anything. It's not like—" "I know." She tried to meet his gaze, but couldn't hold it this time. She was nervous again. "I was just... I can't help but wonder about your willingness to put yourself at risk. I mean, you've earned the right to sit back and command safely from behind a desk, sir. And I can't imagine your, um, wife is very happy about your decision to go back into the field. Particularly after that assassination attempt a few years ago. You were in the hospital for months." Jake had been around long enough to recognize a fishing expedition when he heard one. But what information ex actly was Zoe Lange fishing for? Was she looking to find his motivation for taking the mission or his reason for looking at her as if he wanted to eat her alive? He had no need to hide anything from her—well, except for the extremely unprofessional fact that nearly every time he looked at her, he pictured her naked. And even if thoughts of Daisy didn't stop that, all he really had to do was think about those missing canisters of T-X. That cooled him down pretty damn instantly. "I know that's an extremely personal question," she continued quickly, "and you can tell me it's none of my business if you want and—" "Daisy, my wife, died of cancer," he told her quietly. "It'll be three years ago this Christmas." "Oh," she said. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know." "And I think you're probably right. If she were still alive, I'd be thinking long and hard about the risks of this mission. But even if she were still alive, I wouldn't be able to avoid the fact that I've got a connection to Christopher Vincent. I know I can get into the CRO's inner sanctions. It's just, this way, it makes the choice a complete no-brainer." She was looking at him with compassion in her eyes, and he glanced away, unable to bear the thought of looking closer and seeing her pity. "You better go pack," he said brusquely. "We go wheels up in ninety-eight minutes. If you make us wait for you, trust me, the team will never let you live it down." "Don't worry, Jake," she said. "I'll be the first one on the plane." He watched her walk away, and before she took that right corner, she looked back and gave him a smile and a little wave. And it wasn't until he was in his office, changing out of his ice-cream suit and into black BDUs, that he realized she'd called him Jake.

Chapter 3 She itched to call Peter. Five months ago, she would have. She would have called on a secured line and she would have said, "What does it mean—a man's been a widower for nearly three years, and he still wears his wedding ring?" Peter would've said, "That's obvious. He uses the ring to keep women from coming too close." And she would have said, "I think he still loves her." And Peter would've snorted and said, "Love's a myth. He just hasn't met anyone who could replace his dead wife. But you better believe when he does, that ring will come off faster than you can spit. The hell with him. What do you say you and I meet in Boston next weekend and set the Ritz Carlton aflame?" But that's what Peter would've said five months ago. Before he'd discovered that love was indeed not a myth. Her name was Marita and she was a TV news anchor based in Miami. She was of Cuban descent and lovely, but Zoe wasn't even remotely jealous. Well, maybe she was a _ little jealous—but only of the fact that Peter, restless, hungry, insatiable, cynical superagent Peter McBride had finally found complete inner peace. Zoe was jealous of that. She'd liked Peter—she'd even loved him more than a little, but she knew just from one conversation with him after he'd met Marita that he finally had a shot at true happiness. And Peter deserved that. Zoe had liked talking to him, liked the way he could always make her laugh. And she had liked making love with him the few times a year that their work for the Agency brought them into each other's presence. But she'd known from the start there could be no permanence in their relationship. She was too like him. Too restless, too hungry, too damned insatiable, too jaded by a world bent on destroying itself. She hadn't spoken to Peter in five months, assuming his new bride wouldn't appreciate his getting phone calls from a former lover. But she missed his friendship. She missed talking to him. She missed the sex, too. It had been safe. She'd never once been in danger of completely losing her heart. "So," she said to Peter, even though he wasn't there, "what does it mean that I'm packing my sexiest underwear and this little black nightgown?" "To wear in Montana in September?" he would have mused, lifting one elegant eyebrow. "You're in trouble, Lange." "You wouldn't believe the way he looked at me in that elevator." Zoe closed her eyes, momentarily melting just from the heat of the memory. "Dear God, I am in trouble." "Doing your boss is bad office politics," Peter would have reminded her. "But on the other hand, he's not really your boss, is he? Pat Sullivan is. So, go for him. You've been fantasizing about the guy for years—how could you not go for him? And if he's looking at you like that... I'm surprised you didn't make a move right then and there. It wouldn't've taken much to disable the security cams in the elevator and..." "He'd been giving me go-away signals from the moment we met." She pulled her warmest sweaters from her closet shelf. Her warmest sweaters— and her skimpiest tank tops. Shorts. Her bathing suit even. It was a bikini—Rio cut. Not quite a thong, but not quite demure, either. Maybe she'd get lucky and they'd have Indian summer. "Besides, at the time I thought he was still married." "Ooh, there are those upright, golden, Girl Scout morals, shining through again." When Peter said it like that, it was as if it were something she should be ashamed of. "He seemed so embarrassed by the fact that he finds me attractive. As if it made him feel, you know, guilty." She'd come full circle. "He definitely still loves her. In his mind, he is still married." "So what are you going to do?" Peter would've asked. Zoe zipped and shouldered her bag. "He's a really good guy, Pete. I'm going to try to be his friend." He'd always hated it when she called him Pete. "And for that you definitely need all that underwear from Victoria's Secret?" "Six missing canisters of Trip X," she said, and Peter's evil spirit was instantly exorcised, instantly gone. She had a job to do. A very, very important, life-or-death job.

Zoe grabbed her briefcase, grabbed her laptop and locked her apartment door without looking back. Day two. Oh-three-hundred. Jake had been out most of the night, silently creeping along the perimeter of the CRO compound with Cowboy Jones. Lieutenant Jones's father was a rear admiral. Jake had figured that out of everyone on the team, Jones would be most at ease with buddying up with a man of his rank. He'd been wrong. Ever since they'd inserted in Montana, his entire team . had been treating him with kid gloves. Let me carry that for you, Admiral. I'll take care of that, Admiral. Why don't you just stand aside and let me handle that, Admiral. Sit down, Admiral. You're getting in the way. Well, okay. No one had said that last bit, but Jake knew they'd been thinking it. Even Billy Hawken, the closest thing to a son Jake had ever been blessed with, had pulled Jake aside to tell him in a low voice that the technological advances in the surveillance gear in just the past few years had changed both the hardware and the software completely. If Jake needed any help understanding the readouts or if he needed any assistance with the equipment, Billy was standing by. And no doubt if Jake needed helped cutting his food, Billy would do that for him, too. What, was he suddenly ninety years old? And hell, even if he was ninety years old, that didn't automatically mean his brain had turned to oatmeal. As they'd done the sneak and peek, Jones kept asking him if he'd seen enough, if he'd wanted to turn around and head back to camp. The night had been crisply cold, but Jake had wanted to examine every square inch of the CRO compound he could see from the outer fence. He'd squinted through his night-vision glasses until his head had ached, and then he'd squinted some more. He'd done a complete circuit, and he'd lingered longer than he otherwise might have at the main gate, simply to show Jones he was capable of doing a complete, thorough job. Except Lucky and Wes had been sent after them, to see what was holding them up. Jake and Cowboy had run into the pair on the trail. It was obvious that his team had sent them out as a search-and-rescue party to drag the old admiral in from wherever he'd gotten himself entangled in barbed wire. It was discouraging, to say the least. Jake needed these men to trust him. He needed their support, one hundred percent. Because he was going in there. He'd figured out a plan— and Zoe Lange's somewhat different surveillance tonight had given him cause to believe it would work. She sat across from him now, in the main trailer. Bobby and Wes had gotten hold of four beat-up old recreational vehicles that afternoon, and the SEALs had already outfitted them with enough surveillance equipment to make a destroyer sit low in the water. They were parked in a KOA campground fifteen miles south of Belle—just a group of happy campers, in town to do some hunting. Zoe stood up and opened the refrigerator, helping herself to a can of soda. Something without caffeine. She didn't look tired despite the late hour, but then again, he hadn't expected her to. Jake had been taking care to keep his distance from her from the moment he'd stepped on the plane at Andrews. He hadn't gotten too close, had barely let himself look at her. But he allowed himself to watch her now as she spoke. "The name of the bar is Mel's, and it's owned by Hal— Harold—Francke, spelled with a c-k-e. I didn't meet him. Apparently he doesn't come in often on Wednesday nights. The waitress I did meet was named Cindy Allora. She said Hal's always looking for new hired help." She smiled. "I guess he's a dirty old man with a wandering pair of hands, and the turnover rate of waitresses at Mel's is high." A dirty old man. Jake tried not to wince visibly as she sat at the table. Zoe looked different tonight. The flower-print T-shirt was gone. She was dressed all in black. Slim black flares, black boots, black hooded sweatshirt that slipped off one shoulder to reveal her smooth tanned skin and a body-hugging black tank top, its thin straps unable to hide the straps of her black bra. She was wearing quite a bit of makeup, too. Dark liner around her eyes, thick mascara, deep red on her lips. She wore her hair down, loose and windswept around her shoulders. She looked dangerous. Wild. Completely capable. And sexy as hell. Hal Francke would hire her on the spot. And then he'd be all over her. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Jake said. "Maybe you could get a job working checkout at the supermarket." She lifted an eyebrow lazily. "And I could communicate with you by semaphore flags when you came into town?" She leaned forward slightly. "You

know as well as I do the CRO men come to town and go to the bar. Only the women go into the supermarket." Jake refused to let himself look down her shirt. He kept his gaze staunchly focused on her dark brown eyes. "It just...it seems unfair. A scientist of your knowledge and ability. I'm not only asking you to wait tables, but virtually guaranteeing you're going to get groped as well." She laughed. "You haven't worked with women much, have you, sir?" "Not as team leader, no." "Let's just say if it happens, it won't be the first time I've been groped while on assignment. And if letting Hal Francke cop a feel in the back alley helps keep me where I'll be of most assistance to you..." She spread her hands in a shrug. Jake laughed in dismay. "God. You're serious." "It's no big deal." She took a sip of her soda. "You know, Jake, I just don't take sex as seriously as I think you do." Sex. God. How did their conversation get onto that topic? She was more than just dressed differently tonight, she was looking at him differently, too. Just a few days ago he'd felt bad because there hadn't been a bit of attraction in her eyes. Now she was holding his gaze rather pointedly. Now she was smiling just a little bit too warmly. It made him nervous as hell. And they were talking about sex. But he couldn't steer the conversation in a safer direction. Not yet. First he had to ask. "Are you telling me you'd sleep with this guy?" "I think of my body as just another of my assets," she told him, a small smile playing about the corners of her lips. "I don't mind showing it off if it gets me closer to my goal, It's amusing, actually, to see the way men can be manipulated—" she leaned closer again and lowered her voice "—just by the whispered suggestion of sex." She laughed, and her eyes seemed to sparkle. "Look at you. Even you aren't immune." "Me? I'm... I'm..." His face was heating in a blush, as if he were fourteen again. How did she know? He'd been purposely playing it super cool. Mr. Extra Laid Back. It had required superhuman effort, but he hadn't looked down her shirt. His gaze slid there now, and he quickly shut his eyes. "I'm only human." Damn, and he'd been trying so hard not to be. "Try human male," she said, laughter in her voice. "I swear, men fall into one of two categories. You have the men who are totally controlled by sex, and you have the men—like you—who spend all their time trying to protect women from the men who are totally controlled by sex. Either way, it's a complete manipulation." She stood up, peeling off her sweatshirt. "I walk into Mel's bar dressed in my little tank top. You're sitting at the bar, and maybe you're not controlled by sex per se. Maybe you don't catch sight of me in the mirror and try to imagine me naked." Jake did his best not to react. How could she know? There was no way she could have read his mind. She sat next to him, sliding onto the bench beside him. "Maybe I sit down next to you and you glance over, and you think, gee, what's that nice woman doing in here alone? Maybe you don't notice what I'm wearing, maybe it has no effect on you, and you think, gee, she has pretty eyes." Her smile clearly said, yeah, right. "And you look up, and you notice about five big drunk guys getting ready to approach me, and you think, she's not going to like it when those clowns put their hands all over her. And you stand up, you move closer. You're ready to save the day." She smiled. "Like it or not, notice 'em or not, babe, you've just been manipulated by my breasts." Jake had to laugh. He put his head in his hands. "God, the awful thing is that you're absolutely right. I just never thought of it that way." He looked at her from between his fingers. "Look, we need to focus on how you're going to get that waitressing job at Mel's, and what's going to happen after you're established there." She stood up, slipping her sweatshirt over her shoulders. "Cindy invited me to a party at her friend Monica's house on Saturday afternoon. Hal Francke is going to be there. I thought it would be smart to manipulate him into approaching and asking me to work for him. That way if anyone in the CRO gets suspicious and starts checking into me, they'll find out I'm just another girl Hal found at some party. It's a little less suspect than if I go into Mel's and fill out a job application." "It's also a little less certain," Jake pointed out. "I mean, you don't know for sure he's going to offer you the job." Zoe gave him a look. "It's a hot tub party, Jake. He'll offer me the job." Hot tub. Jake cleared his throat. Hot tub. "Don't worry, I'll keep my bathing suit on," she assured him with a smile. Somehow that didn't make him feel any better. "So after I get this job waitressing at Mel's, what then?" she asked. "I mean, obviously, I'll be in place to act as a go-between for any communication

between you and the rest of the team." He nodded. "It might be a while before I can come into town. I know the CRO rules are pretty complicated—I might have to pass some sort of loyalty test before I have free run of the place. But once I do come into the bar, I'll, um..." He managed a weak smile. "Well, I'll hit on you. I'm sorry—but I think that's the cleanest way to explain why we're going to spend so much time whispering into each other's ears. If you could set it up—tell people you're a little older than you really are, they might believe there could be something between us." Zoe's heartbeat tripled in time. Jake Robinson was going to hit on her. They were going to spend time cozied up together. True, it was only to pass information, but she could go far on a fantasy like that. She kept her voice low and controlled. "I think we can make them believe we're attracted to each other. Our difference in ages is not that big a deal." "I'm old enough to be your father." "So what? You can pretend you're going through some kind of midlife crisis, and I'll let everyone know I prefer more mature men. Experienced men." Gorgeous, incredibly buff, blue-eyed, heroic men... "I just don't want it to come off as such an obvious setup. You know, the first time I come into the bar... A beautiful young woman like you..." "Jake, the first time you go into that bar, the women are going to be lining up to meet you. I'll have to fight to get to the front of that line." She laughed in disbelief at the look on his face. "You'd think after fifty-three years of looking into the bathroom mirror every morning, you might've noticed you're the most handsome man on the planet." His laughter was tinged with embarrassment. God, he really didn't know what he looked like, did he? "Well, thanks for your vote of confidence, but—" Zoe wanted to reach for his hand to squeeze it, to reassure him that this would work, but she didn't dare touch him. "I'll set everything up," she said. "I'll set up the fact that I'm looking to have a fling, too." "Not just a fling," he corrected her almost apologeti cally. "I'm going to need a way to get you into the CRO compound. I'll need your expertise in there to help me find the missing canisters of T-X. And the only way for a woman to get inside is..." "Through marriage." Her laughter sounded almost giddy to her ears. This assignment was a dream assignment to start with, Hal Francke's anticipated groping aside. She was working with Jake Robinson, the man who had always been her own personal poster model for the word hero. Whenever she'd imagined her perfect man, he'd always had Jake's steely nerve, his long list of achievements, and yes, his deep blue eyes. And now this dream assignment was going to have her pretend she was marrying her hero. He was going to have to kiss her, hold her in his arms. To marry her. Could it possibly get any better? Yes, he could kiss her, and mean it. And maybe, just maybe she could make that happen. "It won't be real," he told her hastily, misreading her laughter. "The way I understand it, Christopher Vincent performs any wedding ceremonies among his followers. There's no paperwork or licenses filled out. They don't believe in state intervention when it comes to marriage." He looked at his hands, at the wedding ring he wore. "It won't be real," he said again, as if he were trying to convince himself of that fact. Zoe sat across from him, her elation instantly subdued. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked him quietly. "You'll have to take off your wedding ring." Jake looked at his left hand again. "I know." He fingered it with his thumb. "That's okay. It doesn't really mean anything anyway. We were only married a few days before she died." Wait a minute... "Crash told me you and Daisy were together for just short of forever." "Daisy didn't believe in marriage," he told her simply. "She only married me at the end, because it was the only thing she had left to give me." He took off the ring, letting it spin on the table in front of him. "You must really miss her." "Yeah. She was pretty incredible." He caught the ring deftly, midspin, and slipped it into his pants pocket. "I should probably get used to not wearing this." He looked so sad, Zoe ached for him. "You know, Jake—we could think of another way to do this." He met her eyes. "I suppose I could call Pat Sullivan and see if Gregor Winston's available to take over for you."

Zoe reacted. "Gregor's not half as qualified as—" Jake was smiling at her. "As you are," he finished for her. "Yeah, that's why I requested you." "But he's a man," she pointed out unnecessarily. "He could get into the CRO without having to marry you." "Thank goodness." Jake's smile faded as he gazed at her. "Look, I'm all right with this, Zoe. But if it makes you feel uncomfortable..." She looked at his hands, now ringless. He had big hands, with neat nails and broad, strong fingers. She even found his hands outrageously attractive. Uncomfortable was not the word to describe the way she felt about this assignment. She tried to make a joke. "Are you kidding? I have no problem letting Hal Francke grope me. Why should it bother me if I have to let you do the same?" It wasn't true. The part about Hal. Despite what she'd told Jake, she hated it when men touched her, when she had to use her body in any way while on the job. But there were times when dressing seductively got her further. And as for letting men touch her... She'd learned to pretend it was nothing, to be flip about it. She was a tough, professional Agency operative. She shouldn't give a damn about something as meaningless as that. And although she also pretended her casualness ex tended all the way to the act of sex, she'd always drawn the line well before that. Always. "Are you telling me you'd sleep with this guy?" Jake had asked about Hal Francke. She'd purposely sidestepped his question, avoiding a direct answer. It wouldn't do her a bit of good to make her team leader believe she needed to be protected. As nice as it might be in some fantasy to have Jake ready to rush to her side, to protect her from the Hal Franckes of the world, this was reality. And if he thought she was weak—in any way—she'd spend this entire mission inside the safety of the surveillance van. "I'm going to have to make it look real," he told her. "You know, when I come into the bar." "I will, too," she told him. "So don't freak out when I grab your butt, all right?" He laughed, but it was decidedly halfhearted, and she knew what he was thinking. The last woman to grab his butt had been his wife. Zoe pushed herself up and out of the booth, tossing her empty soda can into the recycling bin. "Do you want..." She stopped. It seemed so forward of her to ask—and that wasn't even considering her suggestion implied a lack of ability on the admiral's part. But he could read her mind. "You're afraid I'm going to get stiff," he said, then winced realizing his poor word choice. "Tense up," he quickly corrected himself. "You're afraid I'm going to tense up." Zoe couldn't keep from laughing, and Jake joined in, shaking his head. "Jeez," he said. "This is awkward, isn't it?" She held out her hand to him. "Come here." He hesitated, just looking at her, a curious mix of emotions in his eyes. He shook his head. "Zoe, I don't think..." "Just come here." With a sigh, he slid from the booth, the powerful muscles in his arms standing out in sharp relief as he pushed himself up. Dressed the way he was in a body-hugging black T-shirt and black BDU pants, she could see he was in better shape than most men half his age. He looked like some kind of dream come true. Why couldn't he see that? "I don't need to, you know, practice this," he said, even as he took her hand. "It's not like it's something I've forgotten how to do." "But this way, the mystery's gone," she told him. "This way you don't have to spend any time in the bar thinking about the fact that Daisy was the last woman you held in your arms. This way you'll be able to concentrate on making it look real, on getting the job done." She slipped her arms around him, but he just stood there, arms at his side, swearing very, very softly. "Come on, Jake," she said. "This is just make-believe." She said it as much to remind herself of that fact. He smelled too good. He felt too good. His body fit too perfectly with hers. And slowly, very slowly, he put his arms around her. Zoe rested her head on his shoulder, aware of the sol-idness of his chest against her breasts, the tautness of his thighs against hers, the complete warmth of his arms. He slowly rested his cheek against her head, and she felt him sigh.

"You all right?" she whispered. "Yeah." He pulled back, away from her, forcing a smile. "Thank you. This was a...smart idea. Because I am a little tense, aren't I?" "You should probably kiss me." He looked as if she'd suggested he use the neighbor's cat for target practice. "Oh, I don't think—" "Jake, I'm sorry, but you are not a little tense, you are so tense. If you come into that bar and hold me so politely like that, as if I'm your grandmother..." He couldn't argue, because he knew it was true. "I'm not sure I'm ready to—" "Then maybe we better come up with another plan. Maybe we should be trying to figure out a way to get Cowboy or Lucky into the CRO compound. If you can't handle this—" Something sparked in his eyes. "I didn't say I couldn't handle this. I meant that I wasn't ready to deal with this right now." "If you can't do it now, how're you going to do it in a week or two?" she asked. "Come on, Jake. Try again. And this time hold me like you want to be inside me." The something that had sparked in his eyes flared into fire. "Well, hell, that shouldn't be too hard to do." He pulled her to him almost roughly and held her tightly, his thigh between her legs, her body anchored against him by his hand on her rear end. She felt almost faint. "Much better," she said weakly. "Now kiss me." He didn't move. He just gazed at her, that hypnotizing heat smoldering in his eyes. After several long moments, he still didn't move, so she kissed him. It was a small kiss, a delicate caress of his beautiful mouth with her lips. And he still didn't move. But he was breathing hard as she pulled back to look at him, as if he'd just run a five-mile race. His eyes were the most brilliant shade of blue she'd ever seen in her life. She kissed him again, and this time he finally moved. He lowered his head and caught her mouth with his and then, God, he was kissing her. Really kissing her. Soul kissing her. She angled her head to kiss him even more deeply, pulling his tongue hard into her mouth, wanting more, more. He tasted like sweetened coffee, like everything she'd ever wanted, like a lifetime of fantasies finally coming true. He pressed her even more tightly against him as she clung to him, as still he kissed her, harder, deeper, endlessly, his passion—like hers—skyrocketing completely off the scale, his hands skimming her body as she strained to get closer, closer.... And then Jake finally tore his mouth away from hers. "My God." He looked completely shocked, thoroughly stunned. Zoe still held onto him tightly, her knees too weak to support her weight. "That was...very believable." "Yeah," he agreed, breathing hard. "Very believable." "Good to know we can make that seem...so believable." He pulled free from her embrace and turned away. "Yeah. That's good to know." She had to lean against the counter. "Look," he said, his back to her, "it's really late and I have some things I need to do before morning, so..." He wanted her to leave. Zoe moved carefully toward the door. "I hope sleep is on that list." She tried to sound lighthearted, tried to sound as if her entire world hadn't just tilted on its axis. He laughed quietly. "Yeah, well, sleep's pretty low priority these days. If I don't get to it tonight, there's always tomorrow." She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "Jake, that kiss—it wasn't real. We just made it look real." He turned and gazed at her then, the expression in his eyes completely unreadable. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know that."

Chapter 4 Let's do it!" Harvard said, but stopped short as he caught sight of Jake. "Admiral. You're joining us for a run this morning, sir?" "Do you have a problem with that, Senior Chief?" "Well...no, of course not, sir." Harvard didn't say the word but. He didn't have to. It was implied. Jake held onto the side of the team's beat-up station wagon for balance as he stretched the muscles in first one thigh and then the other. He kept his expression pleasant, his voice easygoing. "Say what you're thinking, H. If we're going to be a team, we can't keep secrets from each other." "I guess I was thinking, sir, that if / were an Admiral, you wouldn't find me volunteering for PT at oh-seven-hundred on a morning after I'd been out on a sneak and peek until oh-three-hundred." Jake looked at the faces of his men. And woman. Zoe was there, dressed in running gear that might as well have been painted onto her. He looked away from her, refusing to let himself think about last night. Refusing to think about that incredible kiss. "Cowboy here was out as late as I was," he pointed out. "Lucky and Wes, too. In fact, who here closed their eyes last night before oh-three-thirty?" No one. Jake smiled. "So like you said, Senior, let's do it. I'm as ready as you are." Harvard looked at Cowboy, and Cowboy nodded, very slightly. The message couldn't have been more clear if he'd signaled with flags. Don't let the old man hurt himself. Jeez. Harvard set the pace, taking the road that led in a two-mile loop around the campground at an unchallenging jog. And no one complained. In fact, they hung way back, letting Jake be way out ahead, up with Harvard. Not a single one of 'em thought Jake could keep up with them. Not even Billy or Mitch. It would have been funny if it weren't so damned sobering. If his team didn't think he could keep up with them on a morning run, there wouldn't be much they'd trust him to do. But then Zoe broke free from where she'd been blocked in, in the back, kicking her pace until she'd moved up alongside Jake. She didn't say a word. She just made a face, clearly scornful of the slow and steady pace. And then she lifted one eyebrow, her message again quite clear. Shall we? Stop thinking of that kiss. God, he had to stop thinking about that kiss. Shall we run? she'd meant. As in run faster. Jake nodded. Yeah. He turned and gave the senior chief his best-buddy smile. "Hey, H, how many times around this loop do you figure you'll go?" Harvard smiled back. He clearly liked Jake. But this wasn't about being liked. "Oh, I figure twice'11 do it, sir." "And at this pace, that'll take you, what? About forty minutes?" "A little less, I think." "Dr. Lange and I are going to push it a little bit faster," Jake said, "and a little bit farther. We're going to do three loops in about two-thirds the time. Just let us know when you get back to camp." Zoe was ready, and as Jake jammed it into higher gear, she was right beside him. "Hey!" he heard Harvard say as they left him in their dust. He put on a burst of speed, hustling to catch up. "Admiral, this isn't necessary. You don't need to prove anything here." "Obviously, I do." "We're all tired this morning—" "Speak for yourself. I'm an old man—I don't need much sleep."

Harvard looked pained. ' 'I assure you, sir—" "Save your breath, Senior. You're going to need it if you want to keep up." And Jake ran even faster. Zoe stood under the campground shower and let the water stream onto her head. She hadn't run a race like that in a long time. And it had been a race. Three times around the KOA campground driveway. At least six miles. At top speed. It had been some kind of macho showdown, and Jake had come out on top. He was a good runner—he held something back, something in reserve for the end of the race. While everyone else was working overtime to keep up the pace for that last quarter mile, Jake had pulled a sprint out of his back pocket. She shut off the shower and toweled herself dry. The other SEALs had tried valiantly to keep up with the admiral, but Harvard was the only one who'd stayed neck and neck. And when it was over, Jake had been able to carry on a conversation. Bobby and Wes had been gasping for oxygen like fish on the deck of a boat, yet Jake had calmly given out orders, flashing that incredible smile of his at the pack of them. At everyone but Zoe. She slipped on her robe and wrapped her towel around her shoulders, using it to reach up and rub her wet hair as she headed toward the trailers. The smile he'd sent in her direction had been self-conscious, and she knew he couldn't so much as look at her without thinking about that kiss they'd shared last night. He was obviously embarrassed. It was clear he didn't know what to say to her, obvious that she'd overstepped the boundaries of propriety. That was just perfect. She'd been trying to help, but all she'd done was make things awkward between them and... Zoe had to laugh at herself—at her self-righteous attempt to justify what she'd done last night. The truth was that she'd kissed Jake Robinson because she'd wanted to kiss Jake Robinson. Badly. She'd wanted to kiss him since she'd first found out about kissing, back in seventh grade. She'd pushed too hard too fast, and now she was paying for it. As she went up the steps to her private RV, she saw Jake standing with Bobby and Wes at the door to the main trailer. He was watching her, but instead of holding her gaze, he looked away. His message couldn't have been more clear. This assignment was going to be neither easy nor fun for him. He'd prefer to keep whatever it was that had made him kiss her the way he had locked deep inside of him forever. He was still in love with his wife, and a man like Jake Robinson would never cheat, not even on a memory. Lieutenant Lucky O'Donlon burst into the surveillance trailer as if his pants were on fire. He skidded to a stop next to Bob Taylor and furiously whispered into the big enlisted man's ear. Lucky was gone as quickly as he came in, and now it was Bobby's turn to stand up. Moving with the agile speed and grace of a ballet dancer, the six-feet-five-inch tall, seemingly six-feet-wide SEAL pirouetted elegantly over to his swim buddy, Wes Skelly, and, glancing almost nervously at Jake, he leaned over and whispered something into Wes's ear. Another graceful leap and Bobby, too, was out the door. Wes knocked all the papers from his file onto the floor in his haste to get to his feet. He scooped them up, tossed them on the table in random order, and scurried toward Cowboy, Crash and Mitch. As he spoke to them, his voice was too low for Jake to hear, but he gestured with his thumb toward the door, then scrambled after Bobby. Jake looked at Harvard, who was fine-tuning the programming for their satellite access computers. The big senior chief frowned as he watched Mitch rise to his feet and saunter out the door. He turned and met Jake's eyes and shook his head, anticipating the admiral's question. "What the hell is going on?" Jake stood up for the first time in what seemed like hours, stretching his legs and heading toward the door. Cowboy had crossed to the window and stood looking out. Crash glanced out the door. "Apparently Dr. Lange has returned from her pool party." "Yes," Cowboy said from the window. "She's definitely wearing a bikini. And she's definitely...wearing a bikini."

Jake opened the door, and stepped outside, intending to go out there and kick some ass. The male members of his team had no right to ogle Zoe, bikini or... No bikini. What she was wearing was, in fact, almost no bikini. Two very small triangles of black fabric stretched across her full breasts, attached with a string that tied around her neck and around her back. Oh, God, he was staring. Just like Lucky and Bobby and Wes and even unflappable Mitch Shaw, Jake was standing there and staring. He forced his eyes from her breasts and encountered her perfect rear end. She was wearing some kind of a sarong-style cover-up around her hips, but it was white and completely wet and did little in the way of covering her. In fact, it clung to her, outlining every detail of her black bikini bottoms, which weren't much in the way of bottoms at all. They were cut high on her legs, high on her rear. Oh, yeah, there was no doubt about it. Zoe Lange had a world-class rear end. But Jake already knew that. He'd had his hands all over it just a few nights ago. And he'd been avoiding her ever since. "Isn't anyone going to get me a towel?" she asked. Jake realized with a jolt that her hair was soaking wet. She was carrying a towel, but it was drenched and dripping, as was her bag and a pair of jeans she had over her arm. She still had beads of water on her shoulders and chest and... The late afternoon air had an autumn chill. It was blatantly obvious that she was freezing. He quickly lifted his gaze to her face. "What hap- pened?" "I got pushed into the pool on my way out of the party. Hal didn't want me to leave. But things were getting a little...too friendly." She was trying to be flip, trying to be tough and matter-of-fact. "It's no big deal. I got a little wet." Lucky bounded over, a dry white towel in his hands, as Mitch reached to take her wet things. "I'll hang these up for you," Mitch said. It was amazing. Jake knew that after only three days of working together as a team, Lucky O'Donlon was hot for Zoe. But Mitch? Lieutenant Mitchell Shaw was not human when it came to distractions. He was the only man Jake had ever met who was completely nondistractable. Or so Jake had believed. Lucky wrapped his towel around Zoe's shoulders, gently rubbing her arms, but she quickly backed away. "Don't touch me!" Zoe's outburst surprised them all— herself included. She forced a smile. "Whoa. Where'd that come from? Sorry, Luke. I guess my whole afternoon was just a little too intense." "Yo," Harvard said from the trailer door. "How come you guys don't throw me a welcome home party every time I come back to camp? We've got two months of work to do in two days and I see people standing around. Check the pay stubs in your wallets, please, and unless your pay grade is admiral, get your butts back inside." "I need a shower, Senior Chief," Zoe said. "Give me twenty minutes to get cleaned up." She glanced at Jake as she wrapped her towel more tightly around her. "If that's okay, Admiral, I'll give you a full report then." Admiral. It was her acknowledgment of his attempt to put a little space, a little formality between them since that night they'd kissed. Hold me like you want to be inside me. He wanted. Despite Daisy's memory, despite his and Zoe's age difference, despite the fact that she was at least partly under his command, a member of his team, he wanted her. Keeping his distance seemed the smartest option under the circumstances. They were going to be forced into close quarters soon enough. "A full report after you shower would be fine, Doctor." Jake watched her turn away, watched her head toward the small RV that held her private quarters. But then he saw it. Bright red on the white of the towel. He caught up with her quickly. "Zoe, you're bleeding." She looked at the towel, pulling it back to reveal a nasty-looking scrape on her right elbow. Jake lifted the towel to reveal a lesser abrasion on her other arm. They were the kind of scrapes a woman might get from being pushed down, hard, onto her back. "Wow," she said "I didn't even realize...."

"I think I need at least some of that report now," he said tightly. She lifted her chin. "It wasn't anything I couldn't handle." He still held her wrist. "And that's why you're shaking?" "I'm freezing," she lied. He knew she was lying. Whatever had happened had shaken her up. "Too friendly,'" Jake remembered. He gestured to her elbow. "Is this the result of someone being too friendly?" She gently pulled herself free. "It was Monica's boyfriend. I think he was coked up. I handled it, Jake. His family jewels are now lodged somewhere between his tonsils and his sinuses." "Note to myself," Jake said. "Don't ever get Zoe angry-" She laughed as he'd hoped she would, but then abruptly turned away—but not before he saw the sudden welling of tears in her eyes. "I'll tell you everything," she said, "but after I shower, okay?" "Yeah," Jake said, fighting to hide the sudden rush of anger and protectiveness that made him want to seek out and destroy this Monica's boyfriend. "I'll get you something hot to drink. And meet you back in your trailer." "Thanks, Jake," she whispered. "That would be very nice."

Chapter 5 Zoe kicked off her shower slippers as she came inside her RV. She'd cranked the heat before she'd left for the bath house, and it was now close to roasting in the small trailer. But that was nice. She hadn't been truly warm in what felt like hours. And she felt warmer still when she saw that Jake was, indeed, waiting for her in the small living area. He sat somewhat stiffly on the cheap foam seats of the built-in couch, three mugs of coffee on the table in front of him, and... Three? Mitch Shaw was sitting across the room, his medical kit on his lap. Jake had brought a chaperon. He was probably going to pretend he'd only brought Mitch along as a medic, to make sure Zoe's elbows were cleaned and bandaged properly, but she knew better. He was afraid to put himself in a position in which he might kiss her again. She smiled at Jake to make sure he knew that she knew better. But he was in heavy team-leader mode, frowning slightly and very intense as he handed her one of the mugs and gestured toward Mitch. 'I've asked Lieutenant Shaw to take a look at your elbows, Doctor." Zoe gave the darkly handsome lieutenant a smile as she sat down next to him. "Mitch and I are on a first-name basis, Admiral." That one actually got her the ghost of a smile. "Any time you're ready," Jake said, "I'm ready to hear your report." She took a sip of her coffee and pushed back the sleeves of her robe. "First things first—I accomplished my mission this afternoon," she said as Mitch looked closely at her left elbow and then her right. His hands were warm, his touch gentle, almost soothing. "Hal Francke offered me the job." "Great," Jake said. "When do you start?" "I didn't take it." As she watched, Jake struggled to understand. "Why not? Because of what happened at the party? I mean, don't get me wrong, if you don't think it's safe for you to be there, or—" "I didn't take the job because I didn't want to seem overeager," she explained. "I told Hal I'd think about it. I'll go into Mel's in a day or so and let him ask me again. I'll make sure a ton of people overhear, and I'll make him beg. Ouch." She involuntarily jerked her arm free from Mitch. Holy Mike, that had hurt! "Sorry," he murmured, his dark hazel eyes apologetic. "There're still a few pieces of dirt—something that looks like very fine gravel—that I should remove. I don't think I can do it without hurting you at least a little. But if I don't get it out..." "Just...try to do it quickly." She gave him her arm, aware that she was perspiring from the anticipated pain, sweat beading on her upper lip. "Admiral, can you do me a favor and shut off the heat?" "What, you changed your mind? You no longer want to simulate the conditions on Mars?" "Ha, ha. You try getting dumped into a fifty-degree swimming pool and then driving fifteen miles in some trash heap of a car that doesn't have a working heater." She clenched her teeth against the pain. Jake smiled as he turned down the heat. "Someday we'll have to tell her about BUD/S Training, huh, Mitch?" Mitch was completely focused on cleaning her arm. "If you can't handle cold, don't become a SEAL." "A major portion of Hell Week—the fifth week of SEAL training—is spent freezing your butt off," Jake told her. "You get wet early on and stay wet for the entire week." "Yeah, I've heard about that." Zoe closed her eyes. Damn, whatever Mitch was doing hurt like hell. "I read in some magazine article about Hell Week that you guys pee on yourselves to stay warm while you're in the water." "Yeah, sure." Jake snorted. "That's what reporters find important. That we pee on ourselves. Forget about the hours and hours of training we go through, the endurance tests, the underwater demolition, the HALO training. That's not half as interesting as peeing on ourselves. Jeez." Zoe sensed more than felt Jake sit down beside her. But she opened her eyes when he took her other hand. "Squeeze," he told her. "And keep your eyes open. If you close your eyes and shut everything else out, it's just you and the pain. And that's never good." "I'm really sorry," Mitch murmured. "You must've landed on this arm pretty hard to get this stuff embedded so deeply." Zoe took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. Jake's eyes were so blue and so steady. She held his gaze as if it were a lifeline.

"What happened at this party?" he asked. "Keep talking." "I arrived a little after noon," she told him, gripping his hand more tightly and biting back the urge to shriek as Mitch probed particularly deeply. "Everyone was drinking pretty hard. Mostly just beer. But about five people went into the house, and when they came out, it was pretty obvious they'd done a few lines of cocaine. Hal Francke was one of them. This other guy, Wayne, Monica's boyfriend— God, what a jerk! He's one of those former high-school football-star types—he used to be big man on campus, but now he's just big and fat and mean. He went inside, too. A few different times." She squeezed Jake's hand harder. "Ow. Ow, ow, ow!" And just like that, the pain let up. "Got it." Mitch was done. He was perspiring nearly as much as she was, his eyes filled with apology and an echo of her pain. "I just have to put some antibacterial ointment on it and bandage it up. The other one looks clean." Zoe tried to hide that she was shaking. "Well, that was fun. Thanks so much." "So how'd this happen?" Jake asked. She had to give him credit. He was obviously trying really hard not to look as if he wanted to go out and hunt down Monica's boyfriend, Wayne. The stupid thing was, she liked it. She liked the idea of this man being her hero. God knows there was a point this afternoon where she would have been plenty thrilled to see Jake parachuting down from the sky, coming to save the day. She wasn't used to working in a team, like the SEALs. In her job, she often had herself, and only herself, to rely on. She gently pulled her hand free from his grasp. "I went further out in the back of the yard," she told him as Mitch bandaged her arm, "looking for Monica. There was a path that led down to a stream, and some of the party had moved in that direction. I was getting ready to leave—I wanted to tell her I was taking off. But she must've been inside the house—everyone else who'd gone down to the stream was gone, too. Except for Wayne, who'd followed me. Like I said, he was on something nasty, and he got a little rough." It was an understatement, and she could tell from his eyes that he knew it. "But it was no big deal," she continued. "I handled it, I handled him." She was stretching the truth pretty thin there. Because it had been a big deal. Zoe could still feel the man's hands on her breasts, still smell the alcohol on his putrid breath. He'd been a behemoth of a man, and when he'd tackled her, when the weight of his body had crushed her against the grass and gravel, for one awful moment she'd been afraid he'd actually be able to overpower her. It was an awful feeling, that helplessness. But he was stoned and stupid, and she'd used her brain and her ability to aim with a solid knee kick and she'd gotten away. Hal Francke had been with a group of men by the pool, and they, too, had had far too much to drink. Zoe had picked up her towel and her bag, extremely shaken and ready to leave without even saying goodbye to the hostess, when one of the men grabbed her and tossed her into the pool. Hal had jumped in after her, rescuing her even though she damn well hadn't wanted or needed it. He'd put his hands all over her as he pulled her to the side of the pool. It had taken every ounce of restraint she had not to kick him in the family jewels, as well. The water had been freezing. Her towel and clothes had been soaked. Hal had thought that was funny as hell. He'd invited her to dinner, invited her to stay at his fishing cabin for the rest of the weekend, subtly insinuated that he'd all but pay her to have sex with him. She'd told him she'd consider the waitressing job, thanks, but that she'd have to get back to him. i And then, elbows stinging and dripping wet, Zoe had gotten the hell out of there. "It was no big deal," she said again. She was lying. And Jake knew she was lying. But he didn't press her for more details. "As far as what the locals think about the CRO—" she continued with her report "—most of the people at the party don't know anything about them. All they know is the old Frosty Cakes factory's finally been sold, and that the people who bought it mostly keep to themselves. They wish it had been bought by someone wanting to get back into production—they'd hoped for more jobs in this area. They know about the electric fence around the compound, but not much about the rest of Vincent's high-tech security system. And that's about it." "That's it for me, too," Mitch said, finishing bandaging her arm. He held onto her hand several moments longer than he had to. "Again, I'm sorry I hurt you, Zoe." "It's all right." She smiled at him. "I forgive you." Mitch's eyes were warm as he packed up his medical kit. "Good." Jake cleared his throat.

Mitch stood up. "If you don't need me any further, Admiral..." "Thanks, Mitch. I'll be along in just a minute." Zoe watched the lieutenant let himself out, then glanced at Jake, wondering what he could possibly have to say to her that needed privacy. Why lose the chaperon now? "Are you really okay?" he asked. He touched her with just one finger beneath her chin, turning her head so that she was forced to meet his eyes. Silently, she nodded. "Why do I get the feeling that you're not being completely honest?" he asked. "Look, let's make a deal. Right now. You don't lie to me, and I won't try to tell you what you should or shouldn't do. I won't make judgments about what might be too dangerous for you because you're a woman. But in return, you have to be brutally honest with me. You have to be able to pull your own plug, to pull yourself off some assignment that might get too uncomfortable for you for any assortment of reasons. Does that sound fair?" Zoe nodded. Provided he could really do it. His instincts were to protect—anyone, really, but probably women in particular. He would need to be a truly exceptional leader to overcome his inherent prejudices in that regard. But if anyone could be that kind of leader, Jake Robinson could. "You've got a deal," she said. "So. Honestly. Are you really okay?" His gaze was so intense, she could have sworn he was trying to read her mind. "What really happened, Zoe? Did this guy do more than just push you down?" "Have you ever had your chute fail—you know, skydiving?" Zoe asked. He gazed at her for several long moments, but then apparently decided to let her answer his question in her own way. It was a tough question, and if she had to go in circles to answer it, that was okay with him. "Skydiving, huh?" Jake laughed softly. "Funny you should mention that. Jumping is one of those things I've always hated. I mean, I've had to do it as a SEAL. It's part of the package. But some guys'11 jump every chance they get. I've always had to force myself to do it." He paused. "And yes, I've had to cut myself free from the main chute more than once. It was pretty damn terrifying." "You know that feeling you get right before you pull the backup chute—that sense of complete helplessness? Like, if this doesn't work, it's all over?" Jake nodded. "Oh, yeah. Personally, I like being in control, which is why I probably don't like jumping." "That's what it felt like today," she told him. "When Wayne was..." She closed her eyes. "When he was on top of me, tearing at my bathing suit." Jake swore softly. "You want honesty, Jake? For one awful moment, I thought I was going to be raped and that I wasn't going to be able to do anything to stop it. That kind of helplessness is not a really nice feeling, so you're right, I'm still a little shaken. But I'll be fine." She opened her eyes to find Jake watching her, a mixture of emotions on his face. Anger. Remorse. Regret. Attraction. The power of his other feelings made him unable to hide his attraction. "Zoe, I'm so sorry this happened." "It's really no biggie. I mean, I was the one who wasn't being careful. I should have known this particular guy would be trouble. And then I made a second mistake by letting him get too close. I definitely underestimated the situation. If I'm paying the right amount of attention, I'm completely capable of taking care of someone that size. But I messed up. And I almost paid for it." "What's his last name?" Jake asked. "Wayne what?" "No," Zoe said. "Sir. No disrespect intended, but I'm not going to tell you." "You were sexually assaulted." His voice broke. "This is not something to just say oh, well about and let go." "What are you going to do, Jake? Find him and beat him up? And maybe blow our cover when he recognizes you in a few weeks when you walk into Mel's bar with Christopher Vincent? Or maybe you think I should press charges? I'm supposed to be a drifter, right? My cover is that I've had my share of trouble with the law, that I'm jaded with the system—ready to be enlightened by the CRO's doctrine. Somehow it doesn't fit for me to go running to the police and shouting for justice." He knew she was right. She could see it all over his face. He had such an expressive, wonderful face. She leaned closer. "Our job here is to regain possession of that Trip X. That takes priority over everything. Even this." Jake exhaled in frustration. "I just... I know. I just hate not being able to do anything." She gave him a shaky smile. "You want to do something? You could put your arms around me for a minute."

He didn't need more of an invitation than that. He reached for her, and she found herself wrapped in his arms. He smelled so good and felt so familiar—as if she'd been in his arms far more than just that one other time. His arms were warm and so solid as he held her tightly, as he stroked her hair. It was funny how much better that made her feel. It didn't mean she was weak. It didn't mean she wasn't strong. She didn't need him to hold her, but it sure was nice that he was there. Zoe closed her eyes, not wanting this minute she'd asked for to end. She felt him sigh and braced herself, waiting for him to pull away. But he didn't. And she didn't. "God," he finally said on another sigh, still holding her tightly. "This just feels too good." Zoe lifted her head and found herself gazing directly into his eyes. "You say that as if it's a bad thing." He pushed her damp hair from her face. "It feels inappropriate," he whispered. "Doesn't it?" She gazed at the graceful shape of his mouth. "Not to me." "I'm not going to kiss you again," he said hoarsely, pulling away, pushing himself off the built-in couch and all the way across the tiny room. "Not until I have to." Zoe tried to smile, tried to make a joke as he slipped on his brown leather flight jacket and prepared to leave. "Gee, I didn't realize kissing me would be such a negative." He turned to give her a long look. "You know damn well that I liked it. I know it wasn't real, but nevertheless, I liked it too much. I'm leaving tonight," he added. Zoe stood up. "Tonight? But..." "I'm ready as I'll ever be and this...this is getting crazy. You be careful working at Mel's," he ordered. "With luck, I'll see you in the bar in a few weeks." "Jake." He stopped with his hand on the doorknob and looked back. Zoe's heart was in her throat. He'd liked kissing her. Too much. "I liked it, too," she said, adding, "kissing you." As if he'd needed her explanation. Another man might've stepped toward her, pulled her into his arms and kissed her until the room spun. But Jake just gave her a crooked smile that was overshadowed by the sadness in his eyes. "Be safe," he said, and walked out the door. Jake knew from the way Harvard cleared his throat that the moment of truth had arrived. It was time for him to leave. So if anyone was going to try to make him change his mind, it was now or never. Jake had kind of hoped it would be never. So much for hoping. "Permission to speak freely, sir." Jake looked from Harvard to all four of the lieutenants, and then at the enlisted men. They were all there but Zoe. She wasn't part of this. Or maybe the men had intentionally excluded her. "This isn't a democracy, Senior," Jake said mildly. "At least hear us out, Admiral." Admiral. When Billy called him admiral, it meant he was dead serious. Jake sighed. "I don't need to hear you out," he said. "You don't think I'm up for this. You think it's been too long since I've seen action, since I've been out in the real world. You don't think I can keep up, despite the fact that every time we've run together, you've had to fight to keep up with me." "This is different than running, and you know it," Billy said. "Yes, you're physically fit for—" He broke off. Jake bristled. "Go on, say it. For an old man. Right?" "Jake, I love you, and I'm worried about you," Billy said, cutting through to the bottom line, the way he always did so well. "I don't know why you're doing this when any one of us could find a way to get inside the CRO—" "Because I can walk through those gates in the morning," Jake told Billy, told them all, "and have dinner at Christopher Vincent's private dining table

by night. If you or Cowboy or Lucky were to go in there, God knows how many months it would take you to work your way up to just being able to stand guard outside the dining room door." He looked them all directly in the eyes, one at a time. Billy. Cowboy. Mitch. Lucky. Harvard. Bobby. Wes. "We don't have months, gentlemen. The CRO could decide to do a test run of the Triple X at any time, in any city." They all had family, friends living all over the country, and his unspoken message cut through, loud and clear. Until they regained possession of the T-X, no one was safe. Jake shouldered his bag of gear. "Now, who's taking Mitch and me to the airport?" \ The Air Force flight to South Dakota seemed to take forever. Mitch slept for most of it, only waking as they began their descent. Jake was sick and tired of thinking about the way his team had questioned his plan. He'd worked hard over the past week to gain their respect. He'd thought his physical stamina, his ability to run hard and fast, had won them over. Obviously, he'd been wrong. His team thought of him as an old man. He wished Billy was with him instead of Mitch. He'd wanted to talk to the kid about Zoe, find out if he was shocked by Jake's intention to pretend he and the young doctor were romantically involved. But Jake's plan had called for one of the SEALs to wind up arrested, thrown into jail for conspiracy and charges of aiding and abetting the escape of a suspected felon. Both Mitch and Billy had volunteered, but Jake knew that playing this role would be hitting a little too close to home for the kid. It hadn't been that long since Billy had spent time in prison, facing very similar charges for real. So Jake was here on the plane with Mitchell Shaw. A man he'd always thought of as a friend. A man who—just a few hours ago—had lined up with the rest of the team and questioned Jake's command. Right now, CNN was announcing a late-breaking story of conspiracy and intrigue in the U.S. military. As the story went, Admiral Jake Robinson had escaped from house arrest. He'd been confined to his quarters after being charged with conspiracy, allegedly leaking top-secret military information to several extreme right-wing state militia groups. Those militia groups had been lobbying for fewer federal regulations, less control by the federal government. Allegedly there were tapes, and the words Jake had spoken could be interpreted as treasonous. The military had been attempting to keep the entire affair from the public eye, since as an Admiral in the U.S. Navy, Robinson should have been among the staunchest defenders , of the federal government. But four days ago, as the story went, Robinson had escaped his guards with the help of three unidentified men, and now the incident was national news. All four of the men were currently at large. To help this cover story along, Mitch and Jake were going to be spotted in South Dakota, and Mitch was going to be apprehended while Jake once again made an escape. Jake was then going to proceed, by car and on foot, to Montana, leaving a trail that the CRO could trace if they tried. And they would try— particularly after he showed up on their doorstep, seeking asylum. Within a few days, CNN would stop carrying the story— Admiral Mac Forrest would see to that. And after several weeks of hiding in the CRO compound, Jake would be able to leave hiding and venture into town. And then he'd see Zoe again. Zoe. Who'd liked the way he'd kissed her. Mitch shifted his jaw, expertly popping his ears as the plane continued its descent. "Hey, Mitch," Jake said. "Yes, sir?" "No," he said, "not sir. I've got something I need to discuss, and I need you to talk to me as a friend." Mitch nodded, completely serene. "I'll do my best." "It's about—" "Zoe." Mitch nodded. "I figured you were going to say something. I'm sorry if I got in your way. I honestly didn't think you were interested in her— you've been avoiding her all week." He smiled slightly. "You know, Jake, I've found it's far easier to get a woman into your bed if you actually interact with her." "I don't want to get her into my..." He couldn't finish the sentence—it wasn't true. He exhaled noisily in exasperation. "God, she's too young for me.

How could I even be thinking about that?" "She doesn't think she's too young." Mitch smiled again. "I've been hanging out with her. Telling her stories about you. She's yours if you want her, Admiral. And if you don't, I'm hoping I might be next in line." Jake had to know. "She's beautiful and she's smart and she's very sexy, but...you've had the opportunity to meet plenty of beautiful, smart, sexy women, and as far as I've seen, you've never given any of them a second glance. So why Zoe? What is it about her?" Mitch gazed thoughtfully out the window at the approaching runway for several long moments. "She's one of us," he said simply, turning to look at Jake. "I get the sense that she wants the things I want from a relationship— no strings, no promises, no regrets. Just good, clean, healthy fun. Sex that's just that—sex. No more, no less." He laughed softly. "To be painfully honest, Jake, I tend to stay away from most women because I'm afraid of hurting them when I leave. And you know in our line of work, we always leave. We disappear on some assignment, and who knows when we'll be back. But Zoe..." He laughed again. "Zoe would never expect anything long term. Because she leaves, too. And she'd probably leave first." The plane touched down on the runway with a jolt. "I know you miss Daisy," Mitch said quietly. "I know how you felt about her. But you're not dead. And Zoe might be just what you need. It won't have anything to do with what you and Daisy had. It doesn't have to go too deep." Jake sighed. "Just thinking about it makes me feel unfaithful." "To whom, Jake?" Mitch asked gently. "Daisy's gone."

Chapter 6 Weeknights were the worst. Weekends were no picnic, but at least on Friday and Saturday nights, Mel's was crowded and Zoe was kept busy. But on a Tuesday night like this one, Zoe sat at the bar with old Roy, who sat nursing a beer on the same stool every night and could have been anywhere from eighty to a hundred and eight, and Lonnie, who owned the service station on the corner of Page Street and Hicks Lane and was probably older than old Roy. On Tuesday nights, Hal Francke had his bowling league, so even he wasn't around, trying his damnedest to brush up against her. And Wayne Keating—Monica's boyfriend, the one who'd nearly overpowered Zoe—had been arrested for DUI. It was his third offense, and he was being held without bail. So there was no chance of him staggering into the bar and livening things up. No, it was just another deadly boring Tuesday night in Belle, Montana. Zoe was definitely going to go mad. Two weeks had come and gone and come and gone and here she was, well into week five in her new career as barmaid, with no sign of Jake. He'd gotten into the CRO compound. She knew that. She'd seen surveillance tapes of him being let inside. Even taken from a distance, she'd clearly recognized him. The way he walked, the way he stood. According to the team, he'd been spotted from time to time within the confines of the electric fence. But he hadn't come out. Each time a car or van left the CRO gates and headed toward town, Harvard or Lucky or Cowboy would call, and Zoe's silent pager would go off. And she would know to be ready. Maybe Jake would show up this time. Maybe... But even though Christopher Vincent himself had come into Mel's a number of times, and always with an entourage, Jake had been nowhere in sight. Zoe was completely frustrated. And getting a little worried. Had something gone wrong? She called Harvard every night on the pretense of checking in, but in truth to find out if Jake had been spotted again during the course of the day. What if he'd gotten sick? Or injured? What if Vincent knew he was only there to find the Triple X? What if Jake were locked in the factory basement, beaten and bleeding and... Oh, dammit, and the really stupid thing was that beneath her worries and her frustration at this endless inactivity was the unavoidable fact that she missed him. She missed the man. She missed his smile, his solid presence, his calm certainty, the sweet sensation of his arms around her. Zoe groaned, resting her forehead on the bar atop her folded arms. He'd only kissed her once, but she missed that, too. Holy Mike, when had she become such a hopeless romantic? And hopeless was the key word here. This foolish schoolgirl crush she was experiencing was definitely one-sided. Yes, the man had kissed her. Once. And afterward, he'd run screaming as hard and as fast as he could in the opposite direction. And when he kissed her again, it was going to be because he had to. He'd told her as much. "Ya gonna do that singing thing tonight?" Lonnie leaned over and asked. He was talking about the karaoke. Last Friday, Hal had bought a karaoke system secondhand and very cheap from a guy going out of business over in Butte. Zoe had been the only member of the wait staff brave enough to give it a try. The songs were mostly all retro dance hits, with a bunch of old country songs thrown in. Zoe lifted her head to look in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. Besides Lonnie, old Roy, Gus the bartender and herself, there were only three other people in the place. "I don't think so," she told Lonnie. "There's not much of a crowd." Old Roy was already leafing through the plastic-covered pages that listed the song titles available on this karaoke system. "I love this old Patsy Cline song." He blinked at her hopefully. "Will you sing it? Please?" It was the same song he played over and over on the jukebox at least three times every single night. "The record sounds much better than I do," she

told him. "Here, I'll even front you a quarter." "But we like it when you sing it." Now Lonnie was giving her his best kicked-puppy look. "I'd like to hear the other songs you did on Saturday night, too." Zoe sighed. "Please?" they said in unison. She should really clean the bathrooms. God, she hated cleaning the bathrooms. "Sure. Why not?" She went behind the bar to the stereo system and powered up the karaoke player. "But if I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right." She untied the short apron that held her ordering pad and change. She set it down, picked up the karaoke microphone and switched it on. "Ready for this, boys?" Both Roy and Lonnie nodded. She used the remote to turn on the TV behind the bar, setting it to receive the signal from the karaoke system. She put in the right CD and programmed the machine and... Thunderous strains of pedal steel guitar came pounding out of the speakers. Old Roy and Lonnie both clapped their hands over their ears. "Sorry!" she shouted, turning the volume down by a full half. The words on the screen turned color, and she sang them into the mike. "Crazy..." Old Roy and Lonnie sat paying rapt attention—the president and vice-president of her personal fan club—as Zoe did her best country diva imitation, singing to an imaginary crowd of thousands. One song became two, then three and four. Each time it ended Roy and Lonnie gave her a standing ovation. "Sing mine again," Old Roy requested. When Zoe looked to the bartender for help, Gus just smiled. "I like that one, too." "Last one," Zoe said. "Last time." She didn't need the words on the screen this time as she sang. "Crazy..." It was her finale, and she went all out this time, exaggerating all the moves. Roy and Lonnie grinned at her like a couple of two-year-olds. And during the instrumental break and the subsequent key change, she climbed up to sing while standing atop the sturdy wooden bar, and they gave her a two-man wave. Zoe knew it wasn't so much her voice that got them going. Her voice was pleasant enough, and she could certainly carry a tune, but she was no Patsy Cline. No, Roy and Lonnie were fans of her tight blue jeans and her low-necked tank tops. She closed her eyes, threw her head back and struck a pose for the last chorus of the song, letting a very country-sounding cry come into her voice as she sang about being crazy for crying, crazy for trying, crazy for loving you. As the last strains of music faded away, the room was filled with applause. Way too much applause for just Old Roy and Lonnie. Zoe opened her eyes. And looked directly down at Christopher Vincent. The CRO leader was standing near the door, surrounded by about fifteen of his disciples. She'd had no warning, no time to prepare, but then again, she'd taken off her apron—and in it, her pager—at least five songs ago. 'That was just beautiful," Vincent said. "Just beautiful." She gave a sweeping bow. "Thank you." "Someone want to give her a hand down from there?" "Yeah, I'd love to." Jake. He pushed his way out of the crowd and stood smiling at her.

She didn't faint with relief, didn't gasp, didn't reveal in any way that she recognized him. Instead she looked at him very deliberately, as if she were checking out the new man, the handsome stranger in town. He was dressed the same as the rest of the men, in blue jeans and a worn denim work shirt. But the faded jeans hugged his thighs, and the shirt fit perfectly over his very broad shoulders. He was heart-stoppingly, impossibly beautiful, his eyes an incredible shade of molten hot blue. During the past four and a half weeks, she'd forgotten just how amazingly blue his eyes were. He'd been looking her over as thoroughly as she had been looking at him, and now he smiled. Jake Robinson had a vast collection of smiles in his repertoire, but this one was very different from any she'd seen in the past. This one was as confident and self-assured as all the rest, but instead of promising friendship or protection, this smile promised complete, mind-blowing ecstasy. This smile promised heaven. Damn, he was good. He almost had her believing that she'd lit some kind of fire inside of him. Christopher Vincent noticed it, too. Noticed it, and recognized it. And wasn't entirely thrilled by it. Zoe held Jake's gaze, lifting an eyebrow in acknowledgment of the attraction that simmered between them and giving him an answering smile that promised maybe. A very definite maybe. "Zoe." Gus was completely overwhelmed behind the bar. Jake reached for her, and she leaned down to give the microphone to Lonnie before bracing her hands on Jake's shoulders. He held her by the waist and swung her lightly to the floor, making sure that before her feet touched the ground, every possible inch of her that could touch every possible inch of him was, indeed, doing so. And oh, God, it felt so incredibly good. She wanted to hold him tightly, to close her eyes and press her cheek against his shoulder, hear the steady beating of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. He was safe, he was whole, he was finally here. Thank God, thank God, thank God. She wanted to hold on to him for at least an hour. Maybe two. Instead she touched the side of his face and held his gaze for just a second longer, hoping he could read her mind and know how very glad she was to see him. His arms tightened around her for just a second in an answering embrace before he, too, let her go. "I'm Jake," he told her, with another of those killer smiles. "And I'm Zoe," she said as she went behind the bar. "Welcome to Mel's. I'll be your waitress tonight." She slipped her apron around her waist, and sure enough—inside the pocket, her pager was silently shaking. She quickly shut it off. "What can I get you?" He sat on the bar stool directly in front of her. ' 'What kind of beer do you have on tap, Zoe?" He said her name in a way that called up all kinds of erotic images, in a way that made her mouth go dry. She leaned toward him, gesturing for him to come closer, and she felt his gaze slip down her shirt, nearly as palpable as a touch. "I recommend bottled beer," she told him. They had a little problem with roaches. She didn't know how they got into the tap hoses, but they did, and...yuck. "Then definitely make it bottled," Jake said. He was close enough so his breath moved her hair. "Whatever you bring me will be fine." As she turned around and reached into the cooler, she could feel him watching her. Make-believe, she told herself. It was all part of an act. Jake Robinson wasn't really drooling over her rear end. He was just pretending to. She opened the beer—a Canadian import—and set it down in front of him. "Glass?" "I don't need one, no." "Zoe, two pitchers, one light, one regular!" Gus called. "Don't go anywhere," Zoe told Jake. She could feel his eyes on her as she filled both pitchers. He was still watching as she carried them with a stack of plastic cups to the tables where Christopher Vincent and most of his men were sitting. "What brings you boys out on a Tuesday night?" she asked. "My friend Jake's been going a little stir-crazy," Christopher told her. "He's been...keeping a low profile. You don't recognize him from anywhere, do you?" Zoe glanced at the bar where Jake was sitting, still watching her. "He looks like a movie star. Is he a movie star?" "Not exactly." Chris looked around. "Where's Carol? I wanted to introduce him to Carol. I thought they would hit it off."

"She's off tonight," Zoe said. "Some kind of program going on over at her daughter's school." "Maybe tomorrow then." "Tomorrow will definitely be too late," Zoe told him. "Finders keepers, and all that—because / definitely saw him first. He's adorable." Chris didn't look happy. But Chris rarely looked happy. Considering he was the leader of the so-called chosen race, Christopher Vincent was not a particularly attractive man, mostly due to the grim expression he wore on his face nearly all the time, and partly due to his thick, dark eyebrows, which grew almost completely together in the middle. He was tall and beefy with long dark hair, which he wore pulled back into a ponytail. He kept his face hidden behind a thick, graying beard, and he usually wore tinted glasses over his dark brown eyes. He looked over the tops of them as he gazed at Zoe. They were definitely the eyes of a fanatic—the eyes of a man who wouldn't hesitate to use the Triple X he'd stolen if he thought it would further his cause. He was volatile, with a very short fuse. "I saw you first," he pointed out. Oh, brother, this was a complication she hadn't anticipated. Somehow over the past few weeks, she'd managed to catch Christopher Vincent's eye. "You're married," she told him, trying to sound apologetic and even regretful. "I have a personal rule about married men. I don't touch 'em. See, I want to get married myself, and since married men are already married..." She shrugged. "I've been thinking about taking another wife." "Another...?" "The federal government has no right to force us to follow its restrictive rules about marriage and family. A man of power and wealth should take as many wives as he pleases." Oh, yeah? "What does your wife think about that?" Zoe asked. "All three of my wives are kept very satisfied." Holy Mike. If they ever got desperate, they could bust this guy for polygamy. "Wow," she said. "Well. It's hard enough being a second wife when the first one's not around. I don't think I could handle the competition." "Think about it." "I don't need to, hon," she said. "I'm the jealous type. I wouldn't want to share." "You could have my baby." And that was supposed to entice her? A baby with a single eyebrow with a complete lunatic for a father? "Well, it's tempting," she said. "But I really want to be someone's number-one wife." He gestured for her to lean closer. "We sometimes share wives in the CRO," he said in a low voice. "You could marry someone like Jake and still have my baby." Ooo-kay. "Jake doesn't strike me as the kind of man who'd want to, you know, share." "He's very generous," Christopher Vincent told her. He looked up, past her, and smiled. He had a smile like a wolf—lots of teeth, more vicious than happy. "Hey, buddy, we were just talking about you. Zoe here wants to marry you." Zoe held up her hands. "Chris. Wait. I never said that." She turned to Jake. "He's just teasing. He's crazy, you know—" It was the dead wrong thing to say. Christopher exploded, reaching out with one hand and grabbing the front of her shirt, pulling her down so that they were nose to nose, so that she was practically lying on the table in front of him, so that her tray clattered onto the floor. "Don't ever call me crazy!" "Hey," Jake said. "Whoa. Take it easy, Chris. Come on, pal, I'm sure she didn't mean to offend you." Zoe felt him right behind her, his arms around her as he tried to pry the other man's fingers from her shirt. Vincent released her, pushing her away from him, and she would have fallen over had Jake not been there. "Dammit, Chris," Zoe said, refusing to let him see how badly he'd frightened her, how completely he'd freaked her out. "You ruined my shirt." She had to hold the front against her, he'd stretched it out so badly. He'd bruised her, too, by grabbing more than just her shirt. Way to woo a new wife, baby. Gus had come out from behind the bar, and he was hovering nearby. "Everything okay over here?"

"I don't know," Zoe said. "Chris, are you done grabbing me?" Jake's hands tightened on her in warning, but she didn't give him time to answer. "I've got to go change my shirt." Pulling free from Jake, she picked up her tray and handed it to Gus, then headed for the back room. She sensed more than saw Jake follow her. And she wasn't surprised, after she fished a T-shirt from her backpack, to turn around and see him standing there, door tightly shut behind him. He looked really upset. Zoe wasn't sure who moved first, and it didn't matter. As she reached for him, he lunged for her, and then, God, she was in his arms, just holding him as close as she possibly could. "Are you all right?" He didn't release her to ask, he just kept holding her as tightly as she was holding him. "When he grabbed you like that..." "I'm okay," she told him. And she was. Despite the bruises Christopher Vincent had just given her, she was more okay than she'd been in a long time. She pulled back to look at him. "Are you?" "This isn't going to work." The tone of Jake's voice matched the intensity in his eyes. They'd turned into steel—hard and cold, with a razor-sharp edge. "The plan. I've got to come up with something else because I'm not letting you go in there." "But—" "He's dangerous, Zoe. He's completely unhinged. The whole organization's seriously off balance. Getting you inside as my wife is no longer an option. I don't want you anywhere near there. Besides, it's just not feasible, from what I've found out." "Dammit, Jake—" He kissed her. One moment, he was glaring at her, and the next his mouth was hard against hers, his tongue sweeping past her gasp of surprise. Zoe felt herself sway, caught off balance for the briefest moment, before she clung to him, kissing him back with as much passion, angling her head to grant him deeper access. He was kissing her. Jake Robinson was kissing her because he wanted to, not because he had to. Tears stung the inside of her eyelids, and for the first time she let herself acknowledge that she wanted Jake Robinson more than she'd ever wanted any man. He was her hero, her commander and in many ways her deity. She worshiped him, on every possible level. He pushed her back so she bumped against the concrete block of the storage-room wall as still he kissed her. His hands were all over her as he pressed himself hard between her legs, pulling her thigh up along his as he strained to get closer, even closer, playing out her wildest fantasy. But when he cupped her breast far more roughly than she would have expected, she opened her eyes in surprise. And saw Christopher Vincent standing at the half-open storage-room door, his hand on the knob as he looked in at them. He pulled the door shut behind him, and when he did, Jake stopped kissing her. He took his hand from her breast but otherwise just stood there, eyes closed, breathing hard, forehead resting against the wall beside her. She'd been wrong. Jake hadn't really been kissing her. Somehow he must've heard the door open. Somehow he'd known that Christopher was there. It wasn't a want-to kiss, after all. It was a had-to kiss. Zoe drew in a very shaky breath. "Oh, God." Jake pulled away from her, his eyes dark with apology. "I'm sorry—did I hurt you?" She tried to joke. "Are you kidding? That was more fun than I've had in weeks." He turned slightly away from her, and she realized that her shirt was hanging open in the front where Chris had stretched it, revealing the entire top edge of her very low-cut bra. She picked her T-shirt up from the floor, and turning her back to Jake, she quickly changed. "We've got too much to talk about, too much to decide," Jake told her. "So I'm going to go home with you tonight." She turned to face him, her heart in her throat despite the fact that she knew nothing would happen between them even if he did spend the night in her trailer. He'd had to kiss her. God, she was such a fool for thinking otherwise. "I don't think that's a good idea. Why would you marry me if you can just get some whenever you want? Besides, I've set up my cover so that everyone out there in that bar knows that I'm looking to get married. What are they going to think if I just suddenly settle for casual sex?" "I'm sorry," he said. "But I've changed my mind about the whole marriage thing. Zoe, this guy is nuts. The entire organization is screwy. The way they treat women is criminal. I can't let you do this."

"Jake, you promised that you'd let me decide—" "That was before I knew how bad it would be. On top of that, Vincent's got security cameras everywhere. I found at least three in my bedroom. How the hell can I bring you there? Don't you think it would look a little suspicious when I don't make love to my gorgeous young wife?" "So bring me there and make love to me." Zoe couldn't believe she was actually bold enough to say the words aloud. Jake was silent, looking at her, looking hard into her eyes as if trying to see if she'd really meant what she'd just said. She held his gaze, pretending she was as flip and blase about the idea of being intimate with him, pretending she could shrug it off as just another job requirement, pretending it would mean no more to her than a way to find that missing Trip X. It's no big deal, she told him with her smile, even as her heart was pounding. "Even if you would do that," he finally said, "I wouldn't. I couldn't." He turned away. "That's not an option." Zoe felt like crying. He honestly didn't want her. Even with necessity as a solid excuse, he couldn't acknowledge that any of the passion that sparked between them when they kissed was genuine. And maybe it wasn't. Maybe he was the best actor she'd ever met, and all of the real passion was her own. God, she was pathetic. But that was just too bad. Because she had a job to do and no time to feel sorry for herself. She took a deep breath. "So you're just going to do this by yourself—find the Triple X on your own? All alone?" "I need to get a message to Harvard. I think there's a way to intercept the images from the security cameras— but I'll need some equipment from him. If I can do that, you'll be able to see inside the CRO compound from the safety of the surveillance trailer." "What if that's not enough? Jake, you know it's going to be easier for me to help you find the Trip X if I'm there with you. I think we've got to leave our options open. So I'm not going to let you pretend to come home with me, in case we need to use the marriage thing in the future." And wouldn't that be fun? Living with him twenty-four seven, pretending to be lovers, all the while knowing that she was about the farthest thing possible from the woman he truly wanted? She handed him her ordering pad and pen. ' 'Write Harvard a message," she continued. "Write down whatever equipment you need. Whatever he needs to know. I'll see that he gets it." There was a knock on the door and old Roy stuck his head in. "Zoe, Gus is looking for you. Hal's bowling team just showed up." He frowned at Jake. "Say, young fellow, you're not supposed to be back here." He stepped farther into the room. "Everything all right, Zoe?" Zoe gave the old man a reassuring smile. "Everything's fine, Roy. Tell Gus I'll be right there." She looked at Jake as the door closed behind Roy. "I better get out there." He couldn't hide his frustration: "There's more we need to discuss." Zoe started for the door. "Load the jukebox with quarters, then buy another round for your friends. As soon as there's a lull, ask me to dance. Hal doesn't mind if the waitresses dance with the paying customers. We can talk more on the dance floor. Just make sure the songs you pick are ballads." She paused, her hand on the door. "I know this is distasteful for you, but I can't think of any other way for us to have a private conversation." "Zoe—" She closed the door behind her and hurried to the bar.

Chapter 7 Jake made a quick sweep of the room as he headed for the jukebox. The bar wasn't filled to capacity, but compared to when he'd first come in, it was hopping. A tall man with long, greasy salt-and-pepper hair and a droopy mustache was behind the bar with Zoe and the bartender. He had to be Hal Francke. Sure enough, he didn't move past Zoe in the crowded space without touching her in some way. So bring me there and make love to me. Jake shook his head to exorcise Zoe's husky voice. She'd been serious. He'd seen it in her eyes. She would have had sex with him, in front of those cameras, to boot, in order to get this job done. He stared sightlessly at the listing of songs on the old-fashioned jukebox, wishing he had some of her recklessness, her impetuousness, her careless youth. Wishing he could break away from everything that held him to the past, but knowing that even if he could forget for one night, for one hour, even if he could lose himself completely in this woman's sweet arms, he'd wake up and be right back where he'd started in the morning. Or maybe even in a worse place. / know this is distasteful for you.... Zoe had said that as she walked out the door. He had to set her straight. He couldn't have her continue to believe that. There was a lot about this assignment that was distasteful, but being with her was not. Like he'd told her nearly five weeks ago—he liked kissing her. Too much. And even after all this time apart, he still liked it. Still much too much. He'd thought the distance would be good, that it would give him some perspective, some sense of reality. But all those weeks he'd dreamed about her in ways that were outrageously inappropriate. He'd started out dreaming of Daisy, erotic, sensuous dreams of lovemaking filled with heat and light and such vivid sensations. But his dream would shift and change, the way dreams often do, and then-Zoe would become the woman in his arms, her body wrapped around him. He'd wake up, dizzy and out of breath and achingly, painfully alone. Jake forced himself to focus and fed the jukebox dollar bills, punching in all the slow romantic ballads he could identify. He'd just picked a Leann Rimes song when he saw Christopher Vincent approach, his image shimmery but unmistakable in the curved glass. He felt himself tense and worked hard to keep the smile on his face a pleasant one. God, when Christopher had grabbed Zoe, Jake had had to physically restrain himself. He'd come damn close to picking the man up and throwing him across the room. "I guess our new little waitress likes you," Christopher said. Jake pushed the buttons for a Garth Brooks song, not even looking up. "Oh, is she new here?" "She came into town a few weeks ago. Hal met her at some party. Don't worry. I've checked her out. She's exactly what she says she is." "Well, that's good to know." Jake smiled at Chris. "But no real surprise. I mean, she doesn't come across as some kind of rocket scientist or—I don't know—some kind of biochemical engineer. Can you imagine her in a lab coat?" Christopher laughed, and Jake laughed, too, knowing that the real joke was on the CRO leader. God, it was going to be so good to nail this guy.... "Yeah," Chris said, "I can imagine her wearing only a lab coat." He laughed again. "She is some hot ticket." Jake turned to the jukebox, uncomfortable with Christopher's openly lascivious appraisal of Zoe, not wanting to be a part of it in any way. "I've seen her counting on her fingers," Chris continued, "but with a body like that, it's almost better that she's not too bright." He looked at the bar, watching Zoe as she poured another pitcher of beer. "Oh, yeah. She's choice." As if she were a cut of meat. Jake felt his smile turning even more brittle and he stared at the jukebox, reminding himself why he couldn't simply beat the hell out of Christopher Vincent right here and right now. "Just so you know not to get your hopes up too high," Christopher told him before he walked away, "she's holding out for marriage, our little Zoe is. You'd have better luck with Carol." Jake glanced at the bar, but Zoe was gone. He quickly scanned the room, found her making the rounds of tables, double-checking that everyone had all the beer and liquor they needed to get them through the next few minutes. She looked up, caught him gazing at her, and for a fraction of a second, he saw a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes. Distasteful. Did she honestly think he found this part of the set up distasteful? But just like that the uncertainty was gone and she smiled.

It was a very inviting, very warm smile, complete with a very slow, very appreciative up-and-down look that was totally lacking in subtlety. It was a look he might've gotten back in high school, and his body responded in a way far more appropriate for a seventeen-year-old than a fifty-something grown man. Jake moved toward her as surely as she made her way toward him. It was as if they both were magnetized, as if they couldn't have stayed apart from one another even if they'd tried. Zoe set her tray on top of an empty table. He slipped his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, afraid if he didn't he wouldn't be able to keep himself from reaching for her. "I didn't buy another round yet," he told her. "When I came out, someone else had just—" "It's okay." She looked away, as if suddenly shy. "You know, if you don't want to dance, we could try sitting at a table toward the back. But Gus and Hal might—" He took his hands out of his back pockets, and just like that, he had her by her hand and was pulling her toward the dimly lit dance floor next to the jukebox. Just like that she was in his arms and swaying gently in time to the music. "You should talk fast," she told him. "I don't know how long I'll have before Gus needs me." He pulled her closer. "This is not distasteful," he murmured into her ear. "Let's start with that, all right?" Zoe shook her head. "Jake, you don't have to—" "It's just..." He searched to find the words that would explain. "It's very...weird for me. I was with only one woman for nearly thirty years—nearly your entire lifetime. Can you even imagine that?" Silently, she shook her head. "I'm going to make everyone in this bar believe that I've got a major thing for you," he told her. "And doing that will not be distasteful. I'd be lying if I told you I haven't spent the past weeks looking forward to this. Look ing forward to it, and dreading it, all at the same time. You're a great kid, Zoe, and a beautiful woman and... And I'm sorry if I can't be as blase about any of this as you, and I'm sorry in advance if I somehow make you feel bad. Holding you, even dancing like this, hurts a little bit. But it feels good, too. Really good. Which in turns hurts a little bit more. Does that make any sense at all?" She nodded. "I'm sorry if I—" "Let's not apologize to each other anymore. We've got to do what we've got to do, right?" She lifted her chin. "/ think one of the things I've got to do is to get into the CRO compound." "Now, that idea is distasteful." "Jake, no, I've been thinking about it." She rested her head against his shoulder, and when she spoke, he could feel her breath against his throat. "The best way for me to help you find the Trip X is for me to be in there." She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "Remember our deal? Remember what you promised?" "I didn't know what it would be like in there for a woman. Zoe, whatever you've heard about the CRO—" ' 'I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when I agreed to be a part of your team. I can handle it." "But I'm the team leader, and I need you to try it my way first." And if his way didn't work... Jake wasn't sure how they'd handle the cameras in the bedroom. Maybe they could cover some, disable the others. Maybe they could pretend to make love, under the covers.... He changed the subject, trying to banish the image of Zoe in his bed, her body soft beneath his. No. He refused to give up on the idea that they could find the Triple X and keep Zoe safely out of harm's way. And out of his bed. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here," he said. "Christopher tends toward delusions of grandeur, and he imagined this terrible altercation the moment I stepped outside of the CRO gate. I think he was a little disappointed when I made it all the way into town without being chased by federal agents." The song ended and they stopped for a moment, waiting for the next song to start. It had almost exactly the same slow, pulsating beat. He'd picked the songs well. As they began dancing again, she shifted her body even closer and rested her head against his shoulder. How could she fit so perfectly in his arms? "So how did you convince him to let you come to town?" she murmured. "Well, I, um, I thanked him for his hospitality and sanctuary, but I told him that I wouldn't be able to stay with him any longer unless I at least had the

opportunity to, um..." He laughed, embarrassed: "Well, to, you know...." "Ah." "And since there are no single women in the CRO over age thirteen..." She lifted her head. "He didn't offer you one of his many wives?" "Are you kidding? The man's almost obsessively possessive." "Hmm. The sharing doesn't go both ways, huh?" "Sharing?" "Just more CRO unpleasantness. Women as chattel. You know, it's a good thing you made it into town today," Zoe interrupted herself. ' 'The team was starting to make plans to liberate you. You had us all worried." Jake swore softly. "Why can't they just sit tight and trust me?" "They care about you." "They think I'm too old." "You think you're too old." Jake pulled back slightly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Zoe shook her head. "Nothing. Look, Jake, I've been—" . "Nothing, my ass! You wouldn't've said it if it meant nothing." "Okay, it meant something, but it's a personal something, and if we've got limited time to talk here, the personal stuff should be the last thing we get to." He couldn't argue with that. Unfortunately it didn't make him wonder exactly what she'd meant any less. He thought he was too old. Jeez. "I've been thinking about alternatives to this whole setup," she said. She pulled him close, breathing into his ear as if her words were seductive promises rather than a plan for an alternative operation. God, he'd forgotten for a moment—he'd been standing there arguing with her. They were supposed to be just short of making out on the dance floor. He held her closer, and she moved toward him willingly, her breasts soft against him. He buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair. Oh, God. "What's your take on the hierarchy of power inside the CRO?" she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. "I've always gotten the impression that Christopher Vincent's it. That without him, the organization would fall apart. And if that's the case, why don't we just grab Vincent on one of his trips outside of his compound? Hold him hostage in exchange for the Trip X?" "I've thought about that, too," Jake admitted. He kissed her neck, ran his hands down her back to cup her rear end. Oh, God. Bad mistake. But once his hands were there, it would've looked odd for him to move them right away, wouldn't it? What were they talking about? Hostage. Vincent. Right. "It's not an option," he told her, hoping she wouldn't notice the huskiness of his voice. He cleared his throat. "Vincent's got contingency plans for all kinds of disaster scenarios. Everyone in the CRO compound has a battle station to go to if the Feds suddenly launch an attack. He's stockpiled enough food to withstand a two-year siege. He's got an escape route charted out of this bar, in case he suddenly finds himself a target while he's here." She slipped her hands into the back pockets of his jeans, pressing his hips tightly against hers. "With or without an escape route, we could get him." "I know that. But what I don't know is what his contingency plan is in regards to the Triple X. His lieutenants might not know what it is they've got. His orders might be for them to use it if he's taken. So, no, we're not going to grab him. Not without finding out more." Jake tried to shift back, extremely aware of the fact that when she pulled him that close, there were no secrets between them—including the secret he'd been trying to keep about the enthusiastic way his body was responding to her nearness. He tried to make his voice sound casual, conversational. As if he weren't affected by the sensation of her breasts against his chest, as if he couldn't feel her heat as she pressed herself against his thigh. "Hey, have you heard from Mitch?" "Not since he's been arrested." Zoe smiled, her hands traveling up his back. "We almost didn't recognize him when we saw the news report on CNN." "Yeah, he's good with disguises. I looked twice at that little old man sitting at the bar just to be sure it wasn't him."

"It's not. Mitch is still in custody," Zoe told him. She ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and it felt impossibly, sinfully good. "He's being held at the same federal penitentiary where Christopher Vincent's stepbrother is doing ten to twenty for armed robbery." Jake laughed. "Well, jeez, that's pure genius. I mean, I knew Christopher had a stepbrother who'd been in trouble with the law, but... Whose idea was it to send Mitch to the same prison?" "I'm a fan of doing just that little extra bit of research," she told him modestly. "We lucked out that the stepbrother was in a federal jail and—" "It was your idea. Good job, Lange. So you're the genius, huh?" "Whoa," she said, laughing. Her eyes sparkled and danced with amusement. She was so pretty, so full of life. The longing that hit him was so strong, it took his breath away. "Don't go overboard. Yes, it was a good idea, but—" She stopped short, her smile fading at the look he knew was in his eyes. He couldn't hide it, and he prayed she would think it was only part of the game they were playing. They'd both stopped moving, and they stood on the dance floor just holding each other. She gazed at him, her beautiful lips slightly parted, and when he didn't move, she stood on her toes and kissed him. It was the smallest of kisses, light and delicate, a feathery brushing of her lips across his. She searched his eyes again, then stood on her toes once more. This time she kissed him a little bit harder. This time she tasted him, gently touching the curve of his lips with the very tip of her tongue. And this time he kissed her, too, just as delicately, just as softly. Jake's heart was pounding, and he was dizzy from wanting more. But he took his cues from her, letting her lead, refusing to push her into harder, deeper, longer kisses, no matter how badly he wanted just that. She delicately swept her tongue into his mouth and he groaned aloud. She took him right to the point where he knew they were on the verge of crushing their mouths together and positively inhaling each other, but instead, she pulled back. "We're both good actors," she whispered, "but we're not this good. Part of this is real, Jake, whether we want to believe it or not. That's what I was trying to say when I told you I'd make love to you. That I also want to make love to you." Jake didn't know what to say. She kissed him again, hot and sweet and long. "That's me kissing you, no games, no pretense. We can have it both ways, you know. We can do our jobs and get naked— if you can get past everything you need to get past, if you can come to the conclusion that you're not too old for this sort of thing." "Ah," Jake said, finally finding his voice as she pulled free from his arms. "We've finally come to the personal stuff." "I bet you look good naked," Zoe told him as she picked up her tray and headed to the bar. Jake wanted both to laugh and cry. He'd never met anyone as completely in-your-face honest as Zoe Lange. She knew what she wanted, and she wasn't shy about asking for it. She wanted him. And his big problem was that he wanted her, too. Even though he knew that wanting her was wrong.

Chapter 8 "Oh, hell, he's naked!" Bobby Taylor thrust his big hands in front of the video monitor. But because there was more than one camera, there was more than one screen to cover. Wes Skelly grabbed Zoe's chair and spun her so she was facing the other direction. She just laughed at them. "Oh, come on, you guys. Like I haven't seen a naked man before? I grew up in a very small house with four brothers. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the male anatomy has just never been a mystery to me." "Yeah, but he's an admiral," the bigger SEAL told her. Bobby Taylor could have made a fortune playing professional football. At six feet seven inches, he weighed at least two sixty, maybe even more. When he sat down, he took up two chairs, but very little of his bulk was fat. He was simply enormous. Yet despite that, he was one of the most graceful men Zoe had ever met. He was part Native American—part Navajo, he'd told her. He had the darkest, most serene brown eyes she'd ever seen. "He's earned the right to towel off after his shower without an audience." "Besides," Wes added, "you don't want to be looking at him naked. He's an old man." "He is not—" "Okay," Bobby said. "He's got his shorts on. Although it still seems a little disrespectful for us to be staring at an admiral when he's in his underwear." Zoe spun her chair to face the row of video monitors. Jake stood, displayed from three different angles, combing his hair out of his face. One of the cameras must've been positioned directly behind the mirror, because he gazed straight into it, his eyes a vivid blue. His arms were over his head, his biceps and triceps flexing. "I'm sorry, Skelly," Zoe said, tapping that screen. "But that is not an old man. I don't know where you get off calling him that. He's in better shape than you are." His stomach was rock solid and his chest was muscular, despite being badly scarred. "Wow," Bobby said, subdued by the sight of all those scars. "He's seen some action, huh?" "Two years ago he was the target of an assassination attempt," Zoe said. God, if those scars were any indication, he'd been nearly mortally wounded. It was a miracle he was still alive. He'd miraculously escaped death many times while in Vietnam, too. Some people said he'd led a charmed life. Without a doubt, luck had always been his constant companion. Zoe hoped that same good fortune was riding copilot with Jake right now. If Christopher Vincent even suspected Jake was there as a spy... On the screen, Jake threw his comb on top of the dresser. He took his jeans from the closet. Too bad. He had very nice legs. As Zoe watched from three different angles, he pulled on his jeans and covered them up. His bedroom was a former executive office for the old factory, the walls still covered with cheap, tacky paneling, ancient orange-shag carpeting on the floor, blessedly faded. The furniture was cream-colored, with gold ornamentation—directly from a low-rent motel liquidation sale. She'd have thought a group declaring themselves to be the chosen race would have a little more taste. "Besides behind the mirror" Zoe mused, "the other cameras are, where? Over by this window..." She pointed to the screen. "And...here near the door?" Wes spread the floor plan of the CRO compound—the former Belle Frosty Cakes factory—out on the counter behind her and she swiveled her chair to face him. "In Admiral Robinson's quarters, the cameras are here, here and here." He highlighted the locations in pink. "Any in Jake's bathroom?" she asked, leaning over for a closer look. "At least one," he told her. "Here." "Show me that one," she said, turning to the video screens. Bobby keyed a command into the computer, and the image on the far left screen changed. The camera in the white-tiled bathroom had a clear shot of the door, the sink and the toilet. But not the tub. The tub, with the shower, was off to the side, out of camera range. Interesting. On the other two video screens, Jake buttoned up his shirt, pocketed his wallet and keys and left the room. "Can you follow him?" Zoe asked. "Yeah, as long as he doesn't go too fast." Bobby had fingers the size of hot dogs, yet they flew over the computer keyboard. "But even if we do lose

him, it won't take long to find him again. As soon as he speaks, we can use the computer and trace him by his voice." On screen, Jake walked purposefully along the corridor. He had a cocky walk, with a spring in his step more befitting a twenty-five-year-old. It was self-confidence, Zoe realized. Jake Robinson walked the way he did because he trusted himself completely. He liked himself, too. It was powerfully attractive. It had been two whole days since she'd seen him last, and Zoe felt a sharp tug of longing. She missed him. They'd been together every evening at the bar for two and a half weeks before that. During that time Zoe had smuggled to Jake the equipment he'd needed to enable the SEALs to tap into the CRO security cameras. And during that time, they'd established a very hot, very high-visibility romance. Zoe had made it clear to all the patrons of Mel's Bar that she was holding out for marriage. Despite the sparks she and Jake made on the dance floor, she publicly refused to bring him home with her. And Jake, he'd made it clear that he wasn't ready for any kind of commitment. It was kind of funny, actually. In truth, the man was Mr. Commitment. He would still be married to his first wife right now if she hadn't died. And Zoe didn't doubt for one nanosecond that he'd still be happily married. Conversely she, Zoe, had never even imagined herself married. She'd never seen the need, considering that she'd never truly been in love. She'd always purposely sought out and let herself fall halfway in love with men she knew would never be right for her. Halfway in love was all she'd wanted, though. It was safe. She knew exactly what she'd get, knew she'd never be in too deep, never out of control. She was doing the exact same thing with Jake, too. Even if she could convince him to make their relationship more physical, more intimate, she knew damn well it would never go beyond that. He still loved his wife, and he wasn't looking to replace her. Zoe could love Jake—just a little—and still be safe. So she did. And she used her feelings to bring a certain authenticity to her role. No, she would not sleep with him, not until they were married. Well, okay, pretending that was a stretch. A long stretch. And at times, when Jake held her in his arms on the dance floor, or when she kissed him goodbye each night, she thought the sheer irony would drive her completely insane. Here Jake always pretended that he wanted to spend the night with her, and Zoe always pushed him away. She could think of only one thing she wanted more than to spend these long, cold autumn nights with Jake Robinson in her bed. She wanted to find the Trip X. But that was the only thing she wanted more. Still she sent Jake back to the CRO fort each night. And each night she slept alone. Each day, she locked herself in the team's surveillance trailer, using the computers to access the CRO cameras, electronically searching for the missing canisters of Triple X. She was exhausted, bleary-eyed and completely frustrated on many, many levels. She wasn't going to find anything this way. She had to get in there, inside that electric fence. She needed to search with more than just her eyes, restricted by the lens of a camera. She had to get inside Christopher Vincent's private quarters, into those few rooms where there were no security cameras. The more she came into contact with Vincent, the more she was convinced that he was the type of man who'd get off on keeping a crate of deadly poison—enough to wipe out the capital city of this country—on the sideboard of his private dining room. She'd had it. She'd played it Jake's way for long enough. She was going to get inside the CRO walls whether he liked it or not. On the video monitor, Jake turned a corner, and with a flick of his fingers, Bobby made him appear on a different screen. The enormous SEAL didn't consult any list, didn't look at the factory schematic. He just somehow knew the camera codes. "You've already memorized both the layout of this part of the factory and the location of the cameras?" she asked. "I've got the whole factory up here." He tapped on his forehead. "I'm pretty good with maps." Pretty good? "Morning, John," Jake said in greeting to a man heading in the same direction. Bobby made another adjustment, and their conversation about the current dreary weather came in crisp and clear over the speakers, fading slightly as they moved away from one microphone, getting louder as they walked past another. "Tell me about the audio signal," Zoe said. "Do all the cameras have microphones, or is there a different miking system?" "There's a combination," Wes told her. "The dedicated mikes are higher quality, but they're also more expensive so there're fewer of 'em." "Is it possible to speak quietly enough so's not to be heard?" Zoe asked. ' 'I guess what I need to know is, once I'm in there, is there any way I'll be able to talk to Jake without the mikes picking up our conversation?" "Mid to high-range frequency overload will block low-volume conversation," Bobby said. He typed in a new command, and on the right-hand screen,

the CRO kitchen appeared. About a dozen women were in the big room, about half of them washing dishes. "See?" "Run water," Wes interpreted. "And speak softly. But don't whisper. A whisper could cut through." Sure enough, in the kitchen, water was running from the faucet, and Zoe could only make out the words of the women who raised their voices significantly when they spoke. "We also found a spot where the security cameras were set up a little carelessly," Wes told her. He pointed to the floor plan again, and she stood to get a better look, stretching her legs. "Up here there's access to the roof. There must've been some kind of recreation deck there at some time. And the entire northwest corner of that area is completely out of camera range. It overlooks the millstream— an added bonus, running water. Again, speak softly, and your conversation will be covered by the sound of the water. You won't be overheard." Bobby turned in his chair to face her, his dark eyes very serious. "Zoe, are you sure you want to go in there?" "Yes." "Don't take this the wrong way," he said, "but I'm not sure the admiral's got this under control." "Admirals can lose touch," Wes agreed. Since Bobby was so tall and broad and always with him, Wes always seemed short and wiry in comparison. But Zoe had to lift her chin to look at him as he straightened up. He had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his T-shirt sleeve, revealing a stylized barbed-wire tattoo that ran completely around an extremely well-developed bicep. He may have been wiry compared to Bobby, but only compared to Bobby. Wes Skelly was no lightweight, that was for sure. "Since when did you start smoking again?" she asked him. "Since I've been nervous as hell about this op," he countered. "Since we've been sitting here for weeks, relying only on Robinson, getting no closer to finding that TripleX crap." "Human beings slow down," Bobby pointed out. "After you hit a certain age, your reaction time really starts to suck," Wes agreed. "It's a fact of life." "Don't get me wrong," Wes said, "the admiral's a good guy—" "For an admiral—" added Bobby. "And we know he used to be a SEAL—" "A long time ago—" "But it has been about a million years and—" "You know how on 'Star Trek,'" Bobby started earnestly. "On classic Trek," Wes interjected with a grin. "Whenever a commodore's on board the Enterprise—" "And the intergalactic antimatter's about to hit the fan—" ' 'And this old, out-of-touch commodore takes command of the ship because he thinks he's got all the answers, and Captain Kirk's got to fight both the bad guys and the good guys to save the day?" Bobby continued. "Bob and I are alarmed at the remarkable parallels we've found between those episodes and this current mission," Wes told her. "We're sitting out here in the woods with this old rusty commodore, and our captain's back in California. It doesn't bode well for the Federation." Zoe started to laugh. "You guys are too much." "Actually, Zoe..." Wes's grin faded. "We were kind of hoping you'd talk to the admiral, you know, convince him that it's time to try to get more of the team inside those walls." They were kidding, but only halfway. "You guys need to read a book called Laughing in the Face of Fire because you obviously have no idea who you're dealing with here," she told them. "You have no idea what Jake did in Vietnam, do you?" She knew they didn't. Their expressions were blank. "I can't believe you wouldn't at least try to find out something about your team leader." She laughed again, but this time in disbelief. "Jake's not the commodore, boys. He's the captain. And if you're not careful, you'll be the good guys he's got to fight so he can save the day. He needs you standing beside him—not standing in his way." "At the risk of annoying you," Wes said, "I have a theory that your loyalty to the admiral isn't really loyalty, but instead has something to do with the

fact that you've been sucking face with him for the past few weeks. Sex confuses things. Particularly for women." "Excuse me?" "I think you annoyed her," Bobby commented, turning away to hide his smile. "It's some kind of hormonal thing," Wes said, amuse ment dancing in his eyes. He knew he was completely pissing her off, damn him. "You think it's loyalty, but it's really just your hormones responding to the power of an alpha male, even if he is a little on the ancient side." Zoe stood up. "Well, it's been fun, but it's time for me to leave this den of total ignorance. You know, I bet you could find the book-on-tape copy of Laughing in the Face of Fire. I realize now that reading might be too big of a challenge for someone as pea-brained as you, Skelly." Bobby laughed. "What are the odds they've come out with a comic book edition? You might get him to read that." Wes pretended to be offended, but he couldn't keep a smile from slipping out. "You know, if this was 'Star Trek,' wiseass," Zoe heard him say to Bobby as she went out the door, "you'd be Lieutenant Uhura, sitting there in high heels, keeping hailing frequencies open. How does that make you feel?" "Like I'm in damn good company," Bobby said. Zoe wasn't in Mel's when Jake arrived. He knew it was only a matter of time before she showed up—she would've been paged as the surveillance team saw him leaving the CRO gates. He nursed a beer as he stood by the jukebox, filled with the same sense of anticipation and dread he felt every night before he saw Zoe. She would tell him hello—she always did—with a deep, searing, burning kiss. God, he loved kissing her. Loved and hated it. Hated it because her kisses so completely overwhelmed him. When Zoe kissed him, nothing else existed. His world narrowed down to him and her, his mouth, her mouth, his arms around her, her body against him. When Zoe kissed him, he could barely even remember his own name, let alone the taste of Daisy's kisses. Zoe had completely invaded his dreams, as well. More than once he'd woken up reaching for her, so certain that his impossibly detailed, incredibly erotic dreams had been real. Lately in his dreams, he only saw Daisy from a distance. He'd spot her from the bedroom window of his Washington apartment and go out the French doors onto the deck to call to her. Halfway there, he'd realize he was naked, that he'd just been in bed with Zoe. His voice would catch in his throat, and Daisy would disappear. He didn't need Joseph and his dreamcoat to figure out what that meant. He'd wake up, aching from guilt and need. It was not a good combination. Jake glanced at his watch. Dammit, where was she? Tonight he wasn't just anticipating her arrival because he wanted to kiss her. Tonight he had some vital information he needed to pass along. "If you're looking for Zoe—" Carol, one of the other waitresses, the pretty, dark-haired, forty-something one, stood behind him, holding her tray "— she called in sick again tonight." Sick. Again? Oh, damn, he'd purposely stayed away for a few days. What if she'd been sick all that time? What if she'd needed him? "Is she all right?" Carol shrugged. "Gus thinks it's the flu. Personally, I just think she's pouting." "Thanks for letting me know." Jake finished the rest of his beer and carried the empty bottle toward the bar. "Before you go racing out to her place," Carol said, following him, "you should probably be ready for her to hand down an ultimatum. That girl wants some kind of commitment, Jake. She told Monica you've been dragging your feet so hard, she was starting to give second thoughts to becoming Christopher Vincent's fourth wife." Jake nearly dropped the bottle. "What?" Carol smiled. "Yeah, I figured you didn't know about that. Apparently your friend Christopher has been hitting on Zoe, too. He wants to add her to that sick little harem he's got going up there at the old Frosty Cakes place." "She never said a word about that to me." "I'm going to give you some unsolicited advice, Jake. Zoe's a little wild, a little out of control. That's her nature. But she wants a ring. This is probably the first time in her life she's held out for something like this, and I'm certain that she's serious. I know you haven't known her for that long, but she

wants to get married before she turns thirty, and she's getting close to the point where she doesn't particularly give a damn who she marries. But she is in love with you. You should hear her talk about you—it'd make you blush." "She does go on and on and on about you, Jake." Somehow the bartender had become a part of this conversation. The two old men who were permanent fixtures in the bar were also unabashedly listening in. "If you feel anything for her at all, buy her a ring," Carol advised him. "Have Christopher Vincent do that mumbo-jumbo wedding ceremony that he does. It's not real, anyway. He has no more authority to officiate at a wedding than my pet poodle. But it'll make Zoe happy, you'll get what you want for as long as you want it, and it'll keep her away from Christopher. He's just a little too rough with women, if you ask me." "You'd be a damn fool not to marry Zoe for real," one of the old men said. Roy. Zoe had told him that Roy was ninety-two years old. ' 'If I were just twenty years younger, I'd've asked her myself the first time she came in here." Zoe's trailer was parked just down the block, in the empty lot alongside Lonnie's gas station. The light was on as Jake approached. She opened the door before he even reached the steps— she'd been watching and waiting for him. She was wearing her jeans and that little flowered T-shirt she'd had on in Washington the first time they'd met. Her hair was down, long and silky around her shoulders. She wore almost no makeup, and her skin seemed to glow with good health. "I guess you don't have the flu," he said as she closed the door behind him. "Gee, you sound almost disappointed." Her gym bag was packed, her backpack, too. They lay on the floor of the tiny hall that led to the trailer's single bedroom. Dammit, she was actually trying to force his hand. She wanted him to marry her and bring her to the CRO compound. "Going somewhere?" he asked. He tried to keep his voice and his smile pleasant, but he knew they were both a little too tight. She met his gaze and didn't try to pretend either one of them didn't know exactly what was going on. "It's time, Jake." "What if I say no, it's not time? What if I tell you no, you're not getting inside the CRO fort? Is that when you blatantly defy me—and sign on to be the fourth Mrs. Vincent?" He was furious with her, but his anger wasn't entirely because she was attempting to override his authority. He was mad as hell that she could consider sex to be so insignificant, that she could hold her own self in such low esteem. He was livid at the idea of her giving herself to Christopher Vincent. Her motivation might be selfless, but dammit, it was wrong. And it drove home the fact that she was willing to be with Jake, too, for the same wrong reasons. And in a flash of insight that was a little too glaringly clear, Jake knew that he didn't want Zoe to want him, too— in addition to her desire to make this mission a success. He wanted Zoe to want him, period. In spite of the mission. Outside of the mission. The way he wanted her. She didn't blink. "You know that I'd prefer doing it this way. Going in there with you." He let himself glare at her, let his words crackle with his displeasure. "Yeah, and I'd prefer doing it my way. I am the team leader, or have you forgotten?" Zoe flinched at his high volume, but then lifted her chin in that way she had that could infuriate him and make him admire her, all at once. ' 'Are you the team leader, Admiral? If so, why are you letting Jake the protective man interfere with what's best for this op? The plan was to get me inside that factory so I could help you find that Trip X. It was a good plan—until you stopped thinking like an admiral. You promised me that as far as my safety and comfort went, you'd let me draw the line. We had a deal—until you turned around and reneged." "You want me to let you draw the line?" Jake couldn't believe it. "Where's your line, Zoe? As far as I can tell, it doesn't exist. You're not drawing any line at all, if you're willing to marry Christopher Vincent to get inside the CRO fence!"

Chapter 9 Jake was beyond upset. For the first time since Zoe had met him, he didn't have a smile ready to pull out to help diffuse or relax the situation. His eyes were cold and as hard as blue steel, and he looked at her as if she were a stranger, as if he didn't recognize her. Zoe didn't know what to tell him. She opted for the truth. "I wouldn't really have married Christopher Vincent," she admitted. *'I just thought... I don't know. Maybe it would give you the incentive you needed to get me in there this other...this safer way." He clearly didn't believe her. Why should he? She'd worked hard to make him think she was tough and ruthless. "Things weren't progressing at a speed that satisfied you, so you decided to resort to emotional blackmail, is that what you're saying?" She couldn't deny it, but she could try to justify it. "I'm the expert, Jake. I should be in there." His eyes were as cold and as empty as the darkness of outer space, his voice flat. "I should send you home." Her chin went up. "You could do that, Admiral, but you couldn't stop me from going to Pat Sullivan and getting reassigned right back here." "And then you'd use the fact that Christopher Vincent wants to sleep with you to get through the CRO gates, right?" He laughed, but there wasn't any humor in it. "Funny, I thought I heard you just say you wouldn't do that." Zoe felt like crying. She'd worked overtime to make Jake believe that she was blase about sex. She'd pretended so hard that it was no big deal. She was not demure, she was not shy. She could use her looks and her body as just another tool of her trade. She'd started out wanting to shock him, wanting to shake him up and, yes, wanting to impress him. She was a modern woman, a Gen X-er. She might be young, she might be a woman, but she was an expert in dealing with weapons of mass destruction, an authority in a field that was more frightening than the most terrifying horror movie. Yet despite that, she had the ability to remain detached and in control while sheer chaos raged around her. She was cool, she was tough, she could get the job done—see, look? She could remain as emotionally unattached as James Bond when it came to matters of the heart. That proved she had what it took to be good at her job, didn't it? She was good at her job. But none of the rest of it was true. Except now he believed it was. And he was not impressed. She'd painted herself into this unfortunate corner, there was no doubt about it. Jake sat tiredly on the built-in sofa. "You know what the really stupid thing is, Zoe?" She was. She was the stupid thing. "I came into town tonight to tell you that we're out of -time." Jake looked at her and gave her a crooked smile. "I came to find out if you still wanted to marry your way into the CRO compound." Zoe sat across from him, suddenly sharply focused. "Out of time? How?" "I found out when Christopher's planning to use the Triple X," Jake told her. "He's celebrating his fiftieth birthday in three weeks. He and his lieutenants have been talking about the big party they're having in New York City. How the big party's going to get covered by CNN. I figure we've only got about a week and a half before they'll try to move the T-X. We need to find it before then, for obvious reasons." The CRO could carry it out of state in plastic baggies, in small amounts. And then the team would have a hell of a time tracking it down. They could recover most of the Triple X and thousands of people could still die. They had to find it. Now. "Yes," Zoe said. "Yes, I'll marry you." Someone had found Zoe a white dress. It wasn't a wedding dress, but with her hair up, she looked angelic. Jake stood in the front of Mel's Bar, watching as she proceeded toward him, down an aisle they'd made by moving the tables and chairs. He didn't know the name of the song that was playing on the jukebox, but the melody was haunting. Zoe was so beautiful, his throat ached. But this wasn't real. None of this was real. The CRO didn't believe in marriage licenses. They opposed state intervention in something as personal as marriage. And thus, according to their

rules, Jake could propose marriage at 8:37 p.m. and be watching his bride walking down the aisle toward him by eleven that same night. Beside him, Christopher Vincent cleared his throat. He smiled as Jake glanced at him. Jake smiled back. And felt a small surge of triumph. There was a lot that was really, really wrong about this mock wedding ceremony, but at least Jake knew one good thing that would come of it. After tonight, Christopher Vincent would have no chance of getting his hands on Zoe. He could see apprehension in her eyes as she got closer. Her smile was tentative, and he knew he hadn't completely managed to hide his sense of dread. Jake didn't want to marry her. He didn't want to pretend to marry her. And he really didn't want to bring her back to his bedroom at the CRO compound. It was hard enough resisting her here, in a public bar. How was he going to handle sharing quarters with her? Somehow, he was going to do it. He was going to pretend to make love to her, and he was going to sleep in the same bed with her night after night. If anything could cool his body's eager response to her nearness, it would be those three security cameras positioned around his room. Zoe handed the flowers she carried to Carol and took his hand. Her fingers were cold. Her dress was lovely, with no sleeves and a sweeping low neckline that exposed the tops of her full breasts, but it was a summer dress, and fall was cold and crisp and far more suited to turtlenecks here in Belle, Montana. He took both of her hands in his, trying to warm them. She was wearing perfume—just the slightest, subtlest scent. "Kneel," Christopher Vincent commanded. Jake helped Zoe down onto the floor, then prepared to join her. But Chris stopped him. "Just Zoe," he said. She looked up at them, frowning slightly. "Just me?" "You have to show the proper respect to your husband and to the other men of the CRO," Christopher told her. "On your knees, head down, eyes averted." This was it, Jake thought. This was where Zoe would stand up and laugh in Christopher's face. But she didn't. She stayed there on the floor, and she

bowed her head. And he knew again how high she thought these stakes were. If she would do this, she would do anything to find that missing T-X. Anything. The thought made his stomach hurt. The ceremony was short, filled with words like "obey" and "submit," "abide by" and "yield-" It was a step back toward the Dark Ages for women everywhere. Yet throughout it all, Zoe murmured her acquiescence. It was nothing like his wedding to Daisy, and yet Jake found himself hesitating as he reached down to take Zoe's hand. It was time to slip a plain gold ring on her finger, but the depth and meaning of the powerful symbolism was tarnished by the loss of equality. The ring seemed far more imprisoning as she knelt slightly behind him, as he tagged her as if she were some kind of pet or possession. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the ring onto her finger. If she could kneel and bow her head, he could do this. There was no ring for his finger—he was grateful at least for that. Finally, at last, Zoe was allowed to rise. It was time to kiss the bride. She looked at him then, and there were tears in her eyes. And he knew that as hard as this had been for him, it had been a million times harder for Zoe—Zoe, who'd probably never knelt for anyone before in her entire life. He kissed her softly, gently, trying to reassure himself as well as her that none of this was real. She clung to him then, and he closed his eyes and held her close. Wishing...what? He didn't even know. "I'm sorry," she breathed into his ear, barely loud enough for him to hear. "I'm so sorry, Jake. I know how hard this must be for you." He pulled back to look at her in surprise as he realized that the tears in her eyes were for him. The crowd in the bar was applauding. Carol and her

friend Monica threw rice. And Jake stood there watching a tear escape from Zoe's eyes and slide down her cheek. And he couldn't help himself. He kissed her. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to. Her lips were so soft, and she tasted impossibly sweet. How could someone as tough and strong as Zoe taste that sweet? He gently coaxed her mouth open, taking his time, kissing her slowly, completely, deeply. Very, very deeply. Time ground to a halt and the noise in the room faded to a dull roar. Nothing mattered, nothing existed but the woman in his arms. He wanted to kiss her forever. He wanted this moment to go on and on, endlessly. He felt her melt against him, felt heat pool in the pit of his stomach, felt his knees grow weak. God, if a single kiss could be this good... He pulled back, breathing hard. Zoe's eyes were wide as she looked at him. And then Chris and some of the other men from the CRO were slapping him on the back, shaking his hand, buying him a drink. He looked at Zoe, surrounded now by Carol and Monica, old Roy and Lonnie, and she was still gazing at him, a question in her eyes. He nodded. Yes. But she still didn't get it. Or maybe she didn't believe him. "That was me kissing you," he told her silently, knowing she could read his lips. She smiled, but her eyes welled with fresh tears. And this time he wasn't surprised.

Chapter 10 It was definitely weird. Walking into the CRO fort was like walking onto the set of her favorite television show. Zoe had seen it, in complete detail, on the surveillance video screens many times before. She'd studied the entire former factory while in the team trailer. She knew the layout nearly as well as Bobby Taylor now. She could find the main kitchen in a blackout with her eyes closed if she had to. She knew where all the cameras and microphones were located in the compound yard. She knew the shortest route to Jake's quarters from any given point in the place. But she hung back, letting Jake lead the way. She would have to remember to let him walk several paces in front of her. A CRO rule. He'd left his room unlocked—apparently everyone did. He opened the door, holding it politely, the way her father might have done for her mother, to let her go in first. She knew this room well, too. The colors were slightly different than they'd appeared on the video monitors, though, the red-orange of the shag carpeting a little more brassy, the paneling a little more nicked and worn. She looked into the mirror, wondering who was watching them right now. Were Bobby and Wes pulling a shift? Or Harvard? Or was it Luke O'Donlon? The entire team knew that everything said and done in this room was purely for the benefit of the cameras. They knew that nothing was real, but still... She turned to face Jake. "Well. This is.... At least it's nicer than my trailer." Jake set her bags down on the long, low dresser top. He forced a smile. "It'll do for now." Holy Mike, could they sound any more uptight? They were supposed to be newlyweds, on their wedding night. They'd both been pretending they were eager to get back here, that they were hot to be alone, but now what? Jake had definitely been right—this was not going to be any fun. Not while knowing three cameras and God knows how many people would be watching them. He came toward her, slipping off the jacket he'd put over her shoulders during the ride to the factory. He carefully hung it on the back of a chair, then smiled at her again. "Mind if I...?" He reached for her hairpins, starting to take them out without really waiting for her reply. "No, I don't mind." She helped him, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders. "I love your hair," he said. Zoe closed her eyes as Jake ran his fingers through it. "It's so soft," he murmured. "Like a baby's." He was touching more than her hair, touching her neck, her throat, her shoulders, her arms. She opened her eyes, and the sight of herself in the mirror caught her off guard. She looked completely enthralled, her eyes half closed, her lips slightly parted, each breath she took making her breasts press even farther out of this two-sizes-too-small dress Carol had pulled out of the back of her daughter's closet. "Are you cold?" Jake whispered, his hands warm against her arms. "No, I'm—" "Yes, you are," he said, silently ordering her to agree. "Your arms feel a little cold." What was he doing? "I am," she said. "A little." He kissed her jaw, her throat, the tops of her breasts. The sensation nearly made her burst into flames. Cold was the complete last thing that she was. "Why don't you climb into bed—under the covers?" He smiled. "We'll see what we can do to get you warmed up." Ah. That was what he was doing. Once they were beneath the covers, no one would be able to tell if they were making love or simply trying on each other's underwear. Especially if they turned off the lights.

Zoe turned her back to him. "Will you unzip me?" He hesitated slightly, and she knew that he'd been hoping she'd just keep the dress on. But that would seem odd— too odd. She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Please?" He touched her then, fumbling slightly with the tiny zipper pull. She felt his fingers trail down the entire expanse of her back as she held the dress on in front. He kissed her neck, his voice suddenly husky. "I'll be right out." Jake turned out one of the lights as he went into the attached bathroom and closed the door behind him. God, his heart was pounding. Without a doubt, this was going to be the longest night of his life. He washed his hands, stalling, trying to get his heart rate down to near normal, splashed water onto his face. But when he closed his eyes, he could see only Zoe's smooth, bare back. All that perfect skin beneath his fingers. She wasn't wearing a bra. He laughed aloud. He was going to have to climb into that bed with her and pretend to make love to her—oh, and while he did that, she would be half-naked in his arms. He gazed at his dripping wet face in the bathroom mirror. Maybe he could keep his clothes on. Yeah, right. That would look very unsuspicious. After he'd been drooling after her for weeks, he's suddenly Mr Shy? God, maybe he should just give up and make love to her. Jake looked hard into his own eyes, recognizing the truth, recognizing that that was what he really, really wanted tonight. Sex purely for the sake of sex. No strings. No responsibilities. Just Zoe's legs locked around him as he lost himself inside of her. As he lost himself. Lost. Himself. And he would lose himself. He'd wake up in the morning, and everything he valued most would be gone. His integrity. His honor. His profound sense of what was good and right. And how would he be able to look himself in this mirror then? He wasn't ready for that. Not now. God, maybe not ever. Jake took off his shirt, stepped out of his shoes and his pants and turned on the shower. He knew what he had to do. But he wasn't done stalling. Zoe heard the shower go off as she lay in the dark, waiting for Jake. She heard the rattle of the shower curtain .being pulled back, and then silence. God, her heart was pounding. She waited and... The bathroom door finally opened, flooding the room with light. And there was Jake, a dark silhouette with broad shoulders, a towel slung casually around his waist. She couldn't tell if he was smiling. She kind of suspected

he wasn't. But God, if there were ever a time she could have used one of his reassuring smiles, it was now. He flipped the switch for the bathroom light, and the room again was dark. But not completely dark. The searchlights that illuminated the grounds of the compound shone in through the ancient blinds. She could see Jake as he walked toward her, as he sat down on the edge .of the bed.

"Sorry I took so long," he said. "It's been kind of a long day, and I thought you might appreciate it if I had a quick shower." "I'm a little nervous," she whispered. Honestly. Not just for the benefit of the microphones. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she could see his face clearly. "I am, too, Zoe," he said quietly. Also honestly. He smiled at her then. It was a smile that held an apology, a smile that was charmingly embarrassed, yet still self-assured enough to broadcast his awareness of the dark humor of this completely bizarre situation. Zoe smiled back at him. "I think you're sitting out there because you want to hear me beg." Something sparked in his eyes. "Begging usually works nicely for me. But tonight it's not necessary." He dropped his towel on the floor as he slipped beneath the covers. His skin was cool and smooth as he reached for her, as he kissed her. He pulled her close, his legs deliciously solid against hers as he intertwined them, his chest exquisitely solid against her breasts as his hands slid along the satiny back of her nightgown. She could sense his surprise and then his relief. Oh, brother, had he really thought she would just be naked beneath these covers? He had. He pulled back slightly to look at her, to check out the clingy black satin and lace that barely covered her breasts and swept all the way down to her thighs. "Nice." His voice was husky; his eyes were warm. "Very nice. Very, very, very nice." Zoe giggled. She couldn't help it. Then Jake started laughing, too, and she laughed harder. And once she started, she couldn't stop. This was just too absurd. She was finally in bed with this man that she wanted more than anyone in the world. She finally had him exactly where she wanted him, only she couldn't do anything about it because everyone and their right-wing, racist twin brothers were watching on their surveillance video screens. Welcome to the Jake and Zoe Show. It was completely insane. They were pretending to be lovers who'd waited to be married before making love, except they weren't really married, at least not in the eyes of the law, and they weren't really going to make love. Reality and pretense were all twisted in an enormously untangle-able, ridiculous knot. Jake was fighting it. He was trying not to laugh, but that just made it worse. Zoe clung to him giddily. Their sudden unexplained laughter would be considered extremely strange, but there was nothing either of them could do to stop. Jake tried to kiss her, but couldn't do it. He buried his face in her hair, laughing so hard he was crying. They had to do something to make it look as if they were getting it on. Zoe pulled him more completely on top of her, cradling him with her body, linking her legs around him and Jake tried to pull back, but he couldn't move quickly enough. He was completely aroused. He'd been lying beside her in such a way that had kept her from knowing that, but now the hard truth—as it were—was unavoidable. And just like that, they both froze, both stopped laughing. "Oh, God, I'm sorry," he breathed. He was beyond embarrassed. He was mortified. "No," she said. "No, Jake, because I want—" "Don't," he rasped, and kissed her to keep her from saying it. Zoe kissed him hungrily, telling him without words what he already knew. / want you, too. He groaned as she pressed herself up against him, groaned as she kissed him harder, sweeping her tongue more deeply into his mouth. But then he pulled back. He stopped kissing her and started rocking the bed, his movements obvious from the squeaks of the springs, the way the mattress bumped the wall. But it so lacked finesse, Zoe struggled not to laugh again. Or cry. She was so overwhelmed with emotion and desire, she wasn't sure what would come out if she opened her mouth. He collapsed on top of her with a shout, pretending it was over far too quickly, pretending he'd found release. They lay there, both breathing hard for many long seconds. Jake was still rock solid against her thigh, and Zoe wondered if, like her, he was ready to weep from sheer frustration.

But then he rolled off her, swearing softly, and she turned to look at him. He lay on his back, one arm thrown up and over his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. His words were for the microphones—they were back in pretend mode. "It's been a long time for me and—" "Sh." Zoe didn't dare reach for him, didn't dare touch him. "It's okay. We've got the entire rest of our lives to get it right." "I'm just...embarrassed." He looked at her, lowering his voice. "I am sorry." "It's okay." There was nothing else she could say, not without fear of blowing their cover, not without making Jake even more tense. He'd kissed her this evening, for real, back in Mel's bar, but clearly he wasn't ready yet for anything more, despite his body's obvious betrayal. She ached for him to hold her, ached for them to finish what they'd started, ached because she knew it wasn't going to happen. Maybe not ever. She lay beside him, far too warm beneath the blanket, afraid to move for fear she might brush against him. "Thank you for marrying me," she whispered, knowing how terribly hard all of this was for him. Jake just laughed. "Yeah," he said. "Sure."

Chapter 11 Jake stood in the shower with his eyes closed, letting the water drum down onto his head. He'd gotten maybe an hour of sleep last night. He'd lain awake for hours, hyperaware of Zoe lying next to him in that bed. It was only a double, not as big as the queen-size mattress he was used to, and it had a big, broken-down valley right in the center, to boot. Every time he tried to get comfortable, he sank toward the middle of the bed and ended up brushing against Zoe. The smoothness of her legs. The softness of her shoulder. The cool satin of her barely there black nightgown. Dear God. He'd been so glad at first that she'd put something on. But as the night had dragged on, he'd found himself thinking about the way that slinky texture had felt beneath his fingers, the warm firmness of her body beneath that, the black lace against the creamy fullness of her breasts.... Dear God. Dear God. She'd slept about as well as he had. He'd sensed her, lying awake, tensely clinging to her side of the bed. At one point, he'd heard her breathing deepen, heard her finally fall asleep. But as she'd relaxed, she'd turned toward him, nestling against him, her hand on his chest, her legs against his. He'd tried gently to push her legs back, knowing he'd never sleep with her there like that, afraid of what might happen if he pushed his way between her thighs while they both slept. But as gentle as he'd tried to be, he'd woken her up. She'd stared at him, stared at her hand placed so possessively on him, and she'd retreated to her side of the bed with a murmured apology. He'd finally slept fitfully, waking himself up every few minutes with a start, trying to police himself. This last time, exhaustion had overtaken him. He'd slept for at least an hour. And had woken up with Zoe wrapped tightly in his arms. Her soft rear end pressed against him, his face buried in her sweet-smelling hair, his right hand securely cupping her breast. He'd extracted himself from her this time without waking her. Morning light was finally streaming in through the cracks in the blinds, and he'd gotten out of bed, aching in every way imaginable. He'd gone for a run, pushing himself far beyond his usual five miles, and by the time he'd come back to the room, the bed was neatly made and Zoe was gone. With luck, she was as good as Pat Sullivan had said she was, and she'd return to the room with the six missing canisters of Triple X in hand. Jake laughed aloud, knowing how completely ridiculous it was to think Zoe could simply find the Trip X by walking **"* Mils of the CRO compound on her first morning here, but irrationally hoping just the same. It was about time something in this op came easily. "Hey," Zoe said, pulling back the shower curtain and stepping into the tub. "What are you laughing about in here all by yourself?" Jake hit his head on the showerhead, quickly turning so that his back was to her. "Zoe! Jeez!" He still had shampoo in his hair but he shut the water off, reaching for the towel that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. But she reached past him and turned the water back on. Soap ran into his eyes and he swore sharply as he wrapped the towel around his waist despite the water streaming down on him. "What the hell?" She leaned against him, close enough to speak directly into his ear, her voice low. "We can talk quietly in here. With the water running, our words won't be picked up by the microphones if we speak softly enough. And the camera is over the window. This is the only place in your entire suite where we can't be seen." Jake nodded. "Well," he whispered, rinsing the soap out of his eyes. "Isn't this convenient?" "Don't whisper," she warned him. "Use your regular voice—just keep it really low." She laughed softly. "You can open your eyes and turn around. I've got clothes on."

Thank God. He turned around—and realized he'd offered up his prayer of thanks just a little too soon. Zoe was in her underwear—a running bra and an entirely too skimpy pair of panties. "We have a little problem," she told him seriously, as if she always held important meetings in the shower, half naked. Her running bra left little to the imagination to start with, but wet, it molded itself to her breasts. Breasts that he knew more than filled the palm of his hand. And he had big hands. He focused on her eyes. Water beaded on her long eyelashes, making her look even more freshly beautiful than ever. "Problem?" he repeated stupidly. "As a new member of the CRO through marriage," she said, her voice so low he had to lean closer to hear her, "I apparently only have probationary status here. I'm not allowed to leave this room unless you're with me." Jake swore loudly, and she put her finger against his lips. She pulled her hand back quickly, as if touching him had burned her, and he knew that despite her efforts to pretend otherwise, she was not unaffected by the fact they were standing together, barely dressed, in the shower. / want you, too. The words he hadn't let her say out loud last night seemed to echo against the tile as the steam from the shower swirled around them. Zoe cleared her throat. "The guard who escorted me back here wasn't completely up on the exact rules." She continued quietly, sounding far more businesslike and matter-of-fact than he could have managed given the circumstances. "But as far as I could gather, there's some sort of special vacation deal for newly weds. As a woman, I'm supposed to work, but I'm not allowed to join a work party for at least four glorious days. Unfortunately, we don't have four glorious days to waste." In order to hear her, Jake had to stand so close he could count the drops of water on her face. One of the drops ran down her cheek like a tear and landed on her collarbone. As he watched, it meandered down her chest, slowly gathering speed as it disappeared between her breasts. Jake closed his eyes. The towel around his waist was completely soaked. It weighed about ten pounds and hung low on his hips. He had to hold it up with one hand as he kept the soap from his hair out of his eyes with the other. "So now what?" he asked. "So we temporarily ditch my intended plan to flit about, dodging cameras and guards like an invisible little ghost, and we march boldly—together, holding hands because, hell, it's our four-day honeymoon—into Christopher's private quarters." She was starting to shiver, and he turned them both around so that she was standing directly under the stream of warm water. She tipped her head back, letting the water flow on her face and all the way down her smooth, flat stomach. She squeezed her hair back with her hands and smiled at him. "Thanks." Jake hiked his towel up higher and moved closer so he could speak directly into her ear, careful not to touch her. "I know you think Christopher's keeping the Trip X somewhere in his suite, but I can't get past the fact that if the CRO's going to take out all of New York City in a matter of weeks, someone, somewhere has to be working on some kind of delivery system." He slipped slightly on the slick bottom of the tub and caught himself on the tile wall, his other hand still firmly holding the towel. By some miracle, he'd managed not to touch her, but just barely. He held on to the wall, bracing himself, his arm extended past her head, about a quarter inch from her cheek. "There's got to be a bomb or missile being made to carry the Triple X." He tried to continue as if nothing had happened, but his voice was raspy and he had to stop and clear his throat. "It's got to go off at the right altitude above the city, at a time when wind conditions are acceptable. The CRO's got to have a lab to—" "It's not here," Zoe said definitely. She turned her head to speak into his ear, and her cheek grazed his. Jake had never had to have his heart started again by a jolt of electricity through paddles in a hospital's ER, but he now knew what it would feel like. "Sorry," she breathed. "God, this is..." "Awkward," he said, trying to laugh. "Again." "Maybe we should just..." She looked at him, and the flash of uncertainty in her eyes took his breath away. Zoe? Uncertain? But then she laughed, too, and whatever he had seen was gone. "If only we'd known, we could have packed our wet suits." Zoe in a wet suit... "Do you scuba dive?" he asked. "I'm learning. Or, rather, I was learning. It was mostly my friend Peter's idea, and when, well..." She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Let's not go

there." Peter, huh? "We've gone off track," she said briskly. "Where were we?" "Discussing the lab," he said. Whoever Peter was, he was completely insane to have had Zoe and left her. "There's got to be a lab. Somewhere." "Not here," she told him with complete confidence, instantly back on track. "Not in this facility. Just the quick look around I had this morning verified what I've seen from the surveillance cameras. And you said yourself you've been over this place with a fine-tooth comb. Maybe there's an outside source—" "No. No way." Jake was just as convinced. "Vincent would never go outside of this little kingdom he's made." Zoe released all the air in her lungs in a burst of exasperation. But then she froze, gazing into his eyes, ignoring the water that was hitting the back of her head. ' 'Jake, what if..." He could practically see her brain smoking, she was thinking so hard. She laughed aloud, the expression on her face morphing from disbelief to amazement to real excitement. "Holy Mike, what if Chris doesn't know what he's got?" She gripped Jake's arm. "My God! He may think his birthday surprise will take out a few dozen racially inferior types in the New York subway system—kind of like that horrible incident in Japan a few years ago. He may hot know he's got enough Triple X to turn the entire tristate area into a graveyard." She shook him slightly. "You've got to convince Chris that it's time to share secrets. Do

whatever you have to do, Jake, but get him to tell you what the hell his plan is." "Oh," Jake said. "Gee. Is that all?" He took her arm and shook her slightly. "What do you think I've been trying to do all this time, Zoe?" She had the decency to look embarrassed. "I'm sorry." Awareness dawned in her eyes the exact moment Jake realized it, too. They were holding on to each other, her hand on the taut muscles of his forearm, his palm against the smoothness of her shoulder. Jake would only have to move his head about an inch and a half, and he would be able to kiss her. She moved her hand. "Sorry. I'm...sorry." He spun them both around so that he was standing once again under the force of the water. He released her so he could use that hand to rub the last of the shampoo from his hair. His other hand was still holding the towel for dear life. "Just let me rinse off," he said. "And then you can...do what you need to, and after, we can take a walk, see if Christopher's in." "And after that, I have something I want to show you," she told him. "A place we can go to talk without being overheard. It's outside, though, so dress warmly." Dress was the key word. It would be very nice to have a private conversation in which they both had on all of their clothes. Jake maneuvered his way to the other side of the narrow tub, reaching to open the curtain and step out. But Zoe stopped him, holding on to the edge of his completely soaked towel. "Better leave this behind," she said. "And try to look happy." Happy. Instead of impossibly, intensely, overwhelmingly, painfully, achingly frustrated and upset. Jake laughed. No problem. "There were at least three rooms he didn't show us." Zoe lay on her back in the warm autumn sun on what had ^ probably at one time been the Frosty Cakes employees' recreation deck. Christopher Vincent had welcomed them effusively into his private quarters. When Jake had told him Zoe was eager for a look around, the CRO leader had given her what could only be described as a significant glance when Jake's back was turned. Zoe had given him a loaded smile in return, hoping that he'd give them a more thorough tour if he thought she was interested in whatever tawdriness he had in mind. Whether he'd given them a more thorough tour or not, there was no way of knowing. All Zoe knew was that the missing canisters of Trip X weren't anywhere in sight in his private dining room, his bedroom, his enormous private bath

or the three suites his wives and their young children occupied. Jake and Zoe hadn't been allowed into his private office. According to the layout of the factory that she'd studied in the SEALs surveillance trailer, she had to guess there were somewhere between two and four additional rooms in the area they hadn't seen. But a lab? She still didn't think so. She turned to look at Jake, who was stretched out on his stomach, his arms folded underneath his head. His face was upside down from her perspective. He'd moved close enough to talk softly and still be heard beneath the rather bucolic sound of the nearby waterfall, but only their heads were together. His body and legs were a full one hundred and eighty degrees away from hers. Still, even that way, they were uncomfortably close. Too close. She laughed. Two miles would've been too close, given the power of her attraction to him. "What's so funny?" he murmured, his eyes half shut. "You look tired," she said. "You do, too." "I didn't sleep much last night." The half-lowered lids were only a ruse. His brilliant blue eyes were as sharp as ever. "Yeah," he finally said. "I know." ' 'May I say something that I feel needs to be said—even at the risk of embarrassing you?" Jake closed his eyes. "No." "Jake." He opened his eyes and sighed as he looked at her. "What's the point?" "For starters, we're going to be in bed again together tonight," she told him. "Have you thought about that?" "The thought has crossed my mind one or two million times already today," he said dryly. "The fact that you had a—" Jake closed his eyes. "Don't say it." Zoe rolled onto her stomach, pushing herself onto her elbows, supporting her chin with the palm of her hand. "You know, I probably would've been offended if you hadn't been so turned on. The past few weeks have been extremely intense, and correct me if I'm wrong, but I've got to believe you haven't made love since—" "No," he said, cutting her off. "You're not wrong." Since Daisy died. Zoe swallowed, aware that Jake hadn't wanted her even to say Daisy's name. Her heart broke for him. And for herself. "You must miss her so much." "She was irreplaceable," Jake said quietly. Zoe had known that. She just hadn't thought it would sting quite so much hearing Jake speak the words aloud. "You know I find you very attractive," Jake said. He laughed. ' 'And if you didn't know that, well, after last night you certainly knew it, huh?" "I knew," Zoe said. "Before last night." "Forget about the part where I'm old enough to be your father, okay?" "I have." Jake laughed. "Yeah, well, I haven't. But let's pretend for the sake of argument that I have. This thing between us, babe, it's still going nowhere fast. I can't get past the fact that Daisy's still the woman I love. I just don't see myself—" He broke off, unable to continue. Zoe nodded, gazing at the waterfall, trying to convince herself that the tears in her eyes were the result of the too-bright sun. She couldn't look at him. But she had to ask. "And those times when you really kissed me?" He was silent for several long moments. "Contrary to what you believe, I don't always do the right thing." She did turn to look at him then. He smiled crookedly, tiredly. "I know you see me as that all-powerful hero from Scooter's book, but honey, in truth, I'm just a man. Lead me not into

temptation and all that. Sometimes temptation is just a little too tempting, and then I make mistakes. And sometimes I just make mistakes— completely on my own. No help from any outside force. I don't want you—but I want you. Sometimes the part of me that wants you shouts down the other part." Zoe studied his face. Jake. The man. He was right, in a way. For years he had been her hero. Invincible. Intrepid. Noble. Immortal. Yet beneath all that, he was just a man. A very good man. "So are you just planning to be celibate for the rest of your life?" she asked. Her question caught him off guard. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Well," Zoe said carefully. "When you do know, if the answer to that question is no, I hope you'll come and find me." Jake put his head down on his arms and laughed. But when he lifted his head, propping himself up on his elbows the way she was, his eyes were filled with a curious mix of both sadness and heat. "See, now, like, right now is one of those times I really struggle with, because right now I have this completely overpowering urge to kiss you." Zoe wanted to touch his beautiful face, to push back that unruly lock of hair that fell down over his forehead. But she didn't. "You have to tell me the best way I can be your friend, Jake," she said. "Do I move closer when you say that to me? Or should I back away?" He was close enough to kiss her, and his eyes dropped to her mouth before he looked into her eyes. "Are you strong enough to back away?" Was she? "Right now, yes. Tomorrow? I don't know." "Then back away," he breathed. "Please." Zoe didn't move. "Tell me about Daisy." Jake blinked. And laughed. And backed away himself. "Well," he said. "She was absolutely nothing like you." Zoe quickly looked away, but apparently not quickly enough. "Whoa," Jake said, catching her hand. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I mean, I meant it in a good way. You're so strong, so certain. You're a scientist, and Daisy..." He laughed. "She didn't have a lot of use for science or math." Zoe gently pulled her hand free. Backing away. "She was an artist, right?" "Yeah, mostly a painter, both oils and watercolor, although she did go through a charcoal phase, too. She was..." He forced a smile. "Pretty amazingly brilliant." He was quiet for a moment. "She never came out and said it, but she hated what I did—what I do—for a living. And when Billy decided he wanted to be a SEAL, too..." He shook his head. "She didn't like to talk about it. She just locked herself in her studio and painted." He rolled over onto his back and stared at the sky. "I think I managed to make her incredibly unhappy at times, but she loved me enough to pretend it was all right. And I loved her too much even to consider that she might be happier without me. And yet, you know, in our own way, we did okay. We had so much more than most couples I've known." He turned his head and looked at her. "Okay, Lange. Your turn. 'Fess up. Who's this Peter?" Zoe tried to smile, but she couldn't. "No one," she said quietly. "He was nothing. Not compared to what you had with Daisy." "It's not fair to make comparisons." "Yeah," Zoe said. "It is. You talk about love in a way that I can't even comprehend." She took a deep breath. "You know, Jake, last night was the first time in my life I've ever slept all night in the same bed with a man." He tried to hide his incredulousness and failed, sitting up to look at her. "Really?" Zoe nodded and sat up, too, unable to meet his eyes. "I've had relationships—obviously—but it's always been, 'Well, gee, that was fun. See you in the morning.'" She braced herself and looked at him. "I've never lived with anybody. I've never gotten that close. I've never even wanted anyone to stay the night." Jake had known a love the likes of which most people only dreamed. And she... She wasn't even one of the dreamers. She hadn't even dared to do that. Jake sighed. His face was so serious without his usual hint of a smile lurking around his mouth. "This must be very hard for you. I'm so sorry. I've been thinking only of myself—" "Look, it's no big deal. I just wish—" She broke off, unable to say it. He touched her again, his fingers warm against the back of her hand. "What?"

She wanted to know what it would be like to sleep in Jake's arms, all night long, with his warmth and strength wrapped around her. But there was no way she could tell him that. Not after promising him she'd back away. She shook her head. "I wish a lot of things that are definitely better for you not to know." Jake laughed as he stretched out on his back again, arms above his head. He was silent for such a long time, Zoe turned to see if perhaps he'd fallen asleep. But he was staring at the nearly painful blueness of the Montana sky. He met her gaze, though, as if he'd caught her movement out of the corner of his eyes, and he smiled. It was a smile that echoed everything she was feeling. Longing. Sadness. The knowledge that the price they'd both pay for the sweetness of a temporary joining was a high one. Too high for Jake.

Chapter 12 Oh, yes," Lucky O'Donlon said from his seat at the video monitors. "There is a god. Zoe's getting ready for bed." On the other side of the trailer, Bobby and Wes didn't even glance up. "Hey, Ren and Stimpy, didn't you hear what I said? Zoe. Moments. From being. Au naturel." "Don't hold your breath," Wes said. "You're Lucky, but not that lucky. She knows exactly where the cameras are." Sure enough, Zoe stood in the one place in the room where she had her back to all three cameras. And she undressed in segments, taking off her shirt and slipping on her nightgown while she still had on her jeans. She pulled both her jeans and her bra out from under the gown. It was very disappointing. On the other hand, the nightgown was black and short and very, very sexy. It highlighted her exceedingly generous upper body in a most pleasing way.j.

"Oh, man," Lucky murmured. "Imagine coming back to your quarters and finding that waiting for you." Wes finally came to look over his shoulder. "Youch! Way to dress for bed, Dr. Lange!" "Show a little respect," Bobby rumbled. "I only said youch," Wes complained. "Next time, say it with more respect." But even while Bobby said the words, he pulled his chair closer to the video screens. "Who was on duty last night?" Wes asked. "I was," Bobby said. "Am I correct in assuming that she put that on last night, and you didn't tell me?" "It didn't seem to warrant a phone call to the other trailer," Bob said. "So, no, Skelly. I didn't. Besides, I happen to respect Zoe, so...I didn't." "That is one beautiful woman." Lucky glanced at Bobby. "And I say that with the utmost respect." "So where's the admiral?" Wes asked. "He is a seriously dedicated team leader if he opted for a sneak and peek instead of playing honeymoon for the cameras with a babe in a black negligee. Sheesh, can you imagine having to do that? For Uncle Sam, Mom and apple pie, yes, I will suffer and kiss the beautiful blonde. What kind of training do you think I should go for next, so that I'll be given this kind of assignment?" "Yeah," Lucky said. "Talk about a silver bullet..." "I think it must be very difficult," Bobby said. "For both of them. He cares a great deal for her. And Zoe..." He sighed. "She's falling in love with Jake." Lucky and Wes both turned to look at him. "You're nuts," Wes said. "He's way too old for her." "She can't fall in love with him," Lucky said, turning to watch her on the screen. She was lying on the bed, on her stomach, as she read a book. "She's supposed to fall in love with me. Beautiful women always fall in love with me."

Wes shook his head. "You think you're kidding, but it's true. You're a babe magnet. When Zoe first walked into that meeting at the Pentagon, I cursed you out, Lieutenant, sir, because it seemed inevitable she would take one look at you and not even talk to the rest of us." "As soon as this assignment's over," Lucky said with a sigh as he watched Zoe on the screen, "she's mine." He smiled. "Hey, it might be fun to actually have to chase a woman for a change." "It's not going to happen," Bobby said. "She's got a jones for Jake." "Since when are you on a first-name basis with an admiral?" Wes asked. The enormous SEAL shrugged. "Since I found a copy of that book Zoe was talking about. It was in the library. Jake's pretty amazing. The things he did with explosives... The man's an artist. You should read it." "Yeah," Wes said. "Right. Read. Maybe in my next lifetime. So where exactly is Admiral Amazing?"

Bobby took over the command keyboard and started to type, and on one of the screens a rapid-fire sequence of empty corridors began to appear. "He just had a private meeting with Christopher Vincent," Lucky reported. "He endured the slimeball's company for more than two hours just to get a chance to ask him about this bogus birthday celebration. And when he finally did get down to business, Vincent tells him he's got to pledge all he's got to the CRO if he wants to be privy to CRO secrets. The admiral says, great. I'm ready to do that. Right now. Let's go. But Vincent says no. Not till after the honeymoon, essentially ordering the admiral to go back to his quarters and get busy with his new wife for the next three days." "Perfect," Wes said, scoffing. "Zoe goes to all this trouble to get inside the compound, thinking it'll speed up the search, but what it really does is slow things down." ._ "Got him," Bobby said. On screen, the admiral was heading down the corridor that led to his room. His pace slowed as he approached the door, and he paused for a moment outside, just staring at the knob. "Oh, man," Lucky said. "I'd be knocking the door down, I'd be in such a hurry to get inside that room." On the two screens that still showed two different angles inside the room, Zoe put down her book and looked toward the door. It didn't open, and she slowly sat and then stood up, staring at it. Outside the room, the admiral took a deep breath and finally reached for the doorknob. Bobby keyed in the third of the bedroom cameras, and from the new angle, as the door opened, Lucky could see the man's face. On screen, Zoe visibly relaxed. "I didn't realize it was you. I heard footsteps stop right outside the door and..." The admiral turned to close and lock the door behind him. "Sorry I took so long. Chris can really keep a conversation going. I was a little afraid you might've gone out looking for me." "Why would I do that?" she asked. "I knew where you were. Besides, you told me I had to stay here." He turned to look at her, smiling slightly. "I guess I just—" That was when he noticed what she was wearing. "Boing!" Wes said. "Hel-lo, Mrs. Robinson. How are you this evening, dear?" Lucky didn't know how he did it, but the admiral managed to keep his tongue securely in his mouth as he gazed at Zoe and her incredible nightgown. The tension in the room was palpable, though. It carried through the airwaves all the miles across the valley, through the receiver, through the wires that led to the video monitors in the trailer. Zoe spoke so softly, Lucky had to turn the volume up. ' 'I was just... reading. I was tired so I... got ready for bed a little while ago and..." "Are you going to be..." The admiral cleared his throat. "Warm enough in that?" "I don't have anything else." "No flannel pajamas?" Zoe laughed, a nervous burst that she tried to squelch. "It's pretty warm in here." Well, that was the understatement of the year. Lucky could practically feel the heat rising from the screens. Jake took his wallet and a set of keys from his pockets and put them on top of the long, low dresser. "You know if you're tired, and I'm not here, you don't have to wait up for me." "The idea of waiting up for you isn't a particularly appealing one," Zoe said. "Is it going to happen frequently?" "Well, you know, I hope not—" Jake moved toward her "—but if evening is the only time Christopher can schedule to meet with me—" She moved out of his reach. "What's the deal with this place, Jake? When am I going to be able to leave this room?" She lifted her chin, made her voice louder, sharper. "What exactly do people do here for fun? Someone told me today that CRO women aren't allowed to go into Mel's. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I want my old job back, but I'd like a chance to go grab a beer if I want to. And if I'm not allowed to do that, when am I supposed to get a chance to kick back?" "She's picking a fight," Bobby said. "Way to go, Zoe." "And is it true what I've heard?" she added. "That in three days I'm supposed to join some sort of chain-gang work detail and clean all day long?" The admiral gave her one of his let's-keep-this-in-perspective smiles. "I'm sure it's not all day lo—"

"While you do what? Stand around and be good-looking?" Jake laughed aloud, and Zoe's expression got even more fierce. "You think this is funny?" she said. "Then you go clean. I'll sit around with the guys." "I'm sure I'll get to do my share of the cleaning. It's just they've found this place runs a little better if the women are organized in teams and—" "So it is true," she said. "It's just the nature of the commune, babe. Everybody's got to chip in." "I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear what it is you're going to be doing? Sitting around burping all day with the rest of the men?" Wes laughed out loud. "And what about those three princesses and their ugly little babies?" Zoe continued. "They got served at dinner just like the men." "Those are Christopher's wives and kids. You know, he's a little eccentric, he's got—" "Three wives. I know. I saw their rooms. They don't have peeling paneling on their walls." Jake reached for her again, pulling her into his arms. But she stood there stiffly, angrily. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, but she didn't move. She just stood there, straight as a rod. He tried to kiss her lips, but she moved her head and his mouth glanced off her ear. "I'm really tired," she said tightly, pulling free from him. "I'm going to sleep." "Oh," Lucky said, making a face. "The freeze-out. The temperature in the room just dropped to a frightening fifteen below." As Jake watched, Zoe climbed into bed, turned on her side and clutched the blankets to her chin. "Come on, Admiral," Wes said to the screen. "No self-respecting man would just stand there and watch his plans to get it on go up in smoke." "Any self-respecting man caught in this situation would definitely drop to his knees and beg," Lucky agreed. "Honey, I'm so sorry. Of course I want to go to your crazy parents' house on the one weekend I have off this year...." Wes nodded. "Of course I want to sell my racing boat and buy a washer and dryer." "Of course I want to poke myself in the eye with this sharp stick. I don't know what I was thinking...." "Zoe." On screen, the admiral sat down on the other side of the bed. Zoe was absolutely silent. "I'm sorry, babe. I thought you knew what this place was all about." Nothing. "Come on, Admiral Amazing. Down on your knees. Climb under the covers and get to work. Do something or this glacier's gonna freeze you to death." Jake just sighed. "We can talk about this more in the morning." He stood up and tiredly went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. "He's just giving up," Lucky said. "That's the point. He doesn't want to touch her," Bobby said. "He's nuts. Why the hell doesn't he want to touch her?" "He doesn't want to touch her because he wants to touch her," Bobby explained. Lucky looked at Wes. "They're pretending to be married. So instead of pretending to get friendly, they pretend to have a fight, because he doesn't want to touch one of the ten most beautiful women in the world. That make any sense to you?" "Nope." Wes shook his head. He looked at Bobby. "But you understand this, don't you? I am seriously worried about you, Robert Taylor." Zoe clung to the edge of the bed, listening to Jake Hi-withe in the darkness, wondering if he'd fallen asleep yet.

She heard him draw in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, and she knew he was as wide awake as she was. She had a plan that she hoped would get her inside of Christopher Vincent's private office. As soon as the restrictions on her were lifted, she would

go to him—alone—and request a private meeting. She would tell him she didn't realize the nature of the hard work involved in being a regular CRO wife. She would imply that she was much more suited to other tasks. And if Jake knew she was planning to do this, he would have an absolute cow. No, not a cow, a full-grown stego-saurus. Not that any of this would get that far. She would never put herself into a situation where she'd actually have to sleep with the CRO leader. She'd never compromise her sense of self that way, despite the fact she'd done everything but told Jake she would. She sighed. This afternoon, she'd all but promised Jake she'd back away from him, and keep backing away. And she'd come up with that idea to stage a fight when he'd been out talking to Chris. Fight, and then go into a major pout. It had kept them from touching, kept him even from having to kiss her good-night. Kept them from pretending to make love. She'd seen the flare of intense relief in Jake's eyes when he'd realized what she had been doing—and why. He wasn't the only one who had been relieved. She wasn't sure how much more close contact she could take. "Zoe." His voice was so quiet in the darkness, at first she thought she'd imagined it. But then Jake touched her. Reaching across the grand canyon in the middle of the bed, he touched her, his fingers light against her arm. Zoe's heart nearly stopped. "I think we should stop fighting," he said. . Were his words purely for the microphones, or did he actually intend them to have double meaning? "Come here," he whispered. "We'll both sleep much better if you let me hold you." She turned to look at him. His face was dimly lit, his eyes colorless in the darkness. "Come on," he said, pulling her toward him, meeting her in the middle. His arms felt so good around her, tears stung her eyes. He wore no shirt, and his skin was so warm, his chest so solid. She could smell just a hint of his delicious cologne and the mint of his toothpaste. She held on to him tightly, knowing she should push him away, knowing she'd virtually promised him she would. She could feel his legs against her and Zoe looked at him. He was still wearing his jeans. Denim. The ultimate in protection. He smiled that crooked smile she'd come to know so well. "This'll be nice," he breathed. "We both really need to sleep, and..." And he'd not only remembered what she'd told him this afternoon on the roof, but he'd also read between the lines. He'd figured out one of the things that she'd wanted so badly was for him to hold her in his arms all night long. Zoe kissed him. She couldn't help it. He sighed as he met her lips in a kiss that was impossibly sweet. It was filled with desire, but coated in something else, something wonderfully warm, something so much stronger than mere passion. "Good night," she whispered. His voice was like velvet in the darkness. "Night, babe." Zoe closed her eyes and, with her head tucked safely beneath his chin, she fell asleep listening to the steady beating of Jake Robinson's heart.

Chapter 13 Do you ever think about Vietnam?" Jake leaned his head against the concrete block wall, lifting his face to catch the weak rays of the afternoon sunshine. "Nope. Never." "Are you lying?" Zoe was sitting next to him. They were sitting on the deck that overlooked the waterfall again. Killing time. They'd spent the morning wandering around the CRO fort, searching for closed-off areas and locked doors that they might've missed. But they'd had to stop, afraid of being too conspicuous. They'd then spent about an hour collecting as much information as they could about the CRO work teams—finding out what Zoe would have to do to be assigned to the team that cleaned Christopher Vincent's private rooms, including his office. From what Jake could gather, the first thing she had to do was to be a part of the CRO for at least five years. That meant they had to find another way in, another way 66 to get the information they needed. And that way was going to be through Jake pledging his loyalty to the CRO and Christopher Vincent. And that brought them here, to the roof of the factory, where they sat out of range of the cameras, their voices covered by the rush of the water. Killing time until their "honeymoon" officially ended. Zoe had her hair pulled into a ponytail, and without any makeup on, she looked about eighteen years old. "You are lying," she said. "Aren't you?" Jake opened his eyes and looked at her. "Yep." "You probably never talk about Vietnam, right?" She had taken off her boots and socks and sat with her bare feet stretched out in front of her, legs crossed at the ankles. She had small, elegant feet—quite possibly the nicest feet he'd ever seen. He went back to looking at the sky. It was much safer. "A lot of the guys who were over there don't want to talk about it," he told her. "And people who weren't there, well... It's not something that's easy to explain. But you know what that's like. You probably never talk about the assignments you've been on." "Most of my assignments have been top-secret." "Mine, too. But I meant the ones that weren't." Zoe sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Peter could be pretty flip and, well, sarcastic. He was so jaded and cynical, I just never told him anything that really mattered." She glanced at him. "The bad stuff or the good stuff." "I never wanted Daisy to get upset," Jake said. "I did talk to her about some of the really bad voodoo that went down in Nam. We both needed me to talk about that, just to get past it, you know? But it would really upset her when I talked about the reasons I'd kept going back—the reasons I stayed in the Navy. She didn't understand why I needed it. She didn't understand what I got out of it." "That sense that you're actually doing something, you're actually taking action, instead of just being a bystander." Zoe nodded. "There's so much hand-wringing that goes on in the world while nobody does a damn thing. I joined the Agency because I wanted to do more than compile frightening statistics about chemical and biological weapons. I wanted to track the suckers down and destroy them." "And then there's the rush, too," Jake said. "She really didn't understand the adrenaline rush." "I'm not sure I understand it myself." Zoe sat up, putting her socks and boots on as the late afternoon got colder. She pulled her legs underneath her to sit tailor style. "It's weird, isn't it? I was once... some where I shouldn't have been, in a country that would not have welcomed me with open arms under any circumstances. I was checking out reports that a pharmaceutical factory was cooking up anthrax. I went into the factory covertly, found what I needed to prove those reports were accurate and came back out— but not quite as covertly, after I nearly knocked over a security guard." She laughed, her eyes shining as she remembered. "It was insane. I was being chased by about twenty soldiers across the rooftops of the city in this amazing thunderstorm. Wind, lightning, hail—it should have been terrifying, but it wasn't. It was so exhilarating. So amazing. I can't explain it. I couldn't explain it then, either." "You don't have to," Jake said, sitting up, too. "I know exactly what you mean. It's like, you're not just alive, you're beyond alive. It's..." "Incredible," she finished for him, laughing. "It seems crazy. You look at a situation and there are all these risks, and you think, I should be running away from this as fast and as far as I can. You think, This time this could kill me." "But then you think, But I bet I know how to beat this..." "Yeah." She smiled. "I know how to win."

"So you do," Jake said. "You win, against all the odds, and it's so damn great." "It's beyond great," she said. She was sitting there, completely lit up, her eyes sparkling as she smiled at him. Jake knew he was grinning at her, but he couldn't stop. "You must've been one of those kids who tried to parachute off the roof with a bedsheet." "I had four brothers," she told him. "I had to learn to fight just so they'd let me tag along. And I had to prove— almost daily—that I was tough enough and daring enough to get inside the hallowed walls of their clubhouse. So, yeah, I did my share of roof walking. It drove my father nuts." She laughed. "I think I still drive my father nuts." Her father had been in Nam. He was one of Jake's peers. A man whose life he'd helped save. A man who would definitely disapprove of the kind of thoughts Jake had been regularly having about his daughter. Jake had woken up this morning with Zoe in his arms, and for about four very long seconds, his brain had played one hell of a trick on him. The extremely erotic dream he'd had about making love to her just moments before was still shockingly vivid in his mind, and he'd temporarily confused fantasy with reality, confused that dream with real memories. For a few endless seconds, he'd believed he truly had kissed her last night, her body arching eagerly up to meet his as he'd driven himself deeply inside of her. But then reality intervened and he'd remembered what had really happened. Nothing. Nothing had happened. Yet the thought of actually making love to Zoe had taken his breath away. Yesterday, he'd told her that their relationship was going nowhere. He'd started to tell her that he couldn't imagine making love to any woman besides Daisy. He'd started to tell her he didn't see himself with anyone else—he just couldn't picture it. But he hadn't been able to finish his sentence, because it wasn't the truth. Not only could he imagine making love to Zoe, but he could see it in his mind's eye in shockingly intimate detail. "What made you decide to join the Navy?" she asked, pulling him back here, to the roof, where they both were fully dressed. Her jacket was open and she was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt tucked neatly into equally snug-fitting blue jeans. She seemed comfortable in her clothes, though, comfortable in her body. And why shouldn't she? For most of his life, Jake had had the kind of good looks that most people made a big fuss over. But when he gazed into a mirror, he'd only seen himself. No big deal. In the same way, Zoe had lived with herself all her life. She'd seen herself naked, washed that body every day in the shower, brushed her hair while looking into those liquid brown eyes in the mirror. Like him, she was probably well aware that her package was wrapped in ultra-high quality paper, but—also like him—she had plenty of other, more important things to think about. She was looking at him, waiting for him to answer her question about the Navy. Why had he joined the SEALs? "My father was a UDT man in the Second World War," he told her. "He was part of the underwater demolition teams, the precursors to the SEALs." "Was he career Navy, too?" Jake had to laugh at that. "No. He was about as non-regular Navy as anyone I've ever met. He was a diver before the war, spent most of his time doing salvage ops in the Gulf of Mexico, living on a boat down in Key West, pretty much being a beach bum. He was tapped to join the teams after the disaster at Tarawa, when the Navy really started developing underwater navigation. He served in the Pacific until V-J day, and then he hunted down my mother in New York. He'd met her when she was a nurse in Hawaii. He went all the way to Peekskill and grabbed her out of the arms of her extremely boring fiance, literally hours before the wedding, and pretty much immediately got her pregnant with me." He laughed again, "Frank, my father, was something of an underachiever, but when he finally decided to take action, he was extremely thorough." "So you grew up in Peekskill, New York?" Jake looked at her. "You planning to write up an article on me for Navy Life magazine?" She laughed. Damn, she was pretty when she laughed. "Am I being too nosy?" "Do I get to grill you after you're done with me?" She smiled into his eyes. "You've read my Agency profile—probably the Top Secret-eyes-only version. So you know pretty much all there is to know about me." "And you're telling me you didn't manage to get hold of my profile from the Agency?" he asked.

"Your Agency profile contains your full name, your date of birth and only a very brief sketch of your naval career, my mysterious friend. Most of what I know about you is from Scott Jennings's book. And he doesn't say anything at all about your childhood. I'm just..." She shrugged expansively. "Curious." She was curious. But was it a professional or personal curiosity? Jake wasn't sure which alarmed him more. He was silent so long, Zoe began to backpedal. "We don't have to talk about this," she said. "We don't have to talk at all. I just... I wanted..." "We lived in New York until I was about three," Jake told her quietly. "I don't really remember it, but apparently we were poor but happy." "Jake, you really don't have to—" "I had an extremely unconventional—but incredibly happy—childhood," he said. "You want to hear about it or not?" "Yes," she said. "I want to hear about it. Please." "This is completely off the record," he said. "We're talking as Jake and Zoe. Not Admiral Robinson and Secret Agent Lange. Is that understood?" "As Jake and Zoe," she said. "As friends. That's understood." Friends. They were friends. That was why he felt so warm inside whenever she smiled at him. That was why he felt good just sitting here, next to her. It was why he could hold her in his arms all night long and wake up having slept better than he had in months. Years, even. "Good," he said, letting himself get lost for a moment in her eyes. Friends. Yeah, they were friends. "Are you waiting for a drumroll before you start?" she asked, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Do you have a problem with me taking my time?" he countered. Zoe smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. It's hard to break the habit of always being in a hurry. I'm not the most patient person in the world." She took a deep breath, letting it slowly out. "Please," she said. "Whenever you're ready." Jake laughed. "I love it when impatient people think they can fool everyone and pretend that they're in control. Meanwhile, they're wound tighter than a yo-yo and ready to go off in twenty different directions from tension." "I'm more than willing to discuss the causes of my tension—and potential ways to reduce a little of my stress. But something tells me you might want to stick to a safer topic right now." Jake cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said. "Okay. Let's see. Where was I? Peekskill. Right. I was about three, and Helen and Frank—my parents— both had jobs teaching at a private school, that is, until my great-uncle Arthur died." Jake could think of three or four really powerfully excellent ways to relieve a little of his own stress, and he desperately tried to push them far, far from his mind. Friends. "Artie had just a little less money than God, and he left it all to Frank. Frank being Frank, both he and Helen handed in their resignations on the spot. Helen being Helen, they stayed until the end of the school year. But in May, we all packed our things, put our furniture in storage and spent the next fifteen years traveling. We went all over the world—London, Paris, Africa, Australia, Hong Kong, Peru. If we found a city we liked, we stayed for a few weeks. But if it had a beach, we stayed much longer. We spent about two years in the Greek Islands. Another two in South east Asia, not too far from Vietnam. It wasn't always safe, the places we went, but it was always exciting. Frank taught me to dive and Helen homeschooled me. Instead of being poor and happy, we were rich and happy—not that you could tell we were loaded from looking at us." Frank had been easygoing, almost to a fault, and Helen' had been intensely driven, determined to completely finish every last little project she started. Jake had inherited her drive but had learned to disguise it with his father's laid-back attitude. He'd learned that in a command position, his men trusted him implicitly because of this—because of his relaxed air, his ability to exude the fact that everything was—or would be—okay. "So you joined the SEAL units because you wanted to keep traveling?" Zoe asked. "I joined for a lot of reasons. One of them was because I had friends in Vietnam. I spoke the language, I...felt like I could make a difference, maybe help end the conflict." He smiled. "And of course, there's that age-old reason kids join the SEAL units—I had a fascination with explosives. I liked to blow stuff up. You know, SEALs can make a bomb from just about anything. Let me loose in a kitchen, and I can make a powerful explosive from the junk I can find under the sink." He grinned. "And I can have fun while I'm doing it." Zoe laughed. "That's interesting," she said, "because in my line of work, I tend to try to keep things from blowing up." "Maybe that's why we work well as a team," Jake said, "It's that yin and yang thing."

"Ying and yang. Female and male." He shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have made the comparison. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn't go there again. Her last remark about stress had been about all he could take. "I'm not used to working in a team," Zoe told him, neatly ignoring his potentially sexually loaded comment. "I'm used to going in someplace, completely on my own, and getting the job done without having to ask permission or wait for orders." "Well, for someone who's not used to it, you're doing a damn fine job working on my team." She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. "Does this mean you forgive me for trying to force your hand the other night?" The night he'd gone to Mel's and had been told she was out sick. The night he showed up at her trailer to find her bags already packed, Zoe ready to go to the CRO compound one way or another. With Jake. Or with Christopher Vincent. The thought still made his stomach hurt. "Zoe, I—" She held up one hand. "No, don't answer that. I know I was way out of line, and that's not something that can be fixed by only an apology." Jake had to smile. "It would help at least a little if you . actually did apologize." "Oops." Zoe's answering smile faded as she gazed into his eyes. "I am sorry, Jake." "But not sorry enough not to do it again if you had to." Her eyes were completely subdued, level and sober as she looked at him. "Sitting out here like this, it's easy to forget why we're in the CRO fort. But if we don't find that TripX soon..." "I have an appointment with Christopher Vincent on Tuesday morning," Jake told her. "And if I can't convince him to appoint me as one of his lieutenants and let me in on the birthday party plans, I'll take a trip into town. On my way out of the gates, I'll give the rest of the team a signal. Cowboy and Lucky will go into Mel's while I'm there, and they'll 'recognize' me as former Admiral Robinson—wanted by FInCOM. I'll make it back to the compound, but within an hour, the place will be surrounded. We'll be in siege mode, but /'// be the catalyst, not the Trip X. The CRO still won't know the Finks know about the nerve gas— they'll think this is only about catching me. It'll buy us more time, because no one—and nothing—will leave the fort until the situation's resolved." Zoe nodded. "And you don't think being surrounded by FInCOM agents might make Chris decide to try out the Trip X?" "I'm willing to bet he won't. Of course that's something we'll have to monitor carefully from inside. And as the FInCOM target, I'd hope I'd be privy to any plans Christopher has to resolve the issue." Jake paused. "Again, this is the backup plan. First we wait and I go in and try to talk to Christopher." "But not until Tuesday." Zoe sighed. "I feel as if this waiting is all my fault." "It could be worse," Jake pointed out. "There could be a four-week honeymoon period instead of four days." "I'm not very good at waiting," she admitted. "Sometimes even four minutes seems way too long." "Back in Nam," he told her, "my team once got pinned down by these VC builders who came in and— It was the weirdest thing, Zoe. We were out in the middle of nowhere, and they started digging pits and building wooden flooring for tents literally feet from where we were hiding in the brush. We were pinned there until nightfall, and then, instead of getting the hell out of there and going back to civilization, we hung out for nearly four days. It drove the guys mad—we were just sitting there—but I had this hunch, and sure enough. The VC were building a POW camp. The tents were for their officers and guards. The pits were for the prisoners, mostly Americans. We just sat tight and watched as they brought in about seventy-five of our soilders" "My SEALs started to hand signal me." Jake moved his hands, making the signals that enabled a SEAL team to communicate without speaking. "Now? Attack now? And I just kept signaling wait. Wait. We were way outnumbered. There were too many VC, and there was no way we could've taken them all out without killing some of the POWs in the crossfire. Besides, I had another hunch." Zoe nodded. "God bless those hunches, huh?" It was the funniest thing. He was telling this story—one of his stories about a triumph in a war that had far too few triumphs, and he knew that Zoe understood everything he was saying. He knew she understood everything he'd felt. He'd helped to kill dozens of enemy soldiers that day, but in doing so, he'd saved over seventy Americans who otherwise would never have come out of that jungle alive. It was crazy. In a way, this twenty-nine-year-old child understood him completely. He looked into her eyes, and he knew that she knew his anguish and his exhilaration. Even though she'd never been in quite that same situation, she knew. They were so alike in so many ways. And because of that, Jake had an intimacy with Zoe that he'd never had before, not with any other woman. Not even Daisy.

Especially not Daisy. Daisy had loved him, Jake knew that without a doubt. And he'd loved her, too, with all his heart. But despite that, there were parts of himself he'd purposely kept hidden from her. There were parts of his life that he'd simply never shared. "So we sat there," he told Zoe, "and we watched while they ordered the POWs into those pits and into the cages they'd made—these little, cramped god-awful..." He exhaled his revulsion. "One of the prisoners, a Brit, he spoke in Vietnamese about prisoners' rights—and they hung him from his feet and tortured him to death." He closed his eyes, remembering, hating the powerless feeling of knowing there was nothing he could do. He knew now as well, as he'd known then that if he'd let his men attack, dozens of the other prisoners would be mowed down by the VC's automatic weapons. With those kinds of odds, in a direct firefight, the SEALs wouldn't necessarily win. And if they didn't win, they'd be dead—or worse. They'd be locked in those cages, too, thrown in those pits. Zoe took his hand, linking their fingers together, squeezing gently. "How many did you save?" she asked. "Seventy-four?" He nodded, loving the sensation of their clasped hands far, far too much, hoping she'd pull her hand away, praying that she wouldn't. "And still it's the one you couldn't save that you dream about, right?" He forced a smile. "Funny you should know that." "Tell me about the seventy-four," she said, still holding his hand. Jake knew he should let go of her hand, maybe even move six inches or so away from her. Somehow they were now sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch, for their thighs to connect. How had that happened? "How did you get them out?" she asked. Jake drew in a deep breath. "Well, after they...did what they did to the Brit, they just left him hanging there. All the other prisoners went into the cages and pits without a fight, just completely beaten down both physically and psychologically." His voice shook. He couldn't help it, even now, all these years later. "God, Zoe, they were naked and starving—some of them skin and bones, some of them reduced to little more than animals and..." He didn't know how it happened, but Zoe wasn't just holding his hand anymore. She was in his arms, holding him as tightly as he was holding her. Oh, dear God. He buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair, knowing for certain that if she kissed him, he'd be lost. He had to keep talking, keep his mouth moving. "After they were locked up, the camp commander sent a half a dozen men out to stand guard." His voice was raspy, but he couldn't stop to clear his throat. As it was, his lips were brushing the side of her face. "They'd built the camp in this sheltered area on the side of a mountain, and there was only one way in and out. So with the guards posted and the prisoners locked up tight—" "Everyone else relaxed." She lifted her head to look into his eyes. Her mouth was inches from his. Soft. Sweet. Paradise. "We struck covertly after dark," he told her. "And we dispatched the VC soldiers silently, tent by tent." She knew what that meant. Dispatched silently. She knew the price he'd paid for those seventy-four lives—he could see her complete awareness in her eyes. "The six men standing guard went down just as easily. They never expected to be attacked from within their camp. We armed those POWs with the VC's weapons and walked down that mountain and out of that jungle." Zoe pulled away from him slightly to narrow her eyes-at him. "Why do I know it couldn't have been that easy?" "We had a few firefights on the way back to our side of the line. But compared to some ops, it was very easy." "I would've loved to see your captain's face when you came walking in with seventy-four POWs and MIAs." He couldn't make himself let go of her. It felt too good holding her this way. She was so warm and soft against him. "I didn't stick around to see anyone's face," Jake said. "We just dropped 'em and went back out there." "Because you couldn't bear the fact that you'd only saved seventy-four instead of seventy-five?" "We watched them cut him, Zoe. We watched the—" He shook his head, swearing softly. He pulled back and would have let her go, but she wouldn't release him. And he was glad of that. "Look, it wasn't something that I'm ever going to forget. But I swear, I played that scenario over and over and over in my mind—I still sometimes do.

And there was no feasible way we could have saved him. I made a choice to save the seventy-four." He laughed in disgust. "And in order to do that, I had to turn my back on that one very brave man." "But that's the way life works," Zoe told him. Her fingers combed through his hair at the nape of his neck, both soothing and nerve-jangling. "Every time you face someone, you turn your back on someone else. Your team saved my father's life, Jake. His platoon was nearly wiped out, and he and about a dozen other Marines were left for dead, You and your SEALs were the only ones brave enough to try to bring them out. You used explosives and with only seven men, you made the Vietcong believe we'd launched a counteroffensive. It provided enough of a diversion to get a chopper in there and get those men out." "You know, I remember that," Jake said. "That was one of the long shots that actually paid off. Your dad was one of those men, huh?" "Don't you realize, when you chose to go in after my father's platoon, you turned your back on dozens of other Marines who also needed rescuing that day?" Jake didn't know what to say. "I guess I never thought of it that way." "It's all a crapshoot," she told him seriously, gazing at him with those impossibly beautiful brown eyes. "Every decision, every choice. You go with your gut, and you've I got to trust yourself. But after it's all said and done, you've got to celebrate life. Seventy-four men went home to their wives and mothers because of you. Seventy-four lives that you directly touched, and hundreds and hundreds that you indirectly touched. Mothers who didn't spend twenty years flying an MIA flag on their porch. Wives who didn't have to raise their children alone. Children who didn't have to grow up without a father—or children like me who would never even have been born." "I know all that. I just wish..." He sighed. "It just never seemed to be enough. I always found myself wanting to save just one more man. And then just one more, and one more. But the truth is, I could've been bringing five hundred men out of that jungle each day, and it still wouldn't have been enough." "You told me you weren't that superhero from Scott Jennings's book, that you were just a man," Zoe said. "And if that's the case, you should try to keep your personal expectations down to the mere mortal level." She took a deep breath. "And as long as I'm criticizing, I've got to be honest and wonder why a man who's as alive as you would want to spend all his time keeping company with the dead." She wasn't just talking about Vietnam anymore. She was talking about Daisy. "Grieve and let her go, Jake," she whispered. How was it possible that he could be thinking about Daisy while gazing into Zoe's face and wanting desperately to kiss her? Grieve and let her go.... "We should go back," Jake whispered. "It's getting dark. You must be cold." "I'm not cold," she told him, her gaze dropping to his mouth before she looked into his eyes. "Are you?" He couldn't stand it anymore. "I really want to kiss you," he whispered. "It's killing me to sit here, holding you like this, and not kiss you." "Then kiss me," she said fiercely. "You're not the one who died, dammit!" Jake didn't move. He didn't have to move, because she kissed him. What he should do and what he wanted fought the shortest battle in the history of the world, and what he wanted won. He kissed her almost roughly, completely on fire, sweeping his tongue possessively into her mouth, pulling her on top of him so that she was straddling his legs. The heat between her thighs pressed against him, her breasts soft against his chest as he lost himself in the hungry sweetness of her mouth. He heard himself groan as he touched the smoothness of her back, as his hands slipped beneath the edge of her shirt. He might've gone along with it. Might've? He knew damn well he would have. If Zoe had tugged at his clothes, if she'd reached for the buckle on his belt, he wouldn't've been able to fight both her and himself any longer. He would've made love to her, right there on the roof. But she pulled back, pushing herself off his lap, nearly throwing herself a solid five feet away from him, breathing hard, and swearing softly under her breath. "I'm sorry." She dropped her head onto arms that were tightly hugging her folded knees, unable to look at him. Her voice was muffled. "I promised you I'd back away, not attack you." "Hey, it's not like we both didn't—" "No?" she said, looking at him, her eyes a gleaming flash in the rapidly falling darkness. "Then what are you doing sitting over there? Why didn't you follow me over here?" She answered her own question. "Because just letting it happen is a whole lot different from making it happen." He couldn't deny it. "You know I want you," she said softly. "But I want you to want me, too, Jake. I don't want to make love to you thinking that this is only happening

because of some temporary insanity on your part, or some chink in the armor of your code of ethics. I don't want to have to feel guilty for seducing you, or overwhelming you, or tempting you, or anything. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you want to make love to me. I want to meet you as an equal. I respect myself too much to accept anything less." Zoe pulled herself to her feet, brushing off the seat of her pants. "So," she said. "Unless you want to come over here and take my clothes off, I think I'll head back inside." Jake didn't move. "Zoe, I'm—" "Sorry," she finished for him. "Don't be. I know I'm asking for too much." She started for the stairs leading down off the roof. "Give me a few seconds before you follow. It can't hurt to give Chris the impression that we're still fighting." A few seconds. Jake needed more than a few seconds to regain his equilibrium. He stared at the sky and watched the first few stars of the evening begin to shine. The air had grown crisper, colder, and his breath hung in front of him in a cloud. Indisputable proof that, as Zoe had pointed out, he was not the one who'd died.

Chapter 14 Zoe hummed to herself as she got ready for bed. She hoped if she sounded calm and relaxed, she'd look calm and relaxed, as well—instead of completely, teeth-jarringly, heart-janglingly nervous. Jake had watched her all through dinner. She'd sat at the table with the other women, and he'd sat next to Christopher Vincent. And every time she'd looked up, Jake was gazing at her. She'd laid everything she was feeling out on the table this evening on the old recreation deck. Well, nearly everything. She hadn't revealed this feeling of intense warmth she got every time the man smiled at her. She hadn't revealed the feeling of pulse-pounding, dizzying free fall she got from the desire she sometimes saw in his eyes. She had told him how much she wanted him. And Jake had turned her down. Again. Yes, he was a man, and yes, he was attracted to her, but he didn't want her. Not really. Not desperately. Not the way she wanted him. Normally, she didn't require being hit over the head with a hammer to receive a rejection. She didn't know why with Jake she insisted upon embarrassing herself again and again. She put on her nightgown, wishing desperately that she'd brought something a little less revealing, wishing she'd brought her bathrobe. She'd purposely left it in the trailer, thinking it didn't quite seem like something Zoe the waitress would own. It was a little too demure, a little too classy for the part she was playing right now. Jake sat on the edge of the bed, untying his boots, the muscles in his powerful arms and shoulders flexing beneath the cotton of his T-shirt and standing out in sharp relief in the low-watt light. He'd told her no in every possible way. He wasn't ready for a physical relationship. He'd made that clear. He'd told her he wanted to be friends. And up on the deck, they'd been doing really fine as far as friendship went—or at least they had been before she'd gotten all stupid and started holding his hand. She knew that was a mistake right from the moment her fingers had touched his, but she'd tried to convince herself that friends sometimes held friends' hands. Same thing when she suddenly found herself holding him in her arms. But then she'd lost it. And she'd kissed him. Again. And then, stupider and stupider, she'd had the gall to feel hurt when he'd let her know—again—that he truly wasn't interested in their relationship going in that direction. Oh, if she hadn't stopped them, he might've let his good intentions slip. He might've let himself be carried over the line, bulldozed by the intensity of her passion. She watched Jake's reflection as he pulled his T-shirt over his head and unfastened his jeans. He glanced over, and Zoe quickly looked away, but not before he'd met her

eyes in the mirror. Great. Now he'd caught her watching him undress. But instead of turning away, he moved toward her, toward the mirror. "If this bothers you, I can wear a shirt to bed." It took Zoe a few long seconds to realize that he was talking about the latticework of scars on his chest. "No," she said. Was he nuts? Was that really why he thought she'd been staring at him? It would have been hysterically funny if her sense of humor hadn't been stretched so thin. "Really, Jake, that doesn't bother me at all." He was looking critically at himself in the mirror. "Funny, isn't it, that I survived Vietnam virtually unscathed, only to have this happen when I was supposedly safe at home?" "I look at those scars," Zoe said softly, "and I can't believe you survived. It was some kind of assassination attempt, right?" The killers had come into his own home, past his security guards. They'd gained entry by pretending to be part of a team of Navy SEALs sent to protect the admiral from death threats he'd been receiving. After he'd been shot, the Navy had taken him to a hospital safe house and had publicly released news of his death, both to protect Jake and to catch the man who'd sent those killers. Zoe had been in Kuwait when she'd heard the news on CNN, and she'd sat on the balcony of her hotel for hours that night, just looking at the lights of the city, deeply mourning the loss of a man she'd never met. Jake met her eyes in the mirror. "It happened two years ago, Christmas. It took me a long time to get back to speed, physically?' He turned and

tossed his shirt into the laundry pile in the corner of the room, then took his wallet and keys and change from his jeans pockets, lining them neatly up on the dresser as he spoke. "You know, in a way getting shot wasn't so bad. I mean, with a physical injury, recovery goes in stages. It's all laid out for you. The doctors have done it before, there's no real mystery to the process. "First the bullets are removed, and then the doctor stitches you up. Then the wound is bandaged and drained, and you lie in a hospital bed, and you focus on surviving, one day at a time—one hour at a time if you have to. Then the bandages get changed, and the injury is cleaned, and you fight infection and sleep a lot so your body can heal. Then finally after you're out of the ICU, you stop merely surviving and start rebuilding your strength, still through bed rest. Then, even though it hurts like hell, you get mobile. You get out of bed and take first one step, and then two until you can make it over to the bathroom and back without falling down. Then there's physical therapy, more restrengthening. "Sure, no two injuries are ever exactly alike," Jake continued, "and I had individual challenges each step of the way, but even getting around those challenges was pretty clear-cut. If I do A, then I'll improve. If I do B, I'll improve that much faster. If I do C, I'll hurt myself, so don't do C." Zoe understood. He was talking about far more than his physical trauma. He was trying to explain himself, explain what he was feeling and why exactly he had turned her down again this afternoon. "Emotional recovery isn't as easy." All his coins were in perfect little stacks on the dresser, and he knocked them over with a sweep of his fingers and went to sit on the bed. He glanced at her, one hand on the back of his neck, as if it ached. "You're not dealing with muscles and bones. You're dealing with something far more fragile and far less identifiable. Something that doesn't have as clearly a defined list of steps to do, you know, to go about fixing the problem. See, like, if you do A, you might improve, but if / do A, I might end up in a worse place than where I started. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Zoe nodded, holding his gaze. He was talking about los ing Daisy, about his dealing with his loss. "I do understand, and Jake, really, you don't have to—" "On the other hand," he said with a crooked smile, "since it's all trial and error in terms of what works and what doesn't, it seems crazy to just never try A or B or even C, out of fear it's going to hurt worse. Because what if it doesn't hurt? What if it helps?" What was he telling her? "I'm tired of being afraid, and I'm tired of feeling so damn alone." His voice shook slightly, and he stood up swiftly, using both hands to push his hair from his face as he laughed in disbelief. "Jeez, this is perfect. Can I make myself sound any more pathetic?" Zoe took a step toward him but stopped herself. Dammit, she wasn't going to do this again—offer comfort and then get horribly embarrassed and hurt when her deep-burning desire for this man overpowered her self-control. But this time, Jake reached for her. And as he drew her into his arms, she felt herself melt. Oh, God, she was the pathetic one. ' His hands were against her back, her shoulders, her neck, running through her hair, the sensation enough to make her cling to him mindlessly. Dear God, what would happen if he kissed her? He did, so sweetly, so gently, she had to close her eyes against the rush of tears that came. She knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help it—she opened herself to him, and he kissed her harder, possessing her mouth with absolutely no uncertainty, completely and unquestionably in command. This was all for the cameras. Zoe knew that their conversation must have been cryptic and confusing to anyone listening in, but this embrace was completely obvious. To anyone watching, anyone who didn't know better, it would look as if Jake wanted her. And as if she wanted him. They'd be half right. It was all she could do to stay on her feet, and she wasn't aware that he'd pulled her with him into the bathroom until he closed the door behind them. He broke their kiss to lift her up as he stepped into the bathtub. Zoe was slightly off balance, and he held her with one arm as he yanked the curtain closed and turned on the water with a rush. Jake still wore his jeans and she had on her black nightgown and they both were instantly soaked. The water was cold, it hadn't yet heated up, but maybe that was a good thing. God knows she was way too hot. She tried to pull back from Jake but then stopped, extremely self-conscious about the fact that her silk gown was glued to her body, extremely aware that she was still touching him and he was still touching her. But instead of letting her go, he pulled her close and kissed her again. It was a kiss that meant business, a kiss loaded with passion and need and a wildly burning hunger. It was a kiss no one but Zoe and Jake could possibly know about. She looked at him in surprise, unable to believe what he was telling her.

"I want to make love to you, Zoe," he said softly, touching her hair, her face. "But there are four billion reasons we shouldn't. The cameras.—" Her heart was pounding. He wanted. She was in his arms, her body pressed against the very solid length of his, her hands against the taut, slick muscles in his arms, his shoulders. It was finally okay to touch him. He wanted her to touch him. "No one can see or hear us in here." "Our age difference—" "I don't have a problem with that." He smiled slightly at her vehemence, his fingers still in her hair. "How about the fact that I'm your team leader—" "Technically, I'm here as a consultant for your team. You're not my boss. Pat Sullivan is. Believe me, I've al ready checked the rules. This isn't fraternizing. I'm a civilian." He exhaled a short burst of laughter. "Well, it's good to know the shore patrol isn't going to rush in to arrest us." "I can think of only one reason we shouldn't make love right this second," Zoe said, "and that's that all my condoms are in the other room, in my purse." Jake took a small square of foil from his back pocket and tossed it into the soap dish that was attached to the tile wall. "I've got that part covered," he told her. He smiled crookedly, sweetly uncertain. "Or at least I will, if this is still what you want." "It's what I want. Oh, God, it's what I want." Zoe pushed his wet hair from his face, her heart in her throat, completely aware of what he'd just told her by having that condom ready and in his pocket. He'd planned this. He'd come to terms with all of his reservations and he'd consciously made a choice. This wasn't accidental. It wasn't about reacting to high emotions and high passion. He wasn't being bulldozed. He truly wanted this to happen. Still she had to be sure. "About those other three million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand reasons we shouldn't—" "The hell with them. They don't hold up to the one very solid reason we should," Jake told her, kissing her hard but much too briefly on the mouth. His voice was husky, his eyes filled with heat. ' 'Dammit, / want to, and you want to, and life's too bloody short. We're both grown-ups and—" He kissed her again. Longer this time. Pulling her even closer and covering her breast with his hand. Touching, gently kneading, exploring the tautness of her nipple, his thumb rasping against the thin wet silk that covered her. The sensation was nearly unbearable, and she moaned aloud. Jake did, too. "God," he gasped pulling free from their kiss. "I've wanted to touch you like this since you walked into that meeting in the Pentagon." Zoe had to smile. She had him beat. She'd clocked many, many fantasy miles with Jake Robinson—starting all the way back when she was a young teenager. He'd been her hero nearly half her life as she'd thrilled to stories of his bravery, his ability to command and his loyalty to those men who followed him. But it was his soul, his very humanness—his confessed imperfections—that moved her in ways she'd never dreamed she could be moved. Time seemed to slow as he looked at her, as he touched her, still gently, through the black silk of her gown. The fire in his eyes was incredible as he caught one finger in the slender strap and tugged it down her arm. The clinging triangle of fabric peeled away from her breast infinitesi-mally slowly, and Zoe felt her desire-tautened nipples tighten under the heat of his gaze. Jake sighed his approval, smiling into her eyes before he lowered his head and kissed her breast. His lips and tongue were so soft against her, she felt herself sway. The shower was drumming down on them both, steam swirling around them as Zoe helped Jake peel off her gown. He was no longer taking his time, and as he looked at her, standing naked before him, she felt nearly burned by the desire in his eyes. And then his hands were everywhere, his mouth—hungry now—everywhere else. Dizzy with need, she reached for the waistband of his jeans, and he helped her, pushing down the zipper, tugging at his pants. But the wet denim was plastered to him, and it stuck to his skin. Jake slipped on the slick surface of the tub and caught himself, laughing as he desperately tried to rid himself of his jeans. Zoe tried to help, but she suspected she was making the entire process even more difficult. She was giddy with laughter, too, as they wrestled with this final barrier that lay between them. The irony was in credible. Jake had finally given in, yet he couldn't have made it more difficult for them to make love if he'd tried. He sat on the edge of the tub and, with Zoe pulling and Jake pushing, they peeled his jeans off, one leg at a time. - Zoe pushed her wet hair from her face as she knelt on one knee in the tub, laughing at him. She was even more beautiful than Jake had imagined, and God knows he'd spent quite a bit of time imagining. He wanted nothing more than to look at her, and as he did just that, her laughter faded, leaving behind only heat. The desire in Zoe's eyes was incredible, and Jake knew that he was looking right back at her in exactly the same way. She moved toward him, slowly, still on her hands and knees.

His mouth was dry. He was sitting there, soaking wet, water drumming down upon him, yet his mouth had gone bone dry. She reached for him, and he lunged for her, pulling her with him, tightly against him as he stood up. This was the right thing. Despite all his reservations, holding her like this, being with her like this felt so good, so right. His fears fell away, too. Silly fears like, that after three years, he might've forgotten how to do this, that after three years, he'd embarrass himself completely. More intensely complicated fears, like he wouldn't be able to go through with this, wouldn't be able to keep from thinking about But he could only think about Zoe. Zoe, who smiled into his eyes and made him feel hope again. Zoe, who held his hand and understood why he'd given his entire life to the Navy, to the SEALs, because she'd been, perhaps not precisely there, but to very similar places. Zoe, naked in his arms, soft and wet and smooth. It was beyond heaven. He ran his hands across her body, unable to get enough of touching her, her skin like silk beneath his fingers. He groaned aloud as he cupped her rear end, pulling her closer to him, feeling her so soft against his hardness, dying—just a little—as she reached between them and closed her fingers around him. He kissed her, and she gasped into his mouth as he touched her just as intimately. She was so warm, so ready, and she opened herself to him, sliding her leg up and around his. Jake reached for the condom in the soap dish, and his hand closed around Zoe's fingers. He had to laugh. Zoe was many things, but reserved wasn't one of them. Beads of water sparkled on her eyelashes as she smiled at him and gave him the wrapped condom. She slid down his body, kissing her way down his chest and his stomach and... Jake nearly crushed the little package in his hand. God, he wanted a bed. He wanted to take Zoe into the other room and love her all night long. He wanted to take his time. He wanted her to lie back for him just to look at, her beautiful hair spread out on the pillows. He wanted to spend a solid hour just kissing her breasts. He wanted to explore every inch of her body with his mouth and the very tips of his fingers. And he wanted her to look into his eyes as he filled her completely. He laughed aloud. The things she was doing to him were taking him dangerously close to the edge. But this wasn't really what he wanted. He pulled her up, into his arms, and kissed her hard as he fumbled with the foil wrapper. He stepped slightly out of the stream of the shower and covered himself. Zoe slipped behind him, and he could feel her breasts against his back, her stomach against his rear end as she rubbed herself against him. She wrapped her arms around him, her hands cool against the slickness of his chest and stomach. And lower. "Am I helping?" she asked. Jake laughed. "Oh, yeah." "You know, you are," Zoe breathed into his ear, "without a doubt, the sexiest man I've ever met." Jake turned toward her, that half-embarrassed, half-sheepish look in his gorgeous blue eyes, and she had to laugh. "You honestly don't think of yourself that way, do you?" she asked him. "What way?" He pulled her hips against him as he lowered his head to touch the tip of her breast lightly with his tongue. Zoe closed her eyes, pushing herself against him, further into his mouth. He drew her in, harder, and then even harder, and she moaned her approval. "As the complete hottie that you are," she told him when she finally could speak. He lifted his head and laughed at her. "Wow, and all this time, I thought I was an admiral in the U.S. Navy." "Admiral Hottie." Zoe laughed at the look he gave her. His hands had taken up where his mouth left off. There was no doubt about it. Zoe knew he liked her body, too. She sighed as he caught her nipple between his thumb and fingers. "I'm not even sure what that means," he said. "Hottie." He laughed. "Jeez." "Check yourself out in the mirror sometime." His eyes half closed as she pressed herself against him, as she started to move against him in a slow rhythm, and his hand tightened on her breast. "Is that all I am to you? A hottie?" His voice was still light, playful, but Zoe looked into his eyes and answered him honestly. "The fact that you're a hottie is just a bonus," she told him, touching him, unable to keep herself from touching him. "I want you inside me, Jake, because I think that when I get you there, I'll have a little taste of everything really good and right that I've been missing all my life." She forced a smile. "Whoa. That was too intense, huh? I'm—" "No," he said. "Don't apologize for being honest. I love

Suzanne JtmstknuMvj. l£/° the way you look, too, but we're also friends. Good friends. And that's what's making this so damn good already. Even though I'm still not inside you." He lowered his voice. 'Tm dying to be inside you." Zoe couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. She couldn't do more than let herself be kissed. Jake's kiss was proprietary. It was completely possessive, controlling and commanding, but for the first time in her life, Zoe truly didn't mind. He lifted her up, breaking their kiss so he could look into her face, into her eyes, as he slowly, slowly—screamingly slowly—entered her. He pushed her against the slick, wet tile wall, but there was nothing to hold on to, nothing to do but let him keep control. With her legs around his waist and her back against the slippery wall, her mobility was limited. But with Jake still holding her gaze, with all the pleasure he was feeling clearly written on his beautiful face, it was an incredible turn-on. And for the first time since Zoe could remember, she placed the complete control of her immediate future into another person's hands. Into Jake's very capable hands. He pushed himself a little bit further inside of her, smiling slightly as she moaned just a little too loudly. "Sh," he breathed, still holding her gaze as he took his sweet time. His next thrust was just as slow but twice as deep, and Zoe caught her lower lip between her teeth to keep from crying out again. Jake's smile widened. "That looks like something I should be doing." He leaned forward and gently tugged on her lip with his teeth. She moaned again—she couldn't help it. He laughed as he kissed her, filling her with his spirit as well as his body. The pleasure was so intense, Zoe couldn't do more than whisper his name. With the shower raining down on her sensitized skin, with his mouth doing things to her breasts that she'd never imagined possible, with the cold tile against her back and Jake, hot and heavy, moving so infuriatingly, wonderfully slowly inside of her... It was beyond perfect. She breathed his name again, and even though she didn't say it in so many words, he somehow knew she was close to the edge. "Come on, Zoe," he murmured, his lips on her ear, on her face, on her throat, her breasts. "You're gonna take me with you. I want to go right with you...." Zoe kissed him. As wave upon wave of pleasure exploded around her, she kissed Jake so she wouldn't cry out. He inhaled her in return, driving himself even harder, even more deeply inside of her. She felt him explode, felt him shake with his release, just as he'd promised. And still Jake kissed her. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, holding her there pinned against the shower wall, still buried deeply inside of her. His mouth was so sweet, his lips so gentle, Zoe should have been in complete and unquestionable heaven. But she couldn't stop thinking. Now what? Jake had done it. He'd made love to another woman for the first time since his wife had died. What was he thinking? What was he feeling? Was he kissing her because he was trying to avoid facing himself another few minutes longer? Was he overwhelmed with regret? Did he hate himself? Did he hate her? But then, "I wish I could kiss you all night," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "I wish we could make love again, tonight, in a bed, no covers, lights on...." Relief made her laugh. He sounded all right. That was a good sign, wasn't it? "As much as I'd like that, too, I think the fact that our entire SEAL team would be watching might be a little distracting." Jake laughed, too, as he gently lowered her to the tub floor, as he turned away and efficiently cleaned himself up. "We're almost out of hot water," he said. "Want a shot at it before it's completely gone?" "Thanks." What had once been an awkward switching of positions in the crowded tub was now an opportunity for full body contact. Jake kissed her, and as she quickly lathered herself with the soap, he helped. He helped her rinse, too, his hands skimming her body, his touch so deliciously possessive. Who would've ever thought that would turn her on so completely? He held her close, her back against his front, his arms wrapped around her, his hands caressing her breasts. "I can't seem to get enough of you," he said softly. "I think I might need two solid weeks of leave, a hotel with room service, a heavy-duty lock on the door, a king-size bed and you."

Zoe closed her eyes as he weighed her breasts in the palms of his hands, as he kissed her neck, as she felt his body start to grow harder, already, against her rear end. But then he caught her hand. Her fingers were waterlogged, the tips starting to wrinkle. "Uh-oh, we've been in here too long." The water was starting to run cold, and Zoe turned to look at Jake. "Are you ready to get out?" "No." But he reached past her to turn off the water. And then he stepped back from her, reaching outside the shower curtain for a towel. He opened it as he handed it to her, wrapping it around her shoulders. "Thanks." He started to step out of the shower, to get a towel and dry himself off in the bathroom—he didn't care who saw him naked—but Zoe caught his arm. "Really," she said quietly, looking into his eyes. "Thanks." He laughed slightly, shaking his head as he looked away from her, at his feet, before he leaned forward to kiss her. * 'Thank you" He stepped out of the shower, and Zoe realized he hadn't quite managed to look her completely in the eye. He'd had no problem holding her gaze while they were making love, but afterward... She realized that after, he'd done everything possible to keep from having to let her look deeply into his eyes. It was all an act. The sweet words, all of it. He wasn't okay with any of this—he was just pretending to be so as not to hurt her feelings. He was kissing her so he wouldn't really have to face the truth. Zoe shook herself. That was absurd. Jake was quite possibly the most honest man she'd ever met. Why would he start hiding the truth from her now? Unless maybe he was hiding that truth from himself, as well. But now that the water was off, there was no way she could confront him. The shower curtain opened slightly, and Jake leaned in. He held something out to her—one of his T-shirts. "I figured you wouldn't want to put that nightgown back on." It was impossibly sweet and completely considerate, but Jake definitely didn't hold her gaze. He quickly backed away, letting the shower curtain drop. "Thanks," Zoe whispered. Okay, so he wasn't completely happy about this. She'd expected that, hadn't she? She had absolutely no right to feel upset, no cause for this sudden ridiculous rush of tears that pressed against her eyelids and threatened to escape. What did she expect? That Jake would make love to her once and fall instantly in love with her? That he'd forget all about his life with Daisy? Zoe scrubbed her face with her towel, fiercely willing her tears away. But as she slipped Jake's T-shirt over her head, as she breathed in his familiar clean, warm scent, the tears returned. And she knew with a clarity that was unquestionable that although Jake hadn't fallen head over heels for her, she was completely, indisputably, impossibly in love with him.

Chapter 15 With her heart broke into a thousand pieces as she stood in the doorway that led to the recreation deck, watching Jake as he sat alone in the cold morning air. His back was against the concrete wall, his knees up and his head down on his folded arms. It was entirely possible that he was crying. Zoe had woken up this morning alone in their bed. It had been barely oh-six-hundred, and Jake was already gone. She'd washed quickly, shutting her mind to the memories of all that she and Jake had done in that very shower just hours earlier. But after she'd dressed, Jake still hadn't returned. She didn't need to be a rocket scientist to know where he'd gone. And even though she wasn't supposed to walk the halls of the former Frosty Cakes factory alone, she slipped out of their room and headed for the recreation deck. "So are you just going to stand there, or are you going to come out here and talk to me?" Jake lifted his head to look at her. How had he known she was here? She hadn't made a single sound as she'd approached. And she was positive that when her heart had broken, it had broken silently. She moved toward him slowly, warily, certain that she didn't want to see evidence of tears on his face. But his eyes were dry, and he managed to smile. Zoe sat next to him, careful not to sit too close. "Are you all right?" This morning he could meet her gaze. His eyes looked tired. "I expected to feel really bad." He didn't try to pretend her question applied to anything else. "I thought I'd feel, you know, as if I'd cheated on Daisy." He shook his head. "But I don't. I feel..." He reached down and took her hand, lacing her fingers with his, squeezing her hand. Zoe just waited, praying he'd tell her how he felt. Praying he'd say the words she was dying to hear. It was ridiculous, really. In just a matter of seconds, she'd gone from brokenhearted to wildly hopeful. Holy Mike, if love could make a levelheaded person experience emotional shifts more often associated with mental illnesses, she wasn't sure she wanted to be in love. Unfortunately, it wasn't something she could shut off. She'd tried that this morning, too. It wasn't going to happen. "I feel alive," Jake told her. "For the first time in years, I...honestly feel alive. It's..." He squinted at the overcast sky before glancing at her and smiling crookedly. "It's actually a little scary." Alive. Alive was good. Wasn't it? "You're amazing, you know," Jake told her. He put his arm around her, pulling her close. "Last night was... amazing." He kissed her, and Zoe's hope grew about a mile and a half high, like that magic bean stalk in that fairy tale. "You're exactly what I needed." He kissed her again, longer this time, his fingers lightly tracing her collarbone at the open neckline of her shirt. ' 'Exactly." Zoe closed her eyes, dizzy from everything she was feeling. Desire—always desire, whenever Jake was concerned. He was, and would always be, the most desirable man in the world to her. Need, hope, she felt that, too, and pleasure—such sweet pleasure from his kisses and his touch. Love. Oh, God, as terrifying as it was, she wanted him to love her, too. Just a little bit. She wouldn't need much to be satisfied—maybe just a tenth of the amount he'd given to Daisy.... He kissed her again, and she shifted closer to him, moving his hand so it covered her breast. He sighed and laughed. "I guess it wasn't hard for you to figure out what I like, huh?" Zoe kissed him, pushing herself more fully into his hand. "I'm glad I've got what you like." "I like everything about you, Zoe," he said, pulling back to look into her eyes. "Not just your body." Like. Not love. Still, his words were sweet. "We're in tune," he told her, "you and me. I can be completely honest with you—about everything. You know as well as I do how important this mission is. You know exactly what the dangers and the risks are. I don't have to hold things back to keep you from being upset." He paused. "And I don't have to worry about hurting you when this op is over and we go our separate ways."

Oh, God. Zoe closed her eyes as she leaned against him. Now she was the one afraid to let him look into her eyes. "Maybe that's why I'm so okay about this," he murmured, running his fingers through her hair. "I know you're not looking for anything permanent. I know you don't want anything more than sex—I mean, friendship, sure, but... What we did last night was intensely powerful, but...it was mostly physical. I mean..." He laughed. "You don't want to marry me, right?" He didn't let her answer. She wasn't sure she could have answered. "But that's okay," he continued. "It's okay with me, and it's okay with you. And, see, that's what I think makes this work. I know that you know that I can't give you my heart." Jake's heart. In just a short amount of time, it had become the one thing in the world Zoe wanted more than anything. She wanted to walk out of the CRO compound in possession of the six missing canisters of Triple X, and Jake's heart. Jake kissed her, and she sat there, with his arms around her, watching the first few flakes of snow drift from the overcast sky, praying he wouldn't see the truth when he looked into her eyes. He was wrong. Somehow she'd broken all of her rules. Somehow she'd let herself cross that line. She was crazy in love with him. And she wanted his heart. Desperately. "He's not getting it done," Lucky said. "We're almost out of time." Harvard was giving him that stone-cold look that implied not only was Lucky a kindergartener, but he was a misbehaving kindergartener. ' 'What do you suggest we do, Lieutenant? Mutiny?" "No." Lucky took a deep breath. "Look. I just think it's been long enough. Let's try to get at least a few more men inside." He swore. "What we should do is get the entire team inside." "That's not going to happen," Harvard said. "Because even with my blond wig, my complexion is a little too far from fair." "So let's get in whoever we can get in. Me and Cowboy. Wes. We can give him one of those skinhead haircuts—" "Notice how he doesn't volunteer to shave his own head," Wes said. Lucky was completely exasperated. "Dammit, what difference does it make?" "If it didn't make a difference, you'd've volunteered to shave your own—" "Fine, I'll shave my damn head! Let's just get the hell in there! I'm so damn tired of sitting here doing nothing!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Lucky realized that the problem here wasn't necessarily with Admiral Robinson. The problem was his. He swore again. And then he apologized. To all of them. Especially Wes Skelly and the senior chief. "I've got a little sister in San Diego. Ellen. She's still in college." He rubbed his forehead. God, his sinuses were killing him. "I keep thinking San Diego would be the perfect city for these clowns to test the Trip X, and it's making me crazy." "I've got a little sister, too," Wes said. "Yeah, I know that it's no excuse," Lucky said quietly. "We've all got family. I just... No offense, Crash, I know you're tight with the man, but admirals should stay-behind desks." "Even admirals who used to be SEALs who specialized in demolition?" Crash spoke so rarely that when he did open his mouth, the entire team paid attention. "Even admirals who became so proficient with C-4 explosives that they literally wrote the book we all trained from—as well as the book that might be just a little too advanced for a few of us here?" "I didn't know that," Harvard admitted. "How come I didn't know that?" "You wouldn't. As the leader of the Gray Group, Jake's worked hard to keep a low profile," Crash said. "That's why that book by Scooter Jennings irks him so much. I know some of you have read it." "I have," Bobby said in his basso profundo. "It's good stuff." Cowboy lifted the book out of his lap, flashing a sheepish grin. No wonder he'd been so quiet during all this. He was "This

reading, and he was just a few pages from the end. reads better than fiction." "I'm reading it after Junior," Harvard said. "It's all true, you know," Crash said. "And it chronicles just one of Jake's tours in Vietnam. He's seen more action than all of us in this room combined." Lucky couldn't keep his mouth shut. "But that was thirty years ago." "He's been out from his desk and in the real world often enough since then," Crash told him. "You guys want to hear a story?" "Oh, yeah," Wes said. "Uncle Crash, tell us kids a story." "S squared, wiseass," Bobby intoned. 'I want to hear." Cowboy, even fewer pages from the end, put down his book. Crash had their full attention. He smiled. "Jake was in Saudi Arabia during Desert Storm, and his team was assigned to take out this one Iraqi Scud missile launcher that kept evading us. The Iraqis would fire the Scud at our troops, then move that sucker to a new location. Jake's SEAL team was working off of satellite pictures and getting nowhere, so Jake—he wasn't an admiral yet, but he was close—he tells whatever commodore was in charge that he and his men were going to try to check things out a little closer to the source. What he didn't say was that a little closer turned out to be downtown Baghdad, deep inside enemy lines. When they got into the city, Jake and his team split up. They had the locations where the Scud launcher had been set and fired from over the past few weeks, so they searched those neighborhoods for a place where something that size might be hidden. "Jake's team finds not one, but two Scud missile launchers, and they uncover the location of a chemical weapons storage facility. So there Jake is, in the middle of Baghdad, with more than enough explosives to take out a single Scud launcher but not quite enough to do all three targets. He

knew he could try to stretch it thin, but that way he risked destroying nothing." "Damn, what did he do?" Harvard asked. "I'd've blown the Scud launchers and given the location of the chemical site to intelligence," Wes said. "Have them take out the place through air strike." "Except those chemical sites were moved constantly," Lucky pointed out. "Even just a few hours later, it might've already been gone." "And this one was in the middle of a residential neighborhood," Crash told them. "Not the most PC site for an air raid." He smiled again. "Jake managed to take out all three targets with no civilian casualties." "How?" Lucky asked. "Did he find a munitions dump? Get his hands on more C-4?" "No," Crash said. "He took his time. And he thought it through. And when he was ready, and only when he was ready, he placed the explosives he had very strategically. It was risky, but the man's a wizard when it comes to blowing things up. He trusted himself, and he got the job done." He was looking directly at Lucky. "I think we should do the same—trust our team leader to get the job done." Lucky nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Message received. On Tuesday, Zoe was assigned to clean bathrooms. She gave Jake a comically dark look as she headed down the hallway with Edith, a pale ghost of a woman who'd been assigned as her cleaning partner. Edith looked as if she'd be a breeze to evade. With luck, their pairing would be ongoing. Of course, it didn't really matter who Zoe was paired with. She would manage to get away from anyone. She was that good. She was more than good. She was... Jake took several steps backward to watch her. Her hips swayed a little as she walked away. Just enough to advertise that the body inside those androgynous jeans was pure female. They'd taken another late shower last night. Dear, dear God. Sex with Zoe was indescribable. It was... Sex. It was purely physical. Two people having a damn good time with their bodies. Zoe was so direct, so honest. She didn't play games, didn't try to make him guess what she wanted. She liked having sex the way he did—with her eyes wide open and the lights brightly lit.

He loved watching her eyes as he drove himself into her. He loved the way she seemed to look directly into his soul, the way the connection between them seemed an almost mystical thing. He loved the hunger of her kisses, the sheer intensity of her release. He loved the way she curled against him at night, touching as much of him as possible, as if despite all that they'd done, she still couldn't get enough of him. He loved the way, with just one look and smile this morning, she'd let him know she was anticipating making love to him again tonight. He loved the way just watching her walk down the hall made him aware of the blood rushing through his veins, aware of his heart's steady rhythm. Oh, yes, he was feeling very much alive. Zoe turned to glance back at him, and he didn't look away. He let her know he was watching her. He let her see exactly what he was thinking. She laughed, and an incredible surge of warmth seemed to detonate within him, radiating out, filling him with happiness. She waved before she disappeared around the corner, and Jake stood there for several moments longer, struck by the realization that he was going to miss her today. For four days, they'd been together constantly. And as much as the waiting had frustrated him, he'd loved sitting with Zoe and talking for hours and hours and hours. He'd loved learning about her, loved discovering the intricate ways her mind worked, loved her thoughtfulness and her quick sense of humor. She'd filled more than the void in his life caused by his lack of a sexual partner. Far more. And that realization shook him. He'd been so certain of his feelings yesterday, as he'd sat by the waterfall in the early morning light. He'd been convinced that his relationship with Zoe felt so right because it didn't go beyond the physical. And yet his missing her today wasn't just about sex. And then there was that annoying question he hadn't quite found a way to ask her. "So, babe. When you go undercover, playing husband and wife like this, does, uh, this sort of thing—you know, this intense physical attraction and mind-biowingly great sex—happen all the time?" He shouldn't care about that, about who she'd been with in the past and why she'd been with them. He shouldn't care about the casualness that she assigned to sexual relationships. Why should he care about anything beyond these immediate moments and the fact that right now she wanted him? He had absolutely no right to be jealous. Jealousy implied love, and... Falling in love with Zoe Lange would be the mistake of his lifetime. What, did he honestly think she would ever agree to marry him? Yeah, right. Oh, she liked him, she desired him, and she probably wouldn't object to getting together and getting it on with him three or four or five times a year, whenever she rolled in to D.C. But marriage? Not a Twinkie's chance in a room full of eight-year-olds. Get a grip, pal. Jake headed toward Christopher Vincent's office. You're not looking to marry the woman. It's just the sex messing with your brain. Indescribable sex. With a woman whose smile and laughter made him feel truly happy for the first time in years. Of course he was feeling happy—there was no big mystery to it. Sure, he liked her, sure she was smart and sharp and funny, but the bottom line was that in his mind, Zoe equaled sex. And sex equaled happy. After living like a monk for three very long years, sex definitely equaled very, very happy. All of his warm, fuzzy feelings could be traced to the fact that Jake no longer had to imagine Zoe naked. He could pull her into the shower and see her naked anytime he wanted. See her and touch her and... And that had nothing, nothing to do with love. Love was what he'd had with Daisy. Slow and easy at times, hot and furious at others, ebbing and flowing like the tides. Love was years of understanding, the ability to communicate volumes with a single look or touch or smile. It was trust, it was faith, it was never to be doubted. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best thing he'd ever had. There was no way a man could hope to find something so rare twice in one lifetime. And the thought of settling for something that didn't live up to what he'd once had... No, he didn't love Zoe Lange. But even if he did, he didn't have to worry. It would never work out. Zoe would never expect anything long term, Mitch had told him. Because she leaves, too. And she'll probably leave first. And Jake tried to convince himself that that thought made him feel so damned bad only because he would miss the indescribable sex. 'Tour position on the high council of the CRO can be secured immediately," Christopher Vincent said, eating a sticky bun as he sat behind his fancy oak desk in his private office, "through your willingness to share your personal wealth." The room wasn't large. It didn't have one single window. But it did have three doors, all tightly shut, leading off the wall behind Vincent's desk. Jake was willing to bet that behind one of those doors was the CRO surveillance control room—and possibly the missing Triple X.

Jake held out his hands in a shrug. "Chris, you know as well as I do that all my funds are frozen. I've got over four million dollars in liquid assets— that I can't touch." Christopher stood up and opened the door on the far left. It was only a bathroom. One down, two to go. He turned on the light and rinsed his hands, raising his voice to be heard over the running water .""Personal wealth isn't limited to finances." He came out, drying his hands on a towel. "Information," Jake said. "After thirty-five years in the U.S. Navy, I'm in possession of a great deal of information that might be useful to you." He sat forward. "Look, Chris, I've heard people talk about this birthday celebration you're planning. Let me sit in on the meetings, see if there's anything I can contribute—" "Letting you sit in," Christopher interrupted, "would prove our trust in you. What are you going to give me that proves you're worthy of that trust? Something that proves your acceptance of me as leader of the CRO." He smiled tightly. "Let's be honest, Jake. I know you're a very ambitious man. You wouldn't have gotten where you did in the Navy if you weren't. But if you've got any intentions of coming in here and taking over my show—" "Whoa," Jake said. "Christopher. You are the CRO." He laughed. "Okay, I am ambitious, but my goal here is to sit at your right hand at the council table. Be your chief adviser. Your second in command. I'd never try to take you down or undermine your authority in any way." He lied smoothly. "Never." Chris sat behind his desk. "Then prove it." "I will," Jake said. "Like I said—through information. I can give you computer passwords. Back door entrances to highly sensitive files. Information on security procedures in government buildings—"' "You have more to give than information," Chris said, "although I'll accept that as a sign of your loyalty—in part." Jake shook his head. "Chris, I came to you empty-handed. As far as wealth goes, I don't have much. Even these clothes I'm wearing are yours and —" "Zoe." Jake sat back in his chair. "Excuse me?" "You've got Zoe." Christopher smiled. "I'd say that makes you a very wealthy man." Jake laughed, but then stopped when he realized that Christopher wasn't laughing, too. Holy God, the son of a bitch was serious. Share his personal wealth. Share...Zoe. The CRO believed that a wife was a man's possession, but God... "Why don't the two of you join me in my private dining room for dinner tonight?" Christopher said, standing up. "Seven o'clock. There's a high council meeting scheduled for noon on Friday, here in my inner chamber." He gestured to the door on the far right. "It would be nice—for all of us—if you could join us." He moved to the door that led out of his office, opening it for Jake, dismissing him. Jake rose to his feet despite the fact that this conversation wasn't over. He had more to say, to protest, to explain, but the phone on Christopher's desk rang. And the guard outside the door gestured for Jake to follow him. Jake didn't move. "Look, Chris—" "I'll see you at dinner tonight." Christopher nodded to the guard, who stepped forward and took Jake's arm. There was nothing he could do short of creating a scene. Christopher's door shut behind him as the guard ushered him into the corridor, closing that door behind him, as well. And Jake stood in the hallway, certain of what had just been implied and sickened by it. If Zoe slept with Christopher Vincent, Jake would be in. If Zoe slept with Chris... Jake laughed aloud, a sharp burst of disbelieving air, as he headed briskly down the hallway toward his room. No way! He wasn't going to let Zoe anywhere near Christopher the scumball Vincent. She was his, dammit, and he wasn't about to share. Except she wasn't really his. Their marriage wasn't really a marriage. It wasn't legal. And even if it were, Zoe wasn't the kind of woman any man could ever completely possess. He took the stairs down two at a time, moving faster, almost running. But there was no way he could outrun the truth. Jake had found a way to get the information they needed. If Zoe slept with Chris, he'd find out on noon, Friday, exactly what the CRO intended to do with the stolen Triple X. And he'd probably even locate the missing canisters.

If Zoe slept with Chris. He stopped short, gripping the handrail tightly, sitting down right there in the stairwell between the second and third floor, directly in the blind spot between two surveillance cameras. Oh, God. She would want to do it. Sex just wasn't that big a deal to Zoe. She'd made that more than clear to him many times over. She'd as much as told him she was willing to do anything for this mission. Anything. Except it wasn't knowing that that made his stomach hurt so badly he had to sit down. It was the knowledge that it mattered so much to him. Here he'd been pretending that what he shared with Zoe was only sex. But it wasn't. The thought of her with Christopher Vincent—the thought of her with anyone else—made him completely crazy. He didn't want to share her, not her body, not her smile, not her laughter, not any of her. He wanted her for his own. Because he was completely in love with her. God, no, how could he be? He still loved Daisy. None of this made any sense. Maybe he just wouldn't tell Zoe. Maybe he wouldn't even give her the option. Jake pushed himself to his feet. And maybe the canisters of Triple X would be waiting for him back in their room. Maybe this mission would just take care of itself. But even if it did, even if Christopher Vincent surrendered the missing nerve gas to them this afternoon, Jake was going to lose because—mission accomplished—Zoe would be off to Saudi Arabia. Or Amsterdam. Or Somalia. Only God would know when she would be back again. Or even if she would be back. The irony was intense. For all those years he'd been a SEAL, he had been the one who'd always left. And Jake had to laugh—it was either that or cry—because only now, by falling in love with Dr. Zoe Lange, did he fully understand just how much Daisy had loved him.

Chapter 16 "I need to see my wife." Zoe looked up from what seemed like the four hundredth toilet bowl she'd cleaned in the span of three hours. "I don't care if lunchtime is in thirty minutes." It was Jake's voice. "I need her right now. Zoe!" "In here." She pushed herself to her feet as Jake steam-rolled over poor pale Edith and came right into the ladies' room. "Hey." His smile was unnaturally tight and the look in his eyes completely wild. Something was really wrong. "Nice rubber gloves. Yellow looks good on you, babe." "You all right?" she asked quietly. He shook his head infinitesimally. No. "Yeah, sure. I'm just breaking you out of here a little early, that's all." He looked behind him. "Do you have a problem with that, Edith?" Zoe peeled off the gloves and quickly washed up in the sink. "Well," Edith said. "Technically, we're not—" "Sorry for any inconvenience," Jake said, grabbing Zoe's hand and pulling her with him into the hallway. He had her jacket in his other hand and was already wearing his. Her first thought was that something had gone very wrong and they were evacuating—getting out of there fast. But as Jake punched open the door to the stairwell, he went up instead of down toward the main floor. Up. Toward the recreation deck. She had to run to keep up with him, he was moving so fast. But finally they were there. Jake burst into the open air as if he'd been holding his breath all that time. She followed. "Jake, what's going—" He kissed her. He dropped her jacket on the deck, dragged her into his arms and covered her mouth with his in a kiss of pure possession, pure need. It was electrifying, mesmerizing—his mouth so demanding, his hands slightly rough and very proprietary. The sheer power of his desire sent her instantly aflame. Was this why he'd come searching for her? Because he needed her? Because he finally realized just how very much he needed and—please God —even loved her? He fumbled with the buttons on her shirt, growling in frustration, finally pulling, buttons flying everywhere. The front clasp of her bra gave just as easily, and the shockingly cold morning air hit her naked breasts. But Jake's hands were warm and his mouth was hot as he touched her, kissed her, the rasp of his chin delicious against her skin as he buried his face against her. "Oh, Zoe," he breathed. "I need—" He kissed her again, his fingers at the waistband of her jeans, unfastening the button, releasing the zipper. "Yes," she said. She needed, too. He stopped kissing her only long enough to shake his jacket off his arms, to throw it onto the deck with hers. Then he pulled her down with him onto the soft cushion those jackets made. His muscular body was so wonderfully solid, so deliciously heavy on top of her, cradled between her legs. She could feel his hardness and she reached for his belt buckle, wishing the layers of thick denim that kept him from her would just instantly be gone. He pulled back onto his knees, easily ridding her of her jeans as she kicked off her sneakers. He lowered his pants, covered himself and then, God, he drove himself hard inside of her. She cried out, she couldn't help it—and he swallowed her cry of pleasure with the fiercest of kisses as he filled her again and again with hard, deep, demanding thrusts. He didn't try to pretend that his need for her didn't completely control him. He didn't hold back, his kisses feverish, his hands and body deliciously possessive. And Zoe abandoned all pretense, too. She let herself love him—wildly, furiously, passionately—body, heart and soul. He was everything she'd ever wanted and everything she hadn't known it was possible to want. The hero was just a shadow compared to the humanness, compassion and honest

reality of the man. This incredible man who burned for her with the same urgent fire that consumed her very soul. She felt his body tighten and tense, felt him shake, heard him rasp her name, and the sheer power of his release made her explode. Pleasure pulsed through her, so intense, so scorchingly wild. She opened her eyes, and the brilliant blue of the sky seemed close enough to touch. Her senses were almost painfully heightened as she smelled the subtle scent of Jake's cologne and felt the warmth of his breath against her neck, the slick heat of his body against hers, the sharply cold air against her legs, the indescribable sensation of him, still hard inside of her as he thrust just one more time, as the fierce waves of her release finally slowed, finally subsided. Zoe closed her eyes, holding tightly to him, afraid that she might cry from the exquisite wonder of it all. But then she had to laugh. She would never have believed that she could have had the absolute best sex of her entire life in the so-very-submissive missionary position. "Jeez," Jake breathed without moving, his mouth against her neck. "What a gentleman. I didn't even wait for you." "You didn't have to," she told him. "I was right there, with you." Her voice shook. "God, Jake..." He was still breathing hard as he lifted his head to look at her, acknowledgment in his eyes. What they'd just shared had been as powerful and as intense for him, too. "When you came looking for me like that, I thought we were in some kind of trouble." She made her voice even lighter. "I had no idea the trouble was physiological." "Zoe, I..." She held her breath. This was it. He was going to tell her that he loved her. Please, God, let him love her, too.... But the expression in his eyes was completely unreadable. His ready smile was nowhere to be found. "I've found out how I can gain access to Vincent's high council." Not the words she wanted to hear. Still, she managed to hide her disappointment. "But that's great!" She searched his eyes. Wasn't it? "How?" "I need to prove my loyalty to the CRO and to Christopher Vincent," Jake said. "He's got this little share-the-wealth program. I think it's some kind of power trip for him. Whatever his followers have got, he wants a share of. Money. Information." He briefly closed his eyes. "Wives." Wife sharing. Oh, God. "Of course the bastard probably wouldn't be as interested in a guy's wife if she didn't happen to look like you, and..." Jake broke off, looking at her more closely, in-credulousness in his eyes. "You know about this, don't you?" She couldn't lie to him. "Chris mentioned something about it to me. I guess he sees himself as the equivalent of some kind of feudal lord and..." She shook her head. "I just didn't expect him to approach you about it." "What, did you expect him to approach you about it?" Jake's eyes were nearly as cold as the freezing air that slapped her skin as he pulled himself away from her. "And what the hell were you going to do when he did?" He swore sharply. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know." He had been mostly dressed, and it didn't take him long to pull himself together. Zoe had to search for her underpants, turn her jeans right side out, find her sneakers. Her shirt had no buttons, and the plastic clasp of her bra was broken. She shivered, clutching the front of her shirt together, uncertain what to say, how to explain. Jake wrapped her jacket around her. "Dammit, Zoe." His voice shook. "You could've at least let me in on the plan." ' 'It wasn't a plan," she told him. ' 'It was.. .just an option I thought I should keep open. Jake, the man was dogging me for weeks. I thought I could go in there and talk to him. Tell him I was thinking about accepting his offer. I would have told you before I did anything. I thought at least it would be a way into his private office." "Well, I've been in his office now," Jake said tightly. "It's small, no windows, one desk, three chairs. Three doors on the wall behind Vincent's desk. The left is the bathroom. The right a room he referred to as his inner chambers. There was no sign of the missing canisters. I'm betting it's in that inner chamber." Which he would have access to—provided he share Zoe with the CRO leader. Zoe's hand shook only slightly as she pushed her hair from her face. "So what did he say to you about..." She managed to make her voice sound remarkably calm, but she couldn't say the words aloud. "It was all implied," Jake told her. "He spoke of sharing my wealth. Mentioned you. Invited us both to his private dining room tonight at nineteen hundred—seven o'clock." "Both of us?"

"I asked one of his lieutenants." Jake's voice was raspy. "Apparently the way it's done is, he invites us both, and I send you alone, along with my regrets, pleading I'm feeling slightly under the weather." He laughed, a short bark of disbelief. "Believe it or not, it's considered an honor for Christopher Vincent to mess with your wife." He dropped his head into the palms of his hands. "Crazy-assed, twisted sons of bitches." Zoe took a deep breath, filled with a sense of dread. "So. Did you tell him yes or did you tell him no? That we'd-— I'd be there for dinner?" He looked at her, his eyes nearly as blue as the sky overhead. "We can cancel." "That's a yes," she said. "You told him yes." Jake shook his head. "I didn't say yes." "But you didn't say no." "I didn't answer him one way or the other." "Silence generally implies an affirmative," she said tightly. "Yeah," Jake said, the muscle flexing in the side of his jaw. "I know." He put his head into his hands, unable to hold her gaze. Zoe closed her eyes against the rush of tears. Did he actually think... Could he honestly expect... "Are you asking me to have sex with Christopher Vincent?" God, what he must think of her, if he could ask such a thing. "No." Jake lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed with red, as if he, too, were fighting tears. "I'm not asking you, Zoe. I could never ask that of someone under my command. Except you're not really under my command, are you? And you haven't been completely honest with me about this other option you had standing ready. Maybe you've got a better plan in mind to get me into die inner council?" She shook her head. "I don't," she whispered. "I'm not going to ask you do this," Jake told her. "But I'm also not going to tell you not to do it. I'm giving you the choice." He cleared his throat. "I know this...this sort of thing doesn't particularly bother you, so..." He shrugged as he forced a smile. "It's your choice." Zoe was dying. She wanted him to tell her not to do it. She wanted him to refuse to let her do it. She wanted him to hold her tightly and tell her that he was never going to let her go, that he honestly didn't believe her capable of such coldhearted self-exploitation. "Do you..." She had to stop and clear her throat. Amazingly, her voice came out even and clear. "Do you want me to do it?" She had to know. He looked her squarely in the eye. "This doesn't have anything to do with me." The last of her hope died, and she turned to look but over the valley. "I see." She'd done such a good job bluffing. She'd convinced him so completely that she was tough and strong—emotionally made of Teflon. He obviously thought she wouldn't think twice about prostituting herself this way in the name of their mission. He clearly didn't approve, and despite the fact that he'd made incredibly powerful, passionate love to her just moments ago, he didn't think that her buying their way onto the inner council through sex had anything to do with him. Zoe felt like throwing up. Or bursting into tears. Instead, she nodded. "What am I supposed to wear?"

Chapter 17 Lucky poured Bobby a cup of coffee and set it down near the video screens in the surveillance trailer. "Thanks," Bobby said. "Any change?" "Zoe got assigned to a two-woman work detail cleaning bathrooms," Bobby stated. "Jake came in a little while ago and pulled her out. They headed toward the roof and have been out of contact for the past hour and a half. I've been cruising around, following Vincent's two top lieutenants — neither one of 'em win any prizes, except maybe Dullest Human Beings on Earth." Lucky pointed to the screen that showed the CRO mess hall. "Isn't that Jake?" "Jake." Bobby glanced at him. "Finish reading the book?" Lucky smiled. "Yeah." "Like him better now, huh?" "I'm still working on the like part, considering he's spending all his time kissing my woman." "You never had a chance with Zoe, and you know it." Bobby keyed in some numbers, and the screen showed the camera on the other side of the room, closer to Jake, who was sitting alone at a table, lunch tray in front of him. "Yep. It's definitely the admiral." Lucky leaned closer. "Is it my imagination or... Does he look okay to you?" "Looks wound pretty tight. I wonder where Zoe is." Bobby typed in a steady stream of numbers, and lightning-quick pictures flashed on the other two screens. "Whoops, there she was." "Wait a minute," Lucky said. "You saw her? How could you see anything in that?" Bobby shrugged, calling back the image he'd spotted. "I'm pretty good with visuals." On the center screen, Zoe walked briskly down the hallway, heading toward the room she shared with Jake. She smiled brightly as someone passed her. Bobby hit the commands to show the cameras inside the room as Zoe went inside. But no sooner was she inside the door than she leaned against it, her smile vanishing. It was as if her legs suddenly failed to support her, because she slid down, back against the door, so that she was sitting on the floor. She hugged her legs and bent her head and... Zoe was crying. She was shaking, sobbing as if her heart were breaking. Bobby looked at Lucky and Lucky looked at Bobby. On the other video screen, Jake toyed unenthusiastically with his food. He tossed his fork onto the tray and rested his forehead in the palm of his hand, a picture of total despair. But then Jake sat up. And with both hands on the table in front of him, he made a gesture, a hand signal that the SEALs used. It was brief but unmistakable. Get ready. "Did you see that?" Lucky asked, nearly jumping out of his seat. "Was that what I thought it was?" "Yes, sir. That was definitely a message for us." Jake had only made the signal once, but they had it down on tape. Lucky reached for the phone. "Yeah, Skelly, it's O'Donlon. Is the senior chief there? Bob and I have something we want him and the rest of you guys to see," he said. "Oh, and on your way over? You might want to run." Zoe pulled her baseball cap down over her eyes as she pushed the cleaning cart into Christopher Vincent's private quarters. No one had noticed yet that she wasn't a part of the regular cleaning crew. Or if they had, they'd been downtrodden and beaten into submission too often to care. Melissa, Amy, Ivy, Karen, Beth and Joan. Zoe had had to learn their names from the color of their hair. Their faces were too similar—they looked exhausted and as if they'd lost all hope.

Zoe moved like them, as if she, too, ached both physically and emotionally, as she took the supplies for cleaning the bathroom toward the door to Vincent's private office. The door was ajar, and she went in without switching on the light. It was exactly as Jake had described it. Big desk. No windows. Three doors. No sign of the canisters of Trip X anywhere. The bathroom was on the left. Zoe tried the knob of the far right door as she went past. Locked. So was the center door. The bathroom was half open, and she turned on the light. It was tiny. One toilet and a sink. According to the Frosty Cakes factory layout she'd looked at with Bobby and Wes, there was enough unaccounted-for room in this part of the building for a good-size security headquarters, as well as a conference room-size inner chamber. She didn't have her lock pick, but she had a paper clip from Vincent's desk. In the light of the bathroom, she unbent the piece of metal and The office light went on. "Who are you? What are you doing in here?" "Cleaning the bathroom?" Zoe blinked owlishly as she unobtrusively tried to slip the paper clip into the back pocket of her jeans. She only got it in halfway before the long-bearded man got too close. He was Vincent's second lieutenant. "You're the new girl. This couldn't possibly be your assignment." Zoe made her bottom lip start to quiver. "I was told to clean bathrooms. But I...I got lost, and I didn't know what to do, so I followed a cleaning crew in here and—" "Get out." Lieutenant Beard held open the door. "Now." Zoe grabbed her cleaning supplies and sprinted for the door. On her way out, the second lieutenant hit her so hard on the back of the head that her ears rang and she stumbled to her knees. It was all she could do to keep herself from spinning and giving the bastard a roundhouse kick to the bearded jaw. But she didn't. She kept her eyes lowered, her head down. If she was going to make it out of here without completely blowing her and Jake's cover, she wasn't going to do it by advertising her black belt in karate. Beth, the leader of the cleaning team, smacked her, too, as Zoe pushed herself onto her feet. ' 'What are you, stupid? You just can't go wherever you want. You were given an assignment." Zoe let her eyes fill with tears. It was amazing that she had any left after the way she'd cried just an hour ago. But apparently, she still had plenty to spare. All she had to do was think about Jake, and her tears came in force. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I lost Edith, my partner, and I got scared and I saw you and..." "Go back to the kitchen," Beth said sharply. "Edith will probably be waiting for you there." Zoe stared at her stupidly. This was it? No being dragged in front of Christopher Vincent? No questions about what she'd been doing in his private office? 'Go/' Beth said. Zoe turned and ran. The computer's alarm sounded, piercingly loud, and Lucky turned to see Harvard leaning over Crash's shoulder, looking at the screen. "What've we got?" H asked. "A key word match," Crash told him grimly. "Three words came up. Zoe. Spy. And birthday." Harvard swore. The computer was programmed to listen to and record every conversation that came in from the heavily wired CRO fort. Harvard had written a program to search for groups of key words that, when used in a single conversation, might signal trouble. Cowboy joined them. "Play it back," he said. "We've got video, too," Crash told them as he cued up the digital recording. Lucky rolled his chair closer. "Here we go. Looks like we're in Christopher Vincent's outer office. This can't be good." A man on the tape spoke. "What's this?" It was Christopher Vincent's now too-familiar voice. On the video screen, the CRO leader straightened and came into camera range. He'd been bending over, picking something off the floor, but now his face was directly in front of the camera. Yeesh. Lucky had one word for Christopher Vincent. Tweezers. It was his only real hope. Because, damn, that single eyebrow wasn't going to get him a GQ cover anytime in the near future. "I don't know, sir." Another man stepped into the frame. It was Ian Hindcrest, Vincent's second lieutenant— another beauty pageant contestant from

hell, what with the six-inch-long ZZ Top beard. He took whatever Vincent had been holding. "It looks like... Yes, it's a paper clip, sir." "Who's been in here today?" One thing about having a unibrow, when Vincent glowered, he glowered. Hindcrest took a step backward. "You had a series of morning appointments, but the cleaning crew was here after lunch, so I'd guess—" "The cleaning crew." Vincent's glower became downright scary. "There was a memo on my desk from the crew leader, but she's a moron, I couldn't read her writing. Something about some incident today? Your name was on the page." "Of course." Hindcrest brightened. "I was intending to type up my report about the event this evening. That rather dim new girl, the blonde, wandered in here by mistake." "Zoe," Vincent said. "That's the one." "Wandered where exactly?" "I found her in your office." Hindcrest gestured to the door behind him. "Preparing to clean the bathroom." "In my office." Vincent nodded, his voice getting louder. "And it didn't occur to you that this new girl— who's still only a probationary member of the CRO—might have gone into my private office because she's a spy?" He was flat-out shouting, and Hindcrest's eyes had glazed over. "Spy?" the bearded man said weakly. Wes swore pungently, voicing what they all were thinking. "She's made. She's in trouble now." "This isn't a paper clip." Vincent snatched the piece of metal from Hindcrest's hand. "It's a makeshift lock pick, dammit! I have no doubt she was trying to break into the inner chamber. Or maybe she'd already been in there, already seen what she needed to see! I knew it. There was something about her." "The chemical—" Hindcrest cut himself off, aware he'd said too much. He cleared his throat. "The birthday surprise. Is it...?" "Jackpot," Harvard murmured. "It's still there," Vincent said, "but we've got to assume she's after it." He swore. "Robinson's probably in on this, too. The son of a bitch!" "I'll call the guards to bring them in," Hindcrest said. "We've got to warn them," Bobby rumbled. "How?" Wes asked. "Send up signal flares?" "No," Vincent said on the tape. "Not yet. He's got information I need. Let's let them think their cover's intact. In the meantime, let's get my birthday surprise started on its journey. Call Herzog and Jansen. Tell them they're leaving for New York a few days early." "Yes, sir." "That's all of the tape," Crash said grimly. "At least it's all that the computer flagged." Harvard was already on the phone. ' 'We need immediate stepped-up satellite surveillance. We need code-red intercept teams stopping anyone and anything that so much as pokes a nose outside that CRO gate, and we need..." He looked at Lucky and covered the mouthpiece of the telephone. "We need help. Get on the other secured line, Lieutenant. Call in the rest of Alpha Squad. We need 'em here now." Jake couldn't watch as Zoe wove her beautiful golden hair into an intricate, elegant style. But he couldn't not watch, either. A French braid, he remembered it was called. Daisy's hair had been too curly and wild and thick to wear in that particular fashion. So this was a first for him, watching Zoe's long fingers complete the transformation from jeans-clad tomboy to elegant, graceful, coolly formal beauty. It was another first for him, too. Jake had never watched Daisy get dressed up to go have sex with another man. The thought made him sick. How can you do this? He had to clench his teeth to keep the words from escaping. Don't go. She wore a black skirt that redefined the word short and a black tank top that hugged her body and framed the tops of her breasts as if they were some kind of work of art. Her long, shapely legs were clad in the sheerest of stockings, her black heels at least three inches high. She leaned closer to the mirror to apply a final touch of lipstick and then stepped back to survey herself as she closed her makeup bag with a snap. She met his gaze only briefly in the glass. "Well," she said.

Jake couldn't speak. "I guess it's time," she said. He found his voice, but he had to clear his throat about four times before his words could be understood. "It's still a little early." Don't go. "I can't walk very fast in these shoes." "Ah." She turned to face him, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin slightly. She finally met his eyes, but she somehow kept her own gaze cool, distant. "So. I guess I'm out of here." Don't go. He couldn't believe she was actually going to do this. "I guess I'll see you later," she said, heading for the door. Don't go. She reached for the doorknob, opened the door. And she closed it behind her, leaving without even looking back.

Chapter 18 Zoe had to stop and sit down, drop her head between her legs to keep herself from fainting. God, she was going to throw up. Jake hadn't stopped her. He'd just watched her get ready, watched her walk away. This didn't have anything to do with him. He'd told her that himself. She couldn't keep her breathing steady, couldn't stop herself from being buffeted by the raggedness of each breath she took in and out, couldn't stop her hands from shaking and her stomach from churning. Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country. Whoever would've guessed it could be this? When Jake stood by the mirror, he could still smell Zoe's perfume. It was a subtle fragrance, mysterious and light. He'd watched her put it on—just two short spritzes into the air that she'd then walked through. She usually didn't wear any scent at all, but she'd worn this on their wedding day. Their mock wedding day. He closed his eyes against the memory of Zoe standing in her trailer, bags already packed, chin held high as she'd prepared to confront him, tough and strong and ready to do whatever she had to do to get inside the CRO gates. Whatever she had to. She'd looked at him that same way tonight. Right before she'd walked out the door. She was cool, she was calm, she was completely in control. She was prepared to do whatever needed to be done, regardless of the sacrifice to herself. She was strong enough and tough enough. But Jake wasn't, dammit. He wasn't strong enough. And even though love didn't seem to be part of Zoe's working vocabulary, the fact remained that he loved her. Whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted to or not, he loved her. And despite telling her otherwise, despite her matter-of-fact indifference to this entire situation, he was not going to allow her to do this. He was the team leader, dammit. He had every right to tell her what she could and could not do. And she could not do this. Jake burst out of the door and headed down the hallway at a dead run. Please, God, let him catch her.... Zoe stood up. Holy Mike, she hated wearing heels. Sure, she'd taught herself to run in them—for those times when she had to. But despite the hours of practice, she never quite felt as confident when she was wearing heels as when she had on her sneakers. She smoothed her skirt and took a deep breath. She'd made up her mind and she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt exactly what it was she had to do. Resolutely, she started walking carefully on those high heels, her heart firmly in her throat. This wasn't going to be easy. As a matter of fact, it was, quite possibly, going to be the hardest thing she'd ever done in her entire life. Dick Edgers stopped him in the stairwell. "Hey, Jake! I understand you're joining us in the inner council Friday. Congrats." "Sorry, Dick, no time to talk." But when Jake moved right, to go around the man, Dick moved to his left, blocking him. And when Jake moved left, Dick moved right. "Whoops," Dick said, laughing. "Sorry!" Jake all but lifted him up and moved him out of his way. Jake cursed the delay, cursed the fact that he'd waited so long to go after Zoe, cursed the entire situation, cursed himself for letting the charade go this far. And when he was done cursing, he started to pray. Please, God, let him catch her. Please, God...

He took the stairs three at a time and hit the door onto the floor that led to Vincent's quarters at a full run. And nearly knocked Zoe onto her rear end. He caught them both, holding her tightly, relief flooding through him. He hadn't been too late. Thank God. Thank God. "What are you doing here?" she asked as he pulled back to look at her. "You're going the wrong way," he said. Vincent's quarters were to the right, all the way down at the end of the hall, but she'd been heading toward the stairwell. He realized that her eyes were filled with tears and she was shaking. Still, she lifted her chin as she met his gaze. "I'm drawing the line," she told him. He realized instantly what she meant. He'd told her once before that he didn't trust her to draw a line marking what was and was not comfortable for her on this mission. But she was telling him, right now, that she was not going to go through with this farce. She was telling him. He kissed her—hard—right there in the hallway. He didn't care who could see them, he simply didn't give a damn anymore. She kissed him just as fiercely, clinging to him as if she were never going to let him go. But a kiss wasn't enough. He had far too much to say. Jake pulled her with him into the stairwell and down the stairs. There was a men's room on the next floor. She could move pretty fast in those heels when she wanted to, and he led her down the other hallway. Still holding her hand, he pushed open the men's room door, pulled her inside and locked the door behind them. Releasing her hand, he turned the water on in all three sinks. As the roar from the faucets filled the room, he knew they could be seen but not heard. Zoe knew it, too. She stood hugging herself as if she were cold. 4'You were coming after me," she said. "I was," he admitted. "I couldn't let you do this. It was crazy of me even to pretend that something this insane would be all right, because it's not." He swore. "I was ready to order you to back down, to forbid you from going further. And if that didn't work, hell, I was ready to get on my knees and beg you if I had to." She was in his arms then, holding him as if he were her salvation. And she was crying. Brave, strong, tough Zoe had dissolved into tears. "I didn't want to do it," she told him. "I wanted you to tell me not to. I kept hoping you'd stop me, but you just seemed to think it was something I'd do, something you expected of me. And when you said it had nothing to do with you..." Her face crumpled, and she clung to him. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "Jeez, Zo, I'm so sorry." "I wasn't completely honest with you, Jake." She drew in a deep breath as she pulled back to look into his eyes, wiping her face with her hands. "I wanted to impress you, make you think I was like, I don't know, James Bond or something." He had to laugh at that. "And you believed me, even when I tried to tell you it wasn't true. And then it got even worse because I..." She lifted her chin a little higher. "I fell in love with you." Jake stopped laughing. "That's what I was coming back to tell you." Fresh tears brimmed in her eyes. "I've never used sex to get information or...or anything. Not ever. I've never slept with anyone I didn't love at least a little, only with you I...I don't know what happened. I thought it would be safe to fall a little bit in love with you because I know you can't love me, but somehow a little bit became a little bit more and then more and... And it's good, it's a good thing because I didn't think I'd ever feel this way about anyone, but now I know, and it's wonderful and...and tragic, too, because now I also know what you lost when Daisy died, and I'm so, so sorry." Her tears again escaped. Jake held her tightly, bemused, amazed, a lump in his throat. Zoe was crying for him. Her tears now were for his loss. She was, without a doubt, one of the most remarkable human beings he'd ever met. "I know you still love her," she said softly, her face wet against his neck. "I'm not asking you to stop loving her. And I know I can't replace her. But maybe, if you don't mind, we can keep seeing each other for...I don't know, a while, after this mission is over?" Jake tried to clear the lump from his throat, but it wouldn't budge. "Awhile," he repeated. "About how long is a while?" He could feel her breath warm against his throat. He could sense her weighing her responses, wondering the best way to answer his question.

"Honestly," he told her. "Tell me honestly, babe. How long—honestly—would you want that while to last?" "I guess," she said carefully, "I was hoping for any thing between, say, thirty years and forever. Leaning heavily toward forever." Forever. Jake closed his eyes as he held her even closer. "Oh, Zoe, your forever's a whole lot longer than mine. My life's half over—yours is just starting and, jeez, I'm—" She covered his mouth with her hand. "It's okay," she said. "You asked me to be honest, so I was. I know you're not ready for anything like this. And I know now's not the best time for another installment of the you're too old for me debate. Right now we've got a different problem to deal with." "Vincent's expecting you in his dining room," Jake agreed. "You're already five minutes late." "What are we going to do?" "I signaled the team this afternoon," Jake told her. "They're on standby, waiting for my next command." "I keep coming back to our theory that Vincent doesn't truly know what he's got—that he doesn't know what the Trip X is capable of," Zoe said. She wiped the last of her tears from her face. "We haven't found any kind of delivery method, no missiles lying around. No bombs—unless they're already locked up tight with the Triple X and—" "I'm ready to gamble," Jake said. Hell, Zoe loved him. He was feeling pretty damn lucky tonight. "Are you?" She could read his mind. "Gamble that the Trip X is somewhere in Vincent's private office behind one of those two locked doors?" "It's either there or it's somewhere outside this facility," Jake said. "I'm convinced of that." She nodded. "I am, too." "Okay," Jake said, thinking fast. "Here's our plan. We take control of Christopher's private quarters. You and me. Between the two of us, we can hold off the entire CRO until the SEALs arrive." Zoe looked skeptical. "Without a weapon?" "I'm sure Christopher has something in there we can liberate. And have you seen the door to his office? You would need a serious explosive to get that open after it's been locked. The trick is in getting it locked behind us instead of in front of us." He started to pace. "Look, here's what we do. You go to Christopher's dining room. Make a big deal over the fact that you've heard his chef is a four-star gourmet, that you've been really looking forward to this meal. Don't let him skip right to the dessert—which I've got to assume is you." "I won't." He stopped pacing to look searchingly into her eyes. "Are you really okay with this, because if not—" "I'm okay with this." Zoe's smile was tremulous. "I'm really okay that you trust me to be able to handle Vincent." "While you're doing that," Jake told her, "I'm going to rig the main power supply and the backup generator to blow. I'll try to take out the main computer while I'm at it." "Are you telling me you can make a bomb from cleaning supplies—things that are just lying around—that will do that much damage?" she asked. "Well, I probably could, but I don't have to." Jake smiled. "I brought two bricks of C-4 plastique into the fort, inside your duffel bag." She stared at him. "Holy Mike! What if my bag had been searched?" "It was," he said. "I hid the C-4 in with a couple slabs of modeling clay and some other art supplies. No one knew." "Including me." "I thought it would be better if you didn't know." "That's what / thought about Vincent's proposition." "No more secrets," Jake said. "Okay?" Zoe smiled weakly. "Then I guess I better tell you that this afternoon I snuck into Vincent's quarters with a cleaning team." Jake closed his eyes. "Zoe. God." "It was all right. Ian Hindcrest found me in there, but I played dumb, and all he did was send, me back to the kitchen." "Why would you risk everything to—" "Because I thought if I found the Trip X I wouldn't have to have sex with Christopher Vincent!" There was absolutely nothing Jake could say in response to that. Nothing but, "I'm sorry."

"It was okay, Jake. I got shoved around a little, but Hindcrest bought my story." Shoved around a little. Coming from the queen of the understatement, that could mean anything. It helped a lot that she was standing in front of him, looking to be in one piece. "What are the odds he didn't tell Vincent about the incident?" he asked. "I'll take care of that," Zoe promised. "When I go in there, I'll confess to Chris I was so eager to have dinner with him, I snuck into his office this afternoon, hoping to get a chance to talk to him." She turned his wrist, looked at his watch. "Meanwhile, I'm now ten minutes late." "I'm not sure I want you to go at all now." "Just tell me your plan," Zoe said. "Please. You just rigged the power and computers with a bomb. Then what?" "I'll set a delayed fuse and go up to Christopher's quarters. I'll make a stink, play the part of the jealous husband, make like I've reconsidered this whole sordid deal, push my way into the room. Once I'm there, the bomb will go off, power will go down and in the confusion, we'll overpower Vincent—" "With what? The salad fork?" "That could get messy. I was intending to just use my hands. Get a grip on him, threaten to snap his neck. Hopefully there'll be a guard or two in the room. Once they drop their guns, we'll be armed." Zoe nodded. She didn't say a word about the fact that Christopher Vincent had at least fifty pounds and several inches on Jake. She didn't doubt his ability to do precisely what he'd said. She didn't make a single comment about his age, about the fact that it had probably been years since he'd threatened to snap another man's neck. She had complete and total faith in him. He couldn't keep himself from kissing her. "We'll lock ourselves into Vincent's private office," he continued, "and we'll sit tight until the rest of the team arrives. Your job is to not let .the scum bag touch you and to be ready for me, you got it?" "I do." "Good," Jake said. "Now go. And make it look as if you're going even though I don't want you to. Let's get that jealous-husband thing happening starting now." She pulled away from him, twisting free from his arms, her words contradicting her body language. "Be safe, Jake." It wasn't hard for him to look as if he didn't want her to leave. "You, too, babe." Zoe hesitated at the door, looking at him. "I love you." How could three little words make him feel both so damn good and so damn bad? "Zoe—" She was gone. Lucky had been left behind to man communications. He wasn't completely certain how it had happened. One minute he'd been ready to move out with the rest of the team and the next he was waving goodbye from the window of the trailer. Somebody had to stay behind. Somebody had to watch those video screens, hoping for another communication from Admiral Jake Robinson. Somebody had to be ready to relay that information to the team. Lucky had hoped that that somebody was going to be Bobby or Wes. Or Cowboy. He had his headset and lip mike on, connecting himself to the rest of the team, now split into two groups, one led by Cowboy, the other led by Crash and Harvard. He could hear the second group's chatter over his phones as they circled the sky in a plane above the Frosty Cakes factory. Jake and Zoe had split up, and Lucky was following them both, keeping them both on screen—no easy task for anyone besides Bobby. Zoe was in the stairwell, looking as if she'd stepped out of his own personal sexual fantasy. He liked women dressed in what he thought of as contradictions. And Zoe's breathtakingly short skirt and low-cut top combined with the rather formal, opera-bound debutant-style of her hair really worked for him. He forced his attention away from Zoe and onto Jake. The admiral left the men's room on the fourth floor and went into the same stairwell, heading down, though. But then he stopped, looking up, and Lucky realized Zoe had run into trouble. She'd left the stairwell. He could hear raised voices from the other side of the door on the stairwell camera, and he quickly adjusted, keying in the numbers to pull in the picture from the security cam in the hallway. It jumped onto the video screen. Ian Hindcrest and a half a dozen armed guards had surrounded Zoe. Lucky swore, and over his headset, Harvard's voice responded. "What's happening, O'Donlon?"

"We've got six zealots with Uzis, aiming them at Zoe." "I don't know what you're talking about." Zoe didn't look frightened, only amused. Jake had moved silently up the stairs, and he stood, right outside the door, listening and looking out, the door open infinitesimally. "So you deny you were in the leader's office today as a spy." Zoe laughed. "Spy? Me? Do I look like a spy?" "She's definitely made," Lucky reported. "We've got some serious trouble here, Senior Chief." He knew exactly what Jake had to be thinking. Every instinct the man had was screaming for him to go out there and start kicking butt, to rescue Zoe. Except one unarmed man against six men with automatic weapons... There was no way in hell he could possibly succeed. Three seconds after he leaped out from behind the door, Zoe would still be in trouble, but he'd be too dead to help her. One of those grim-faced cleaning crews would be mopping what was left of him off the floor. No, it was definitely neither the time nor place to attack. 'Take her to General Vincent's office," Hindcrest ordered the guards. General. Talk about a sudden promotion. Of course, when you run your own little fantasy world behind a high electric fence and walk around with security guards with Uzis, you can call yourself Lord God Almighty if you want. "Does Jake know about Zoe?" Harvard asked over his headphones. "Yeah. He's on it, Senior. But there's only one of him and he's not armed." As Zoe was led away, Jake turned and went down the stairs, moving fast. Lucky followed him via camera down the stairwell, down the hall to his room. The admiral grabbed what looked to be—hot damn!—two solid bricks of C-4 explosive and a bunch of fuses and was back out in the hall, moving fast. It wasn't until then, until Jake hit the stairwell going down again, that Lucky realized the man was sending him a steady stream of hand signals. Now, Jake was signaling. Now. Over and out. God, Lucky had missed it all. Do what now? He quickly rewound the tape. "Got a message incoming from the admiral," he announced as he watched it. "He says he's taking out security, power and computers, and he'll blow a hole in the electric fence, as well." He snorted. "Well, sure, why not? One guy doing the job of ten men. Who does he think he is, one of the X-Men?" "No, just Jake Robinson," Harvard responded. "He says five minutes—oh, is that all? Or maybe even less till it blows. He says he needs support. He says come in as covertly as you can, as quickly as you can. He says he's ready to guess where the package—meaning the Trip X—is, but it's just a guess. Wear gas masks, be ready for anything, don't forget there are women and children here. He says come now. Now." On the other video screen, Zoe had arrived in Christopher Vincent's outer office. She looked so small, so fragile compared to the CRO leader's bulk. She was looking at something Vincent held in his hand. "That's a paper clip," she said. "You're all worked up over a paper clip?" She laughed. "Chris, I'm a waitress. I'm not a spy. That's crazy!" Christopher hit her with his fist, like a club against the side of her head, and as Lucky watched, Zoe went down, hard. "Move fast, team," he said, his heart in his throat. "Zoe's in serious trouble." The room spun, and Zoe clung to the floor, trying desperately to regain her senses, fighting the waves of nausea and dizziness that made her want to retch. That was her fault. Her fault. Crazy. She should have remembered that Crazy Christopher went ballistic when he was called crazy. Her head pounded and her vision blurred as two of the guards dragged her to her feet. She fought to focus her eyes, Christopher stood in front of the open door to his private office. That door was heavy duty, as Jake had pointed out, with dead bolts that would withstand anything short of explosives. If she could get in there and lock that door behind her... "Here in the CRO fort, like most countries, treason is a Vincent was holding a gun on her. Zoe blinked, but the gun was real, not a result of the problems she was having with her eyes.

It was a. German-made Walther PPK twenty-two caliber. The kind of gun any inbred militia leader with Hitler aspirations would take pride in owning. "Is Jake Robinson also here to spy on us?" he asked her. Zoe let herself start to cry. "Chris, I don't know what you're talking about—" "Yes," he said. "He is, isn't he? He's here because of the anthrax." Every now and then, there came a mission in which it was necessary to accept that her cover had been blown. And if Christopher Vincent thought that the poison he'd appropriated from the Arches test lab was merely anthrax... It was definitely time to lay all of her truth cards out on the table. Zoe stopped crying, stopped pretending. "Chris, you don't have anthrax. What you have is called Triple X. It's a nerve agent. A chemical weapon that's deadlier than even you can imagine." "So you are a spy." "I'm here to try to help you," Zoe told him. "If you give me the missing canisters of Triple X now, I'll make sure it's known that you cooperated fully—" "Guilty," Christopher said. "I find Jake and Zoe Robinson guilty as charged. Their sentence is death, to be carried out immediately." He looked at his guards. "Find Robinson. Now." Zoe kept talking. "Chris, this is the dead last thing you want to do. If you kill me, if you harm anyone, if you even attempt to use the Triple X, the CRO will be crushed." Christopher Vincent lifted his gun, and as Zoe stared into the deadly blackness of its barrel, she prayed. God, please don't let Jake come bursting in the door right now. Please, God, keep him far, far away from here. "Oh, God," Lucky said. "Oh, God, he's going to kill her!" There was nothing he could do. He could only watch on the video monitors, completely unable to stop the murder that was about to happen miles away in the CRO compound. It was the most awful, completely impotent moment of his entire life. He was going to watch this woman he admired so much, his friend, die while he sat here, unable to lift a finger to save her. Zoe could barely stand after that blow Vincent had 'given her to her head, but the guards moved back from her, out of their leader's range. Zoe was still talking, telling Vincent about the Triple X, trying to make him understand that the United States Government would not rest until they recovered it. Vincent smiled, and... "No!" Lucky shouted. "No!" The bastard fired the gun, the roar deafening over his headphones. And the screens all went black. "Sit-rep, O'Donlon." Harvard's voice came in. "What are you shouting about?" Lucky worked frantically to get some sort of signal. But there was nothing. There was no signal to receive. Jake, true to his word, had taken out the security system. "Security's down," Lucky rasped. "But, God, H! Vincent shot Zoe. Point-blank. The bastard executed her." His voice shook, and he couldn't stop the tears that came to his eyes. "I've got it all on tape." "Oh, God." "Cowboy's team intercepted all six canisters of the Triple X about ten minutes ago." Zoe would've been so glad to hear that. Lucky pushed his lip mike away from his mouth so the senior chief wouldn't know he was sitting here crying like a baby. But, dammit, this operation wasn't over yet. He didn't have time to lose it this way. He took a deep breath and repositioned his mike. "As far as I know, Jake's still alive. But they're looking for him, Senior. Let's make sure we find him first." "We will. But we're still about two minutes from contact." Harvard's voice was grim, cold. "If you come face to face with Christopher Vincent," Lucky said, doing what he knew Harvard was doing—turning his grief into frozen hard anger "— hurt him bad for me." Jake covered his head as his fourth and final bomb took out a big piece of the fence surrounding the CRO fort. It was hard to blow a fence like that, and he'd used a little too much of the C-4. Bits and pieces of what once had been trees and underbrush rained down on him. He shouldered the Uzi he'd appropriated from a careless guard. A guard who'd have one hell of a headache when he finally woke up.

Jake moved silently through the darkness toward the factory—toward Zoe. She was still in there. He prayed she was able to take advantage of the sudden explosions, of the power going out. But even if she wasn't, it didn't matter. Because he was going in after her. Smoke alarms were wailing, and he could hear shouting, sounds of confusion from inside. He hadn't used enough of the explosive to start a real fire, but the smoke and dust were thick. And the complete darkness had to be daunting to a group of people used to living under the constant scrutiny of bright spotlights. Jake was nearly to the door of the building when he looked at the velvety blackness of the night sky. It wasn't so much that he'd heard them or seen them. It was more that he'd sensed them. And sure enough, it was his SEAL team, parachuting in, dropping out of the sky. So much for blowing the hole in the fence to let them in. The SEALs gathered their chutes as they landed, unhooking themselves, instantly armed, weapons locked and loaded. Senior Chief Harvard Becker recognized Jake almost as quickly as Jake recognized Harvard. "Sir. Are you all right?" "I'm fine." Jake had smeared himself with dirt in an attempt to cover the reflective paleness of his face as he'd crossed to the fence in the brightly lit yard. "But Zoe's still in there. I could use some help getting her out—and finding that damned Trip X, as well." "Sir, the Trip X was intercepted by Lieutenant Jones and his men. Christopher Vincent tried to send it to New York tonight." The door to the building opened with a crash, and they all stepped further into the shadows. Bobby and Wes had joined them, as well as Billy, and two other men Jake recognized but didn't know—Joe Catalanotto and Blue McCoy, the Captain and XO of SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad. Harvard apparently didn't call just anyone for backup. And despite their higher rank, they were standing back and letting Billy and Harvard run this show. "Jake, I think it would be really smart if we got you out of here right now," Billy said. "You better think again, kid, because I'm not leaving without Zoe." Billy looked at Harvard, who shook his head very slightly. Bobby looked at his feet. "You guys gonna help me help Zoe, or what?" Jake asked. Silence. Complete, total silence. Then Harvard put his hand on Jake's shoulder. And Jake realized Bobby Taylor was crying. "Jake," Harvard said, his voice thick with emotion. "Zoe doesn't need our help anymore." No. Jake knew what they were telling him, but he couldn't believe it. He looked at Billy and saw the awful truth echoed in the kid's eyes. "She's dead," Billy said. "I'm sorry, Jake."

Chapter 19 Zoe was dead. Jake stood there. Somehow he managed to stand there, to keep his knees from crumbling, to keep himself from folding into a ball of pain and anguish. "No," he said. ' 'Lucky saw that prick Vincent kill her. He shot her right before the power went down." Wes sounded strangled. Zoe was dead. Pain screamed through Jake, growing louder, stronger with every beat of his heart, with every ragged breath that he took. And as it grew, it changed. It boiled and churned and hardened and blackened, and it numbed him. It deadened him, and all the joy and the life that Zoe had breathed back into him with her laughter and brightness over the past few weeks dried up and skittered away like leaves in the cold winter wind. Zoe was dead. "Please, Jake," Harvard said again. "We've got what we came for. The Triple X has been recovered. It's time to move you to safety, sir." Zoe's arm was on fire. She sat on the floor of Christopher Vincent's inner office in the dim emergency light, bleeding onto the carpet, listening to the sound of the CRO guards pounding on the steel-reinforced door. She'd surprised Vincent by rushing toward him rather than away right before he'd discharged his weapon. She'd dived for his feet, and he'd tried to compensate, but his bullet had only skimmed her. It was just enough to make her bleed like crazy and hurt like hell. But at least she wasn't dead. And the pain was a good thing. She could use it to keep her focus—to keep herself from blacking out from that blow to the head he'd given her. She crawled toward Christopher's desk on her hands and knees, afraid if she stood up, she'd fall over. She searched the desks, hoping for some kind of weapon—a handgun, a switchblade, anything. She found a book of matches and... She had no pockets. Damn, not wearing her jeans was so inconvenient. She tucked it into her bra, hoping she wouldn't inadvertently light herself on fire. The door to the fabled inner chamber was still tightly locked, and she searched for a paper clip. She unfolded it and set to work on the lock. Jake looked at the Uzi in his hands. "Does somebody have an M16 for me, or am I going to have to use this piece of crap?" The captain finally cleared his throat and spoke. "Begging your pardon, Admiral—" He looked into the man's compassionate brown eyes. "No," he said. "No, Captain, I'm not ready to be taken to safety. I suggest if you have further support available, you talk to them via radio and tell them about the hole I just blew in the fence. Remind them that there are women and children here. I need eyes open and brains working. No autopilot. The same goes for the rest of you. Because we're going in there. Our goals are twofold, gentlemen. We're going to apprehend Christopher Vincent. And we're going to recover Zoe's body. She was a member of this team, and SEALs don't leave teammates behind. Even when they're KIA." Killed in action. Jake's voice shook. Even the numbness spreading through him couldn't keep him from hurting as he spoke the acronym he'd hated so passionately for so many years. Zoe had loved him. A miracle had happened, and he'd been given a second chance to find happiness. She hadn't been Daisy, but no one was. No one could have replaced all that he'd had with Daisy. But in the exact same way, Daisy hadn't been Zoe. Zoe had touched parts of Jake's soul that Daisy would never have been able to reach even if their life together had lasted another thirty years. There was no way really to compare, no contest as to which woman he had loved most, because although he had loved them both, he'd loved them differently. And yet, when Zoe had offered him forever, he'd been too obsessed with doing the math. He was too old for her. When she turned fifty, he'd be seventy-four—if he even lived that long. It had seemed so absurd, and he couldn't understand why she would want that, why she would want him. But he understood now. Because love didn't always make mathematical sense. And forever was completely relative. Zoe wasn't ever going to turn fifty now. Not ever. Her forever had been obscenely short. And Jake had forsaken every opportunity in the far-too-briefness of their time together and hadn't even told her that he loved her. He felt ancient as he looked into the still-young faces of his SEAL team. "I loved her," he said, his words far too little, far too late. "Who's going to help me bring her out?"

Bobby stepped forward, pulling a twelve-gauge shotgun from a holster he wore on his back. "Since you're taking the point, Admiral, you might want to carry this." Admiral. When Bobby said it like that, it wasn't a title, it wasn't a rank. It was his old nickname from Nam. Harvard nodded, his dark brown eyes deadly. "We're right behind you, Admiral. Lead the way." Zoe found it. The Triple X. Behind the locked door to Vincent's inner chamber, inside a cheaply made safe. It was no longer stored in the testing lab's metal canisters. Instead, someone had put the powder in old coffee cans. Here at the CRO compound, they'd replaced the Fol-gers crystals with the dried ingredients of a deadly nerve gas. In the office, the door strained against the battering it was receiving from Vincent and his guards. Zoe closed and locked the door to the inner chamber, and using all her Girl Scout training, she set about building a campfire in a small metal trash can right on top of Christopher Vincent's conference table. She could only destroy half of the chemicals. There was no sprinkler system in this part of the factory, but the possibility of someone bursting in and spraying the fire with water and creating a massive amount of potent Trip X was not worth the risk. She used single sheets of paper as kindling and twisted chunks of computer reports in place of wood. She took the matchbook from her bra and lit the fire, waiting for it to really start burning before she added the A component of the Triple X. She knew that the chemical would burn clean. The smoke would be nontoxic. But smoke didn't have to be toxic to kill. This room had no windows and only the one door. Already the smoke was chokingly thick. She added the first coffee can of chemicals to the fire, then stayed low to the floor. She stayed as far away as she could from the flames, praying she'd have time to destroy all the chemicals before the smoke overcame her. The fire alarm went off. Jake and his team had just moved out of the stairwell and onto the fifth floor. The noise was deafening—it came from one of those old-fashioned bells attached to the concrete block wall. It was good. It would mask their approach. No one would hear them coming. There was one emergency light at the end of the hallway. It was old, with a bulb that sputtered and flickered, giving the impression that they were lit by leaping flames. Welcome to hell. Jake slowed as they moved closer to the door that led to Christopher Vincent's private suite of rooms. And when the door opened, he moved against the wall into the shadows. He didn't need to look behind him to know that Harvard and the rest of the team had disappeared, as well. Christopher came striding out. He was followed by his entourage of guards and lieutenants. "Get the car, Reilly," he ordered. "Bring it to the front and—" Jake stepped into the light, shotgun held high, finger heavy on the trigger. "I think you can probably leave the car in the garage for now, Reilly," he said, shouting over the noise of the alarm. Christopher Vincent froze, but behind him, a half a dozen guards shouldered their weapons. Jake didn't have to turn around to know that his SEALs were standing behind him, their weapons already locked and loaded. He could see them in the eyes of Vincent and his men. "What do you think, Chris?" Jake shouted over the alarm. "My guess is we could have it out right here. Maybe some of your guys will get away, but you sure as hell won't. Do you know what a twelve-gauge can do to a man at ten feet?" Jake turned his head slightly without ever letting his eyes leave Vincent. "Hey, Bob, what you got in here? Double ought buckshot?" "Five rounds of it." Bobby's deep bass voice had no problem cutting through the racket. "One round'll do," Jake told the CRO leader. "Think of it as the equivalent of me firing, oh, about six or seven regular bullets all at the same place at the same time. It'll put a big hole in you, Chris. And while I'm looking forward to doing that, you may not be, in which case it would be really smart of

you to tell your men to drop their weapons. Now." Jake had played mind-game poker plenty in his career, but this was no bluff. He suspected Chris recognized the edge of insanity he saw in Jake's eyes. "Do as they say," Christopher ordered his men. Harvard took over, collecting their weapons, pushing the men onto the ground and searching them none too gently for anything they might be carrying concealed. "Can someone shut that damn thing off?" Jake asked. His head was aching and his stomach hurt. Part of him wished Christopher Vincent hadn't given in. It didn't seem fair that he was still alive while Zoe... He was going to have to go in there, into Vincent's quarters, and carry Zoe's lifeless body out of here. Bobby raised his MP-4, and, firing a single burst, shot the alarm bell right off the wall. The silence seemed only to emphasize Zoe's absence. "McCoy and I'll hold Bozo and his clowns here," Captain Joe Catalanotto of Alpha Squad volunteered. "We've got another team already inside the gate coming up to meet us, but it might be a good idea to use Vincent as a hostage, guaranteeing our safety out of here." "I've got a sit-rep if you want one, Admiral," Harvard said. Jake didn't have a headset, but the other men did. "Any casualties?" "None so far." Harvard corrected himself. "Besides Zoe." He cleared his throat. "The other teams have run into some opposition, but not a lot. A couple of men have locked themselves in one of the storage sheds. And we had a sniper on the roof with the lousiest aim in the Western Hemisphere. He's been taken care of." Jake looked at the captain. "These dirtwads are going to be charged with treason, conspiracy and murder. If they so much as look at you funny," he ordered, "shoot them." "With pleasure." Wes stepped forward. “Admiral, I want to bring to your attention the fact that there's a raftload of smoke coming from Vincent's quarters." Smoke. It was rolling out the door, already thick against the high ceiling of the hallway. Holding his shotgun at the ready, Jake pushed through the door into Christopher's outer office. The smoke was even thicker in there. He braced himself as he made a quick visual sweep of the room, but there was no sign of Zoe, no broken body bleeding on the floor. The door to Christopher's private office was hanging on its hinges. The smoke seemed to be coming from there. Covering his face with one arm, Jake again took the point. Zoe wasn't in Christopher's private office, either. The smoke was coming from behind the door to Christopher's inner chamber. Hope hit Jake hard in the chest, taking his breath away. Somehow Zoe had survived. Somehow she'd gotten in here, found the Triple X and was now...burning it? But Harvard had told him they'd recovered the missing canisters, and Lucky had seen Zoe.... Die? Or fall? And what exactly had been inside those canisters Lieutenant Jones had recovered? No one besides Zoe would be able to identify whether or not it actually was the Trip X. The door to the inner chamber was locked, and Jake pounded on it. "Zoe! It's me! It's Jake—open up!" Harvard was beside him, compassion in his eyes. "Sir, I don't—" "She's in there!" Jake was sure of it. But the smoke was in there, as well. And just standing out here was making him choke and cough. This door was as heavily reinforced as the other. The lock was a piece of junk, but it would take too many precious minutes to pick it. If Zoe was in there, she'd been breathing in the smoke for quite some time. If she was in there, she was dying. Jake hadn't been able to do a damn thing when Daisy had died. He hadn't been able to fight her cancer, to wrestle it to the ground and even try to save her life. But he sure as hell could try to save Zoe. "Stand back," Jake ordered, tossing the shotgun to Bob and taking the last of his C-4 from his pocket. It wouldn't take much, just a little around the

lock. He lit the fuse, moved behind Vincent's desk and... Boom. The door swung open, and smoke billowed out, chokingly thick, coming from a garbage can that flamed atop a huge conference table. Jake was the only man without a gas mask but the first one inside. He couldn't see a damned thing, but if Zoe were in here, she'd be on the ground. He found her in the corner. She'd torn nearly half the carpeting off the floor, yanking and pulling it on top of her to create a small pocket of air for herself. She was unconscious and streaked with blood from a bullet wound on her arm and soot from the fire. But she was still breathing. She was still alive. Jake didn't pretend that he wasn't crying as he carried her out of there. "She's alive!" Wes was practically running in circles around him. Harvard followed him, too, taking off his gas mask as they hit the fresher air in the hallway. "Sir, we intercepted six canisters of what we thought was the Triple X outside the gates. But it sure looks as if Zoe thinks she's found the chemicals right here. There are six coffee cans in there, three empty. I think that's what she was burning." "Stay with the rest of it, Senior," Jake ordered him. "Don't let it out of your sight." He raised his voice. "I need to get Zoe down to the medics now. Let's get this sideshow moving!" With Vincent and his men in handcuffs, Bobby's shotgun aimed at the CRO leader's head, and with the rest of the SEALs surrounding Jake and Zoe, they went down the stairs and into the yard without mishap. FInCOM had arrived, and as the dark-suited agents read Christopher Vincent his rights, Jake carried Zoe through the hole he'd blown in the fence to a waiting ambulance. The medic gestured to a cot inside the vehicle. "You can put her there, sir." "No," Jake said. The medic looked at him in surprise. Jake smiled to soften his words. "No, you see, I'm...I'm not going to let her go." "Ever?" He looked down to see Zoe's eyes had opened. Her voice was whispery from a throat that must've been raw from all the smoke she'd inhaled. Her hair hung in strings from her French braid, and her face was streaked with soot and blood. He was certain he'd never seen her look more beautiful. "No," he told her. "Not ever." The medic was about twenty years old and trying as hard as he could not to listen as he gently slipped several thin tubes from an oxygen tank into Zoe's nose. "Give us a minute," Jake said to him. "Will you, pal?" The medic faded back. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe Jake just stopped seeing him as he lost himself in the depths of Zoe's eyes. He touched her then, her face, her hair, her throat, unable to keep his eyes from filling again with tears. "I thought you died," he told her quietly. "Lieutenant O'Donlon saw Vincent shoot you, and...we all thought he'd killed you, Zo." "Oh, Jake," she whispered. "But then you really could've died," he said. "What the hell were you doing, starting a fire in a room without ventilation?" "I was doing my job," she said quietly. "And I trusted that you'd do yours and come get me out of there. I took a gamble that this teamwork thing would pay off." She smiled. "I won." "Yeah," Jake said. "I did, too." "I think this would be a really great time for you to kiss me," she said. Jake laughed and kissed her. "I love you, Zoe." She shook her head. "Oh, Jake, I don't need you to say that." "Yeah, but I need to say it," he said. "I thought I would never get a chance to. I thought..." He had to clear his throat before he could go on. "Zoe, I would be honored if you would agree to make this craziness legal and stay Zoe Robinson. You see, I'm too old to—"

"Jake, how can you ask me to marry you—in a com pletely half-assed way, might I add—and then in the same breath claim to be too old—" "You want to let me finish? I am too old. I'm too old not to learn from the past. I didn't expect to outlive Daisy," Jake told her. "And let's face it, babe, your job being what it is, it's entirely possible that I could outlive you, too. I had a taste of that today, and it was pretty damn sobering. The truth is, neither of us can possibly know how much time we'll have together. And we're both of us too old to waste another precious second of it." Tears were leaving clean tracks in the soot on her face. For a tough operator, Zoe cried more than just about anyone he'd ever met. He kissed her. "Marry me." He kissed her again, longer this time. "I want you to be my friend and my lover and my wife for however long forever lasts." He smiled at her. "How was that? Not quite so half-assed that time?" She was smiling through her tears. "That was...inspirational. And very persuasive." She laughed. "Not that I particularly needed persuading." "If that's a yes," Jake said, "it's very half-assed." Zoe laughed. "Yes," she said. "It's a yes." Jake lost himself in the sweetness of her lips. He'd thought she'd been taken from him. He'd lived an entire wretched lifetime in that endless fifteen minutes in which he'd believed she was dead. He loved this woman completely. But there would be people who looked at them and wondered, people who wouldn't understand. "I have to be really honest with you," he said, looking into her dark brown eyes. "There's a big difference in our ages, and nothing we do or say is going to change that. I know you don't care, and I don't care anymore, either. But people—my colleagues—are going to look at me and look at you and think I'm getting away with something here." Zoe reached up and touched his face. ' 'Your colleagues and friends are going to look at me and think I'm a poor substitute for Daisy." "You are," Jake told her. "But then again, Daisy would be a tremendously poor substitute for you." He kissed her hand. "I'm not looking for a replacement for Daisy. There's no such thing. I'll always love her—it's important you know that because she's part of my past. But there's room in my heart for both the past and the future. And babe, you're my future." There was so much love in her eyes as she looked at him he nearly started crying again. "I love you," she said. Jake smiled. "I know."

Epilogue You all right?" Billy Hawken asked. "Yeah," Jake said as the limousine pulled up to the church. He looked at the kid. Kid. Jeez. The kid was a Navy SEAL with the somewhat dangerous-sounding nickname of Crash. The kid was also older than Zoe. The kid hadn't been a kid in fifteen years. Heck, even back when Billy was ten, he hadn't really been a kid. He was still far too serious, far too intense—except when he was with Nell, his wife. Jake had heard the two of them giggling together until nearly two last night, up in the guest bedroom. Crash Haw-ken—giggling. Whoever would've thought it possible? "Are you okay with this, kid?" he asked as they got out of the car. Kid. Jeez. Old habits died hard. Billy didn't hesitate. "I am. Completely," he said. He smiled. "Zoe looks at you the way Nell looks at me. I'm happy for you, Jake." "I love her," Jake told the young man who was the closest thing to a son he'd ever had, the young man to whom Daisy was the closest thing to a mother he'd ever had. "I know," Billy said. "I've seen the way you look at her, too." "This isn't just a...a second-best kind of thing." Jake felt the need to explain. "Zoe and me, I mean. But that doesn't mean that Daisy wasn't—and isn't—first, too. God, does that make any sense at all?" Billy hugged him. "Yeah, Jake," he said. "You know, I had a dream about Daisy last night. She was having lunch with William Shakespeare. It was weird, but nice. One of those dreams where you wake up and feel really good." "Shakespeare, huh?" Jake laughed. "Cool." "Yeah." Billy motioned toward the church. "You want to go in?" "Yeah," Jake said. "Come on, kid. Let's go get me married." He put his arm around Billy's shoulders, and together they walked up the stairs. Zoe was a vision. Walking toward him, down the aisle of the church, on her father's arm. Sergeant Matthew Lange, USMC, Retired. Matt seemed like a really nice guy, a straightforward, honest guy. He seemed genuinely pleased that Zoe was marrying Jake. Lisa Lange, Zoe's mother, was also honestly happy for her daughter. They were good people, solid people. It was kind of cool, actually. He'd never had in-laws before. His children had a chance of knowing at least one set of their grandparents. His children. Zoe smiled into his eyes as she took her place beside him, and he couldn't help but think about last night. While Billy and Nell had been giggling in the guest bedroom, Jake and Zoe had been sharing their own secrets. Such as the fact that Zoe wanted his baby. Enough to retire from her job as a field agent—at least temporarily. It hadn't been an easy decision to make. She was good at what she did. And the Agency would miss her, badly. Jake suspected her decision was at least partly based on the fact that she knew how badly he wanted children. Daisy had been unable, and found the adoption process too painful, and... He'd tried to convince Zoe that he would be okay with whatever decision she came to, but the truth was, his biological clock was ticking. Sure, he could father a baby when he was sixty-five, but how long would he be around to take care of that child? Last night, she'd come to him with the ultimate wedding gift. And last night, they just may have created a small miracle. Jake took her hand. And as he promised Zoe all that he could promise her, he smiled. "I love you," he whispered as he bent to kiss his bride. Zoe smiled, too. She knew.

8 - Identity: Unknown (1999)

Chapter 1 ”hey, hey, hey there, Mission Man! How ya doin', baby? Rise and shine! That's my man—open those eyes. It's definitely the a.m. and in the a.m. here at the First Church Shelter, we go from horizontal to vertical." Pain. His entire world had turned into a trinity of pain, bright lights and an incredibly persistent voice. He tried to turn away, tried to burrow down into the hard mattress of the cot, but hands shook him—gently at first, then harder. "Yo, Mish. I know it's early, man, but we've got to get these beds cleaned up and put away. We're serving up a nice warm breakfast along with an A.A. meeting in just a few minutes. Why don't you give it a try? Sit and listen, even if your stomach can't handle the chow." A.A. Alcoholics Anonymous. Could it possibly be a hangover that was making him feel as if he'd been hit by a tank? He tried to identify the sour taste in his mouth but couldn't. It was only bitter. He opened his eyes again, and again his head felt split in two. But this time he clenched his teeth, forcing his eyes to focus on a smiling, cheerful, weather-beaten African-American face. "I knew you could do it, Mish." The voice belonged to the face. "How you doin', man? Remember me? Remember your good friend Jarell? That's right, I tucked you into this bed last night. Come on, let's get you up and headed toward the men's room. You could use a serious washing up, my man." "Where am I?" His own voice was low, rough and oddly unfamiliar to his ears. "The First Church Homeless Shelter, on First Avenue." The pain was relentless, but now it was mixed with confusion as he slowly, achingly sat up. "First Avenue...?" "Hmm," the man named Jarell made a face. "Looks like you had yourself a bigger binge than I thought. You're in Wyatt City, friend. In New Mexico. Ring any bells?" He started to shake his head, but the hellish pain intensified. He held himself very still instead, supporting his forehead with his hands. "No." He spoke very softly, hoping Jarell would do the same. "How did I get here?" "A couple of Good Sams brought you in last night." Jarell hadn't gotten the hint, and continued as loud as ever. "Said they found you taking a little nap with your nose in a puddle, a few blocks over in the alley. I checked your pockets for your wallet, but it was gone. Seems you'd already been rolled. I'm surprised they didn't take those pretty cowboy boots of yours. From the looks of things, though, they did take the time to kick you while you were down." He brought his hand to the side of his head. His hair was filthy, and it felt crusty, as if it were caked with blood and muck. "Come on and wash up, Mission Man. We'll get you back on track. Today's a brand-new day, and here at the shelter, the past does not equal the future. From here on in, you can start your life anew. Whatever's come before can just be swept away." Jarell laughed, a rich, joyful sound. "Hey, you've been here more than six hours, Mish. You can get your six-hour chip. You know that saying, One Day at a Time? Well, here on First Avenue, we say one hour at a time." He let Jarell help him to his feet. The world spun, and he closed his eyes for a moment. "You got those feet working yet, Mish? That's my man. One foot in front of the other. Bathroom's dead ahead. Can you make it on your own?" "Yes." He wasn't sure that he could, but he would have said nearly anything to get away from Jarell's too-loud, too-cheerful, too-friendly voice. Right now the only friend he wanted near him was the blessed, healing silence of unconsciousness. "You come on out after you get cleaned up," the old man called after him. "I'll help you get some food for both your belly and your soul." He left Jarell's echoing laughter behind and pushed the men's-room door open with a shaking hand. All of the sinks were occupied, so he leaned against the cool tile of the wall, waiting for a turn to wash. The large room was filled with men, but none of them spoke. They moved quietly, gingerly, apologetically, careful not to meet anyone's eyes. They were careful not to trespass into one another's personal space even with a glance. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was just another one of them—disheveled and unkempt, hair uncombed, clothes ragged and dirty. He had the bonus of a darkening patch of blood on his dirt-stained T-shirt, the bright red turning as dingy as the rest of him as it dried. A sink opened up, and he moved toward it, picking up a bar of plain white soap to scrub the grime from his hands and upper arms before he tackled his face. What he truly needed was a shower. Or a hosing down. His head still throbbed, and he moved it carefully, leaning toward the mirror, trying to catch a look at the gash above his right ear. The wound was mostly covered by his dark shaggy hair and... He froze, staring at the face in front of him. He turned his head to the right and then to the left. The face in the mirror moved when he moved. It definitely belonged to him. But it was the face of a stranger.

It was a lean face, with high cheekbones. It had a strong chin that badly needed a shave, except for a barren spot marked by a jagged white scar. A thin-lipped mouth cut a grim line, and two feverish-looking eyes that weren't quite brown and weren't quite green stared back at him. Tiny squint lines surrounded the edges of those eyes, as if this face had spent a good share of its time in the hot sun. He filled his hands with water, splashing it up and onto his face. When he looked into the mirror again, the same stranger looked back at him. He hadn't managed to wash that face away and re veal... what? A more familiar visage? He closed his eyes, trying to recall features that would've been more recognizable. He came up blank. A wave of dizziness hit him hard and he grabbed at the sink, lowering his head and closing his eyes until the worst of it passed. How did he get here? Wyatt City, New Mexico. It was a small city, a town really, in the southern part of the state. It wasn't his home...was it? He must've been here working on...working on... He couldn't remember. Maybe he was still drunk. He'd heard about people who'd had so much to drink they went into a blackout. Maybe that was what this was. Maybe all he'd have to do was sleep this off and everything he was having trouble remembering would come back to him. Except he couldn't remember drinking. His head hurt like the devil. Heaven knew all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep until the pounding in his brain stopped. He leaned down into the sink and tried to rinse the cut on the side of his head. The lukewarm water stung, but he closed his eyes and persisted until he was sure it was clean. Long hair dripping, he blotted himself dry with some paper towels, gritting his teeth as the rough paper scraped against his abraded skin. It was too late to get stitches. The wound had already started to scab. He was going to have a scar from this one, but maybe some butterfly bandages would help. He'd need his first-aid kit and... And... He stared at himself in the mirror. First-aid kit. He wasn't a doctor. How could he be a doctor? And yet... The men's-room door opened with a bang, and he spun around, reaching beneath his jacket for... Reaching for... Dizzy, he staggered back against the sink. He wasn't wearing a jacket, just this sorry T-shirt. And sweet Lord help him, but he had to remember not to move fast or he'd end up falling on his face. "The Ladies' Auxiliary is having a clothing drive," one of the shelter workers announced in a too-loud voice that made many of the men in the room cringe. "We've got a box of clean T-shirts, and another one full of blue jeans. Please take only what you need and save some for the next guy." He looked up into the mirror at the stained and grimy T-shirt he wore. It had been white at one time—probably just last night, although he still couldn't remember back that far. He pulled it up and over his head, gingerly avoiding the wound above his right ear. "Dirty laundry goes into this basket over here," the shelter worker trumpeted. "If it's labeled, you'll get it back. If it's torn, throw it out and take two." The worker looked up at him. "What size do you need?" ' 'Medium." It was something of a relief to finally know the answer to a question. "You in need of jeans?" He looked down. The black pants he was wearing were badly torn. "I could use some, yeah. Thirty-two waist, thirty-four inseam, if you've got 'em." He knew that, too. "You're the one Jarell called the Mission Man," the shelter worker remarked as he searched through the box. "He's a good guy—Jarell. A little too religious for my taste, but that wouldn't bother you, would it? He's always giving everyone nicknames. Mission Man. Mish. What kind of name is Mish anyway?" His name. It was...to name? It was, but it wasn't. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to remember his name. Dammit, he couldn't even remember his name. "Here's a pair what's got a thirty-three-inch waist," the shelter worker told him. "That's the best I can do for you, Mish." Mish. He took the jeans, briefly closing his eyes so that the room would stop spinning around him, calming himself. So what if he couldn't remember his name? It would come back to him. With a good night's sleep, it would all come back to him. He told himself that again and again, using it like a mantra. He was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine. All he needed was a chance to close his eyes. He went into the corner of the room, out of the line of traffic around the sinks and stalls, and started to pull off one of his boots.

He quickly pulled it back on again. He was carrying a side arm. A .22-caliber. In his boot. It was slightly larger than palm-sized, black and deadly looking. There was something else in his boot, too. He could feel it now, pressing against his ankle. He took his jeans into one of the stalls, locking the door behind him. Slipping off the boot, he looked inside. The .22 was still there, along with an enormous fold of cash— all big bills. There was nothing smaller than a hundred in the thick rubber-banded wad. He flipped through it quickly. He was carrying more than five thousand dollars in his boot. There was something else there, too. A piece of paper. There was writing on it, but his vision swam, blurring the letters. He took off the other boot, but there was nothing in that one. He searched the pockets of his pants, but came up empty there, too. He stripped off his pants and pulled on the clean jeans, careful to brace himself against the metal wall the entire time. His world was tilting, and he was in constant danger of losing his balance. He slipped his boots back on, somehow knowing how to position the weapon so that it wouldn't bother him. How could he know that, know what size jeans he wore, yet not know his own name? He put most of the money and the piece of paper back in his boot as well, leaving several hundred dollars in the front pocket of his jeans. He came face-to-face with his reflection in the mirror when he opened the door of the stall. Even dressed in clean clothes, even washed up, long, dark hair slicked back with water, even pale and gray from the pain that still pounded through his battered body, he looked like a man most folks would take a wide detour around. His chin had a heavy growth of stubble, accentuating his already sun-darkened complexion. His black T-shirt had been washed more than once and had shrunk slightly. It hugged his upper body, outlining the muscles of his chest and arms. He looked like a fighter, hard and lean. Whatever he really did for a living, he still couldn't remember. But considering that .22 he had hidden in his boot, he could probably cross kindergarten teacher off the list of possibilities. Rolling up his torn pants, he tucked them under his arms. He pushed open the men's-room door and skirted the room where breakfast and temperance were being served. Instead, he headed directly for the door that led to the street. On his way out, as he passed the shelter's donation box, he dropped a hundred-dollar bill inside. "Mr. Whitlow! Wait!" Rebecca Keyes headed for Silver at a dead run, swing ing herself up into the saddle and digging her boots into the big gelding's sides. Silver surged forward, in hot pursuit of the gleaming white limousine that was pulling down the dude ranch's dirt driveway. "Mr. Whitlow!" She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled piercingly, and finally the vehicle slowed. Silver blew out a loud burst of air as she reined him in next to the almost absurdly stretched-out body of the car. With a faint mechanical whine, the window came down and Justin Whitlow's ruddy face appeared. He didn't look happy. "I'm sorry, sir," Becca said breathlessly from her perch atop Silver. "Hazel told me you were leaving, that you were going to be gone a month and I... I wish you had informed me earlier, sir. We have several things to discuss that can't wait an entire month." "If this is more of your wages garbage—" "No, sir—" "Thank God." "—because it's not garbage. It's a very real problem we're having here at the Lazy Eight. We're not paying the ranch hands enough money, so they're not sticking around. Did you know we've just lost Rafe McKinnon, Mr. Whitlow?" Whitlow stuck a cigarette between his lips, squinting up at her as he lit it. "Hire someone new." "That's what I've been doing with staff turnovers," she said with barely concealed frustration. "Hiring someone new. And someone else new. And..." She drew in a deep breath and tried her best to sound reasonable. "If we'd simply paid someone solid and responsible like Rafe another two or three dollars an hour—" "Then he would've asked for another raise next year." "Which he would have deserved. Frankly, Mr. Whit low, I don't know where I'm going to find another stable hand like Rafe. He was a good man. He was reliable and intelligent and—"

"He was obviously overqualified. I wish him luck at his next endeavor. We don't need to hire rocket scientists, for God's sake. And how reliable do you need a man to be, to shovel—" "Mucking out the stalls is only a small part of the job description," Becca countered hotly. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down again. She'd never won a shouting match with her boss, and she wasn't likely to start winning that way now. "Mr. Whitlow, I don't know how you expect the Lazy Eight to gain the reputation of being a high-class dude ranch if you insist on paying your staff slave wages." "Slave wages for slave labor," Whitlow commented. "My point exactly," Becca said, but he just blew cigarette smoke out the window. "Don't forget about that opera thing in Santa Fe next week," he commanded as, with a soft buzz, his window began to shut. "I'm counting on you to be there. And for heaven's sake, dress like a woman. None of those pant-suits that you wore last time." "Mr. Whitlow—" But the window closed tightly. She had been dismissed. Silver sidled to the right as the limo pulled away and Becca swore pungently. Slave wages for slave labor, indeed. Except Whitlow had it wrong. He believed he was paying his staff low wages for low-priority, bottom-of-thebarrel, physical-labor jobs. But the truth was, without those jobs done and done well, the entire ranch suffered. And if the owner insisted on paying low, the quality of work he'd get in return would also be low. Or the workers would leave— like Rafe McKinnon had, and Tom Morgan last week, and Bob Sharp earlier in the month. It seemed all Becca did these days was office work. Far too often, she found herself sitting inside, behind her desk, doing phone interviews to fill all-too-frequently-vacated staff positions. She'd taken this job at the Lazy Eight Ranch because it was an opportunity to use her management skills and put in most of her hours out-of-doors. She loved riding, loved the hot New Mexico sun, loved the way the storm clouds raced across the plains, loved the reds and browns and muted greens of the mountains. She loved the Lazy Eight Ranch. But working for Justin Whitlow was the pits. And who said a woman couldn't look feminine in a pair of pants, anyway? What did he expect her to wear to schmooze with his friends and business associates? Something extremely low-cut, with sequins? As if she could even afford such a thing on her pitiful salary. Yes, she loved it here, but if things didn't change, it was only a matter of time before she walked, too. The night was moonless, but he lay quietly on his stomach, taking the time for his eyes to get fully used to the dark again, and in particular the dark here, just inside of the high-security fence. He breathed with the sounds of the night—crickets and bullfrogs and the trees whispering overhead in the gentle wind. He could see the house on the hill, and he silently crept closer on his knees and elbows, staying low, staying invisible. He stopped, smelling the cigarette before he saw the red glow of light. The man was alone. Far enough away from the house. He silently lifted his rifle, double-checking it before he sighted along the sniper's scope. He brought the night-vision setting up a notch so he could really look at the target. And the man with the cigarette was the target. Not the gardener out for a late-night stroll. Not the chef hunting for the perfect variety of wild mushrooms. No, he recognized this man's face from the photos he'd seen. He gently squeezed the trigger and... Boom. The muffled sound of the gunshot still managed to pierce his eardrums, set his teeth on edge, stab through his brain. Eyes wide open, he sat up, instantly aware that he'd been dreaming. The only noise in the dimly lit room was his ragged breathing. But the room was unfamiliar, and he felt a new wave of panic. Where in hell was he now? Wherever it was, it was a far cry from the church shelter he'd woken up in yesterday morning. His gaze swept across the impersonal furnishings, the cheesy oil paintings on the wall, and it came to him. Motel room. Yes, he'd checked in to this place yesterday morning, after leaving the shelter. His head had been pounding, and he'd wanted only to fall into bed and sleep. He'd paid in cash and signed the registration M. Man. Heavy curtains were pulled across the windows, letting in only a tiny sliver of bright morning light. Hands still shaking from his dream, he pushed the covers off, aware that the sheets were soaked with his own sweat. His head still felt tender, but no longer as if the slightest movement would make him want to scream. He could remember, almost word for word, the brief conversation he'd had with the man at the motel's front desk. He remembered the aromatic smell of coffee in the motel lobby. He remembered the clerk's name—Ron— worn on a badge on his chest. He remembered how endlessly long it had taken Ron to find the key to room 246. He remembered pulling himself up the stairs, one step at a time, driven by the knowledge that soothing

darkness and a soft bed were within reach. He could remember that dream he'd just had, too, and he didn't want to think about what it might mean. He stood up, aware that the movement jarred him only slightly, and crossed to the air conditioner, turning it to a higher setting. The fan motor kicked in with a louder hum, and coolness hit him in a wave of canned air. Slowly, deliberately, he sat back down on the edge of the bed. He could remember the shelter. He could see Jarell's smiling face, hear the sound of his cheerful voice. Hey, Mission Man. Hey, Mish! He closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders, waiting for memories of being brought into the shelter, waiting for memories of what had happened that night. But there was nothing there. There was only...emptiness. Nothingness. As if before he'd been brought to the First Avenue Shelter, he hadn't existed. He could feel a new sheen of perspiration covering his body despite the cooler setting of the air conditioner. He'd slept off whatever had ailed him —whether it was the result of alcohol or some other controlled substance or simply the blow he'd received to his head. In fact, he'd slept solidly for more than twenty-four hours. So why the hell couldn't he remember his own damned name? Hey, Mission Man. Hey, Mish! He stood up, staggering slightly in his haste to get to the mirror that covered the wall in front of a double set of sinks. He flipped on the light and... He remembered the face that looked back at him. He remembered it—but only from the bathroom mirror at the shelter. Before that, there was... Nothing. ' 'Mish.” He spoke aloud the nickname Jarell had given him. The word sent a small ripple of recognition through him again, as it had yesterday morning. But what kind of name was Mish? Was it possible that he remembered— very faintly—Jarell calling him that when he was first brought into the shelter? Mish. He gazed into the unfamiliar swirl of green and brown that were his own eyes. What kind of name was Mish? Well, right now, it was the only name he'd got. Mish splashed cold water on his face, then cupped his hand under the faucet and drank deeply. What was he supposed to do now? Go to the police? No, that was out of the question. He couldn't do that. He wouldn't be able to explain the .22 and that huge wad of money he was carrying in his boot. He knew—he didn't know how he knew, but he did—that he couldn't tell the police, couldn't tell anyone anything. He couldn't let anyone know why he was here. Not that he could have, even if he'd wanted to. He didn't know why he was here. So what was he supposed to do? Check himself into a hospital? He turned his head, gingerly parting his hair to look at the gash on his head. Without yesterday's fog of pain clouding his eyes, he knew with a chilling certainty that the wound on his head had been the result of a bullet's glancing blow. He'd been shot, nearly killed. No, he couldn't go to a hospital, either—they'd be forced to report his injury to the police. He dried his face and hands on a small white towel and went back into the main part of the motel room. His boots were on the floor near the bed, where he'd left them last night. He picked up the right one, dumping its contents onto the rumpled sheets. He turned on the light and sat down, picking up the .22. It fit perfectly, familiarly into his hand. He couldn't remember his own name, but somehow he knew he'd be able to use this weapon with deadly accuracy if the need ever arose. This weapon, and any other, as well. He remembered his dream, and he set it back down on the bed. He pulled the rubber band off the fold of money, and the piece of white paper that was fastened along with it slipped free. It was fax paper; the slippery, shiny kind that was hard to read. He picked it up and angled it toward the light. "Lazy Eight Ranch," he read. Again, the name was totally unfamiliar to him. There was an address and directions to some kind of spread up in the northern part of the state. From what he could tell from the directions, it was about four hours outside of Santa Fe. The words were all typed, except for a note scrawled across the bottom in big round handwriting. "Looking forward to meeting you." It was signed, "Rebecca Keyes." Mish opened the bedside-table drawer, looking for a telephone book. But the only thing inside was a Gideons Bible. He picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. "Yeah, is there a train station or a bus depot in town?" he asked when the desk clerk came on the line.

"Greyhound's just down the street." "Can you give me the phone number?" He silently repeated the number the clerk gave him, hung up, then dialed the phone. He was going to Santa Fe.

Chapter 2 Becca was out front, helping Belinda and Dwayne welcome a van load of guests, when she first spotted him. He would have been very easy to miss—the solitary figure of a man walking slowly along the road. Yet even from this distance, she could tell that he was different. He didn't have the nonchalant swagger of the cowboys that worked the nearby ranches. He didn't carry the bags and sacks of crafts and jewelry that many of the local Native Americans took into Santa Fe to sell. He had only one small bag, efficiently tucked under one arm. He turned into the Lazy Eight's long drive, as somehow Becca had known he would. As he drew closer, she could see he wasn't wearing the Western gear that was the standard outfit of the Southwest. He had on the blue jeans, but he wore a new-looking T-shirt instead of a long-sleeved Western-cut button-down shirt. His arms were deeply tanned, as if he spent quite a bit of time outside. His black boots weren't the kind a real cowboy would wear, and he wore a baseball cap instead of a Stetson on his head. From a distance, he'd looked tall and imposing. Up close, he merely looked imposing. It was odd, really. He had to be at least an inch or so shorter than six feet, and he was slender, almost slight. Yet there was a power about him, a quiet strength that seemed to radiate from him. It may have been in the set of his shoulders or the angle of his chin. Or it may have been something in his dark eyes that made her want to step back a bit and keep her distance. His gaze swept across the drive, over the van and the luggage and the guests, over the ranch house, over the corral where Silver was waiting impatiently for another chance to stretch his legs, over Belinda and Dwayne, over her. With one quick flick of his eyes, he seemed to take her in, to memorize, appraise, and then dismiss. Becca tried to look away, but she couldn't. He was impossibly, harshly handsome—provided, of course, that a woman went for the dark and dangerous type. His face was slightly weathered, with high cheekbones that even Johnny Depp would've been jealous of. His lips were gracefully shaped, if perhaps a shade too thin, too grimly set. His dark hair was longer than she'd first thought, worn fastened back at the nape of his neck. His face was smooth-shaven, but he had a scar on his chin that added to his aura of danger. And those eyes... Becca watched as he approached Belinda. He spoke softly—too softly for Becca to hear his words—as he drew a piece of paper from his pocket. Belinda turned and pointed directly at Becca. He turned, too, and once again those eyes were on her, coolly appraising. He started toward her. Becca came down the ranch office steps, meeting him halfway, pushing her beatup Stetson further back on her short brown curls. "Can I help you?" "You're Rebecca Keyes." His voice was soft and ac-centless. His words weren't a question, but she answered him anyway. "That's right." His eyes weren't dark brown as she'd first thought. They were hazel—an almost otherworldly mix of green and brown and yellow and blue. She was staring. She knew she was staring, but she couldn't seem to stop. "You sent me this fax?" This time it was a question. Becca forced her gaze away from his face and looked down at the paper he held in his hands. It was indeed fax paper. She recognized the standard directions to the ranch, caught sight of the messy scribble of her handwriting at the bottom. "You must be Casey Parker." He repeated the name slowly. "Casey Parker." He didn't look the way he'd sounded during their telephone interview. She'd pictured a larger, older, beefier man. But no matter. She needed a hired hand, and all of his references had checked out. "Do you have any ID?" Becca asked. She smiled to soften her words and explained. ' 'It has more to do with filling out employee tax forms than verifying that you're who you say you are." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't. My wallet was stolen night before last. I got into some kind of fight and..." As if to prove his story, he took off his hat and she could see a long scrape above his right temple, disappearing into his wavy dark hair. He had a bruise on his cheekbone, too. She hadn't noticed it at first—it was barely discernible underneath the suntanned darkness of his skin. "I hope you don't make a habit of getting into fights." He smiled. It was just a slight upward curve of his lips, yet it managed to soften his harsh features. "I hope not, too." "You're a week early," Becca told him, hoping her briskness would counteract the effect his quiet smile and strange words had had on her, "but that's good, because another hand quit on me yesterday." He was silent, just standing there watching her with those eyes that seemed to see everything. For a moment, she was almost convinced he could see back in time, to yesterday morning's disastrous conversation with Justin Whitlow, and back even further to Rafe McKinnon's quiet resignation. For a moment, she was almost convinced he could see her anger and her frustration and her defeat.

"You do still want the job...?" she asked, suddenly afraid that he didn't like what he saw. After all, bad things always came in threes. He turned, squinting slightly at the blinding blueness of the summer sky. His gaze swept across the valley, and Becca was certain that unlike most people, this man saw, really saw the stark New Mexico countryside. She was sure that with his intense hazel eyes, he could see the terrible, almost painful beauty of the land. "You own this place?" he asked in his quiet voice. "I wish." The words came out automatically and all too heartfelt. As his eyes flicked in her direction, she felt exposed—as if, with those two little words, she'd given too much of herself away. But he just nodded, his lips curving very slightly in the beginnings of a smile. "Who does own it?" he asked. "I like to know the name of the man I'm working for." "The owner's name is Justin Whitlow," Becca told him. "He's the one who pays your wages. But I'm the boss. You'll be working for me." He nodded again, turning back to gaze out at the vista, but not before she saw a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. "I don't have a problem with that," he said quietly. "Some men do." "I'm not some men." He looked back at her again, and Becca knew without a doubt that his words were true. This quiet, slender man with the watchful hazel eyes wasn't just "some men." But exactly what kind of man he was, she didn't know for sure. "Hey, babe, long time no see." Lt. Lucky O'Donlon of U.S. Navy SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad pulled Veronica Catalanotto into his arms and kissed her hello as he came into the kitchen of his captain's house. "Luke. Hi. Did Frankie let you in?" Ronnie's smile was warm and she seemed genuinely glad to see him. And since she was one of the top ten most beautiful, nicest, smartest women he'd ever met, that welcoming smile was going to be good for quite a number of fantasy miles. But then she went and ruined it by smiling exactly the same way at Bobby and Wes, who had come in behind him. "How was your trip, boys?" she asked in her extremely classy British accent. Captain Joe Catalanotto's wife always called the intensely dangerous and highly covert operations that Alpha Squad was sent out on "trips." As if they'd been away sightseeing or visiting museums. Wes rolled his eyes. "Oh, man, Ron, we came really close to being cluster—" Bobby's size extra-extra-large elbow went solidly into his swim buddy's side. "Fine," Wes said quickly. "It was fine, Ronnie. As always. Thanks for asking, though." Veronica wasn't fooled. Her smile had faded, making her eyes look enormous in her face. "Is everyone all right? I mean, of course I've already asked Joe, but I'm not sure he'd even tell me if someone had been hurt." Ever since a year and a half ago, when the captain had nearly been killed by terrorists on what should have been a routine training mission, Veronica looked even more fragile than she had before when the squad went out on an op. She'd never found it easy to deal with the fact that her husband regularly left—sometimes without any warning—on highly dangerous missions. And now, after seeing Joe in a hospital bed, fighting for his life, it was even more difficult for her. "Everyone's fine," Lucky said quietly, taking her hand. "Really." Hotshot Cowboy Jones had jammed his ankle coming in too hard from a HALO jump, but aside from that, they'd all made it back to California in one piece. Veronica smiled, but it was a little too bright and a touch too brittle. "Well," she said. "Joe's expecting you. He's down on the beach." "Thanks." Lucky squeezed her hand before he released it. "Should I set extra plates for dinner?" Veronica asked evenly. Lucky exchanged a look with Bobby. The captain had called them to this meeting on their pagers, sending them an urgent code. Whatever was up was important. Despite the fact that they'd only been home a day and a half, chances were they'd be going wheels-up again within the next few hours. And knowing the way Joe Catalanotto liked to lead from the front, it was more than likely he'd be shipping out with them. It seemed, however, that he hadn't mentioned anything about that to his wife. "I don't think so, Ronnie," Bobby told her gently. "Probably not this time. It really smells great, though. Those cooking lessons are paying off, huh?" "I was working all day," she told him ruefully. "Joe made the stew." Damn. The captain's wife may have been beautiful, smart and sexy as hell, but the woman was a menace in the kitchen. "Are you sure you can't stay?" she added. "There's plenty and it's quite good. There's no way Joe and Frank-ie and I can possibly eat all of it."

"Something's come up. I think the captain's planning to take us kids out on another field trip," Wes told her before either Bobby or Lucky could muzzle him. Mr. Insensitive and Completely Oblivious. "So, yeah, we're sure we can't stay." ' 'Well," Veronica said tightly. ' 'Off for another month, are you? Thanks for letting me know, although that's something that would've been nice to hear from Joe." Double damn. Lucky cringed. "Ron, honest, I don't know what's up. If he didn't mention anything to you, well, maybe we're not going anywhere." Veronica visibly composed herself. And sighed as she looked up into their somewhat panicked faces. "Don't look at me like that," she chided them. "I'm stronger than you think. I knew what I was getting before I married him. I don't have to like it when Joe leaves—isn't that what you SEALs always say? I don't have to like it, I just have to do it. Just take care of him for me, all right?" She was pretending to hang tough, but her lower lip trembled an infinitesimal amount, giving her away. "Go," she said. "He's waiting. And you can tell him he doesn't have to worry about breaking the terrible news to me anymore." Lucky followed Bobby and Wes out the kitchen door but hesitated on the deck, looking in through the window to watch her set only two places at the kitchen table—for herself and Frankie, her toddler son—still trying not to cry. Lucky knew by the time Joe came back to the house, she'd be perfectly composed and probably even smiling. Veronica's acceptance of Joe's career was a rare thing. SEALs had a divorce rate that was off the scale, in part because many of their wives simply couldn't take the strain of being left behind again and again and again, waiting and worrying. "I'm never getting married," Lucky murmured to Wes as they went down the steps that led to the beach. "You and me, Luck," Wes agreed. "Unless Ronnie decides to leave the captain. Or am I already too late? Have you already started marking your territory in a big circle around her? No offense, Lieutenant, sir, but that kiss was just a little too friendly." Lucky was stung. "I was just saying hello. I'd never—" "You'd never what, O'Donlon?" All six feet and four dangerous inches of Joe Cat materialized from the mist that was blowing in off the Pacific. One second they were alone and the next he was breathing down their necks. How the hell could a man built like a professional football player do that? "I'd never hit on your wife," Lucky told his captain bluntly. There was no point in trying to hide the truth from Joe Cat. Somehow he'd find out—if he didn't already know. That's why he was the captain. "I'd never, ever, ever hit on Ronnie." Lucky shot Wes a disbelieving look. "I can't believe you think I'd do something that low, Skelly. My feelings are seriously hurt—" "What's happening, Captain?" Bobby interrupted. Joe Cat motioned towards the ocean. "We need to walk," he told them. "We really should be talking in a secured room, but getting one would raise too many eyebrows, and that's the last thing I want to do." Whatever this was, it was bigger than Lucky had imagined. He stopped giving Wes dirty looks and focused on what the captain was saying. But Joe was silent until they were next to the breaking surf. The beach was deserted and misty, the setting sun hidden behind clouds. "I've been doing some work for Admiral Robinson," Joe Cat finally told them, his voice low. "Acting as a liaison for one of his longhairs who's out on a black op for the admiral's Gray Group." Longhair was the name given to any SEAL who might need to blend in with a dangerous and motley crowd of terrorists and mercenaries at any given moment. He had to go on top-secret, extremely covert ' 'black” operations, where a man with a military haircut would stick out like a sore thumb. And once that man stuck out, he would be one very dead sore thumb. So these covert op SEALs got tattoos. They pierced their ears. They didn't shave for weeks on end. They dressed in what would have been known as "grunge" in the early nineties. And they grew their hair very, very long. Of course, when it came to longhairs, the captain should talk. He wore his own hair in a thick, dark braid down his back. When he shook his hair out, he looked like a pirate or maybe a really wild rock star—and absolutely nothing like a highly decorated, extremely well-respected captain in Uncle Sam's Navy. "The admiral's off doing diplo-duty in a place where it's impossible to get a secured telephone line," Joe Cat told them curtly. "I can't even report to him that as of twenty-four hours ago, his SEAL missed his weekly check-in. And frankly, I'm concerned. Apparently this guy's better than a clock when it comes to check-ins. So I've got to go out to New Mexico to try and track him down, and I need a team to watch my six." New Mexico ? What the... ? The captain looked at Bob, then Wes, then Lucky. "I'm looking for volunteers here. This will be a black op as well—completely off the record, no paperwork, no acknowledgement of the situation by any of the top brass. If you choose to come along, you'll be paid, but not in the usual way. In fact, you'll have to take leave so your whereabouts can't be traced." It sounded like some serious fun. "Count me in, Skipper," Lucky said, and Bobby and Wes were only nanoseconds behind him.

Their captain nodded. "Thanks," he said quietly. "Who's the little lost SEAL we're tracking down?" Wes asked. "Anyone we know?" "Yeah," Joe said. "You worked with him six months ago. Lt. Mitchell Shaw." "Oh, man," Bobby said in his basso profundo, voicing exactly what Lucky was thinking. "He's gonna be hard to find if he doesn't want to be found, Cat. He's a chameleon—good with disguises. The admiral once told me that he nearly pulled the hair off a little old lady, thinking she was Mitch under cover." "What's a Gray Group operative doing in New Mexico?" Lucky asked. "This is top-secret information I'm about to give you," Joe told them seriously. "It goes no further than the four of us, understood?” "Yes, sir." Joe sighed, turning to squint out at the ocean for a moment. "Remember that break-in at Arches?" Last year, the security at Arches Military Testing Lab in Colorado had been breached and six canisters of Triple X had been stolen. Lucky, Bobby, Wes and Mitch Shaw had all been part of the team that located and destroyed the deadly nerve gas. Yeah, they remembered that break-in all too clearly. "The Trip X nerve agent wasn't the only thing taken," Joe Cat continued grimly. Wes ran his hand down his face. "I don't think I want to hear this." "Plutonium," Joe said. "Enough was taken to make a small nuclear weapon." A small nuke. Great. "Shaw was working to track it down," Joe Cat continued. "He was following a lead both he and Admiral Robinson thought was probably empty. That's why he was out there alone. The bulk of the Gray Group's manpower is working from the other end—finding the potential buyer seemed easier than finding the plutonium in the haystack. But now that Shaw's gone missing, I'm not sure what's going on." "New Mexico's a big state," Bobby commented. He was right. And if Mitch was working a black op, he wouldn't have broadcast his whereabouts to anyone. "How the hell are we gonna find him?" "Shaw was carrying ten counterfeit hundred-dollar bills," Joe answered Lucky. "Admiral Robinson implemented a technique used by the spooks at the Agency— apparently his wife's a former agent. See, how it works is if some bad voodoo goes down and the agent—or SEAL in this case—is eliminated by the opposition, that funny money tends to go into circulation. It makes sense, right? An agent is hit and his or her body disappears. But if you're the guy who did the hit, you check pockets for weapons or cash. No point in sinking that in the quarry with your victim's earthly remains, right? So the money changes hands, so to speak. In the past, this method has occasionally been effective enough to track all the way to the killers. Once they start spending the money—as soon as it's ID'd as fake—it's like a big red flag gets dropped." "Are you saying you think Lieutenant Shaw is dead, sir?" Wes swore sharply. "I liked the guy." "I don't know what's up with Shaw," Joe told them. "But one—and only one—of his counterfeit hundred-dollar bills showed up in Wyatt City, New Mexico. In the donation box of the First Church Homeless Shelter, of all places." "When do we leave?" Bobby asked. "We've got a flight out to Las Cruces in three hours," Joe said. He smiled crookedly. "I, um, need a little time. I haven't exactly told Ronnie yet that I'm leaving." "Well, sir, we, uh..." Wes braced himself, "/kind of took care of that for you, Cat." Joe closed his eyes and swore. "I'm really sorry, Captain," Wes said. "Skipper, you know... Me and Ren and Stimpy here can handle this. You don't have to come along—it'd be overkill anyway," Lucky earnestly told the captain. "We've worked with Mitch, we know what he looks like—at least when he's not in disguise. And like you said, the rest of the Gray Group's covering the other end. Give yourself—and Veronica—a break." He paused. "And give me a chance to practice those leadership skills they worked so hard to teach me at the academy, sir. Let me take care of this." Joe looked up at the hillside above the beach, at the warm lights of his home cutting through the thickening fog. He made up his mind. "Go," he said. "The paperwork giving you leave is already at the base. But I want sit-reps over a secured line every twelve hours." "Thanks, Captain." Lucky held out his hand. Joe clasped it and shook. "Find him. Fast."

"Are you Casey?" Casey. Casey Parker. If that was his name, why couldn't he remember it? "Yeah, that's me." A ten-year-old kid had come into the barn. He stood in front of Mish now, his eyes magnified by a crooked pair of wire-framed glasses. "I'm supposed to tell you to saddle up a pair of horses for me and Ashley. Ashley's my sister. She's a pain in the butt." Saddle up some horses... "What's your name?" he asked the boy. "My real name's Reagan. Reagan Thomas Alden. But people call me Chip." Mish turned back to the stall he was shoveling out. "Rumor has it, Chip, guests under age eighteen aren't allowed to ride out on their own." "Yes, but... I'm not signed up for a ride until after four o'clock. What am I supposed to do until then?" "Read a book?" Mish suggested, getting back into the easy rhythm of his work. "Hey!" Chip brightened. "You could ride out with me and Ash. There's this place, about a half a mile east of here where there's these big, creepylooking rocks, kind of like some giant's fingers sticking out of the ground. I could show 'em to you." "I don't think so." "Come on, Casey. You're not doing anything important right now." Mish kept right on shoveling. "The way I figure it, I've got one of the most important jobs here—making sure the horses you ride have a clean place to sleep at night." "Yes, but...wouldn't you rather be riding?" Mish answered honestly. "No." The truth was, he could remember nothing about horses. If he'd at one time known how to ride, that knowledge had slipped away with his memories of his name and his past. But somehow he doubted that. Somehow, he got the sense that horseback riding was a subject he'd never bothered to learn much about. It was troublesome. If he was Casey Parker, then he'd lied to get this job. And if he wasn't Casey Parker, then who in heaven's name was he? Casey Parker or not, he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't going to like finding out who he really was. The handgun in his boot. The wad of money. The bullet wound. It all added up to the same grim conclusion: he was not on the side of the angels. If his dream had held just one ounce of truth, he was a killer. He was someone who shot and killed other people for a living. And, if that was the case, he didn't want to remember who he was. He—and the world—would be better off if he simply stayed here for the rest of his days, shoveling manure and— Mish lifted his head, listening intently to a low rumble. Was it thunder? Or an approaching truck? "That sounds like Travis Brown," Chip told him. "Doing what Becca calls his first-rate imitation of a damn fool." It was the sound of pounding hoofbeats—faint, but growing louder until it became a clatter of noise directly outside of the barn. It was accompanied by a high-pitched whinny of fear and pain from the horse. That sound was echoed almost identically—except this second scream came from a human throat. Mish dropped his shovel. "That's Ashley!" Chip bolted for the door, but Mish swung himself over the wall of the stall and beat him there. A riderless horse stood on its hind legs, pawing the air as a man dressed in fringed leggings and a leather vest lay sprawled behind him. A young girl crouched in the dust in front of the enraged horse, covering her head with her arms. Mish didn't stop. He started toward the girl at a sprint. He could see Rebecca Keyes running just as quickly toward them from the direction of the ranch office. Her hat fell into the dust, and she reached the horse's bridle just as Mish grabbed the girl and pulled her out of harm's way. The horse's slashing hooves came within inches of Rebecca's face, but she didn't flinch. Mish shoved the girl into Chip's arms and stood ready to come to Becca's aid. But she simply and slowly backed away, letting the animal have some space. The horse's sides were torn, as if slashed with too-sharp spurs. His mouth was frothing and flecked with blood. His dark body was slick with sweat and trembling. The man who'd been thrown scrambled out of range of the beast's powerful back hooves. "Did you see that?" he said as he pulled himself to his

feet. "That damned horse nearly killed me!" "Quiet!" Becca didn't even look in the man's direction. All of her attention was focused on the horse. Although she didn't speak loudly, there was stern authority in her voice. The rider wisely shut up. As Mish watched, the horse returned to all fours. He twitched nervously, though, sidling and still trembling. Becca moved closer again, crooning softly to the frightened animal, her hands and body language nonthreaten-ing. She could have been a lion tamer. Mish felt his own tension start to drain from his shoulders and neck just from the sound of her soothing, hypnotic voice. As she gazed at the horse steadily, Mish could see none of the anger that he knew she must be feeling toward the abusive rider. He knew that her eyes were an unremarkable shade of brown, but as she looked at the horse, they reflected a serenity that was almost angelic. And for a moment, as he gazed at her, Mish couldn't breathe. Rebecca Keyes wasn't what most folks would consider to be beautiful. Oh, her face was pretty enough—cute, actually. It was maybe a touch too round, though, making her look younger than she really was. Or maybe she was just plain young, he didn't know for sure. Her nose was small and couldn't be described as anything other than childlike. It was dotted with freckles that added to that effect. Her mouth was generously wide, her lips gracefully shaped. The only makeup she wore was a light coat of gloss on those lips—and Mish suspected she wore it as protection from the harsh sun rather than for cosmetic effect. But as she reached for that shuddering horse, soothing, peaceful comfort seemed to radiate from her every movement, her every word, her every glance, and Mish could not breathe. He wanted her to turn to him, to look at him that way, to lay her gentle hands on him, to bring to him the peace he so desperately needed. Instead, he watched as she touched the horse. The animal snorted, nervously sidestepping, but Becca moved with him. "It's okay, baby," she murmured. "Everything's going to be okay... Shhh..." She ran her hands down the horse's neck. "Yeah, everything's all right now. Let's get you cleaned up." She looped the reins over the animal's head, leading him gently toward the barn. "Casey here will take care of you," she added, still talking in that sweet, soothing voice, "while I take care of the idiot who hurt you." She looked up at Mish, reaching out to hand him the reins, and just like that, the warm calm in her eyes flickered and changed—replaced by sheer, cold, nearly murderous anger. She was going to "take care" of the rider, indeed. But first she turned toward the young girl who'd nearly been run down in the driveway. "Are you all right, Ash?" Ashley and Chip were standing alongside the barn, arms still around each other. The girl nodded, but she was clearly shaken. "Chip, run to the office," Becca crisply ordered the little boy. "Have Hazel crank up the cellular phone and locate your parents." She turned back to Mish. "Get that horse inside the barn." Mish gently tugged on the reins, leading the huge animal into the quiet coolness of the barn. He looked up into the beast's big brown eyes, and could see mistrust. He tried to gaze back confidently, but knew he was failing. Truth was, he didn't have a clue what to do. He wrapped the reins around one of the bars on the nearest stall, keeping one ear tuned to what was going on outside of the barn. ' 'Mr. Brown, you have exactly fifteen minutes to pack your bags and get down here to the ranch office," he could hear Becca tell the man who'd been riding the horse, her tone leaving no room for any dissent. There was a buckle that seemed to hold the saddle on and Mish tried to unfasten it, but the animal shifted away, snorting. He was no Dr. Doolittle, but he couldn't miss the horse's message. Don't touch me. Outside, Brown sputtered. "/'m the one who was thrown—" "You've had your warnings," Becca cut him off, her voice tight with anger. "You've been told again and again that you may not wear spurs with any of our horses. You've been told again and again not to yank the reins, to treat the horse the way you 'd want to be treated if you had a bit in your mouth." Mish put his hand on the horse's neck. He just rested it there, steady and firm, trying to push all of his uncertainty far away, knowing the animal could sense it. He could do this. He'd seen enough Westerns. He had to get the saddle off, and the blanket underneath, then somehow cool the horse down. "You've been told again and again that horses must be kept to a slow walk around the ranch buildings," Becca's voice continued. "This time you might've badly injured Ashley Alden. And this time, I'm done giving you warnings. This time, I'm telling you to pack your bags and get off this ranch." "I want the sheriff! I want an ambulance—I hurt my back in that fall! I'm going to sue—" Mish reached for the buckle again, this time his movements steady and sure. The horse twitched and blew air out of his nose, hard, but Mitch got the job done. He lifted off the saddle and set it on top of a rail. And then he couldn't resist sneaking a look out of the barn door. A crowd had gathered—guests and ranch hands silently watching.

Becca had Travis Brown backed against the split wood railings of the corral, her eyes shooting fire. When she spoke, her voice was soft but it carried in the stillness. "Go ahead and call the sheriff, Hazel," she said to the gray-haired woman on the ranch office steps, her eyes never leaving Brown. "It's entirely likely that Ted and Janice Alden will want to press charges against Mr. Brown for nearly killing their daughter. Reckless endan-germent—isn't that what it's called?" "You can't kick me out. I'm a shareholder." "You're an idiot," Becca said sharply. "Get the hell off this ranch." He moved toward her, threateningly. "You little bitch! When Justin Whitlow finds out about this—" "Fifteen minutes, Brown." He towered over her, but Becca didn't back down. She stood her ground, chin raised, as if daring the man to raise a hand to her. The man pushed past her, exaggerating his limp as he headed toward the guest cabins. Becca turned, looking first at Hazel. "Did you reach the Aldens?" The plump older woman nodded. "They're on their way." "Call the sheriff, too—in case they want to register a complaint." "Already done." Becca's gaze swept across the crowd and landed on Mish. He realized suddenly that he'd come all the way out of the barn, toward her, ready to jump in if Brown had tried to strike her. "How's Stormchaser?" she asked, heading directly toward him. "The poor baby's going to have to go into therapy after this." "He doesn't seem to want me to touch him," Mish admitted, following her back into the barn. She gave him an odd look over her shoulder. "She doesn't know you. She's bound to be a little spooked." She. The horse was female. He hadn't even thought to look. He'd simply assumed that since the animal was so big and powerful... Thou shalt not assume. He'd broken one of the biggest rules, and he'd given himself away. Rules. Rules of what? God Almighty, it was back there, just out of his line of sight. All of the answers, dancing at the edge of his mental peripheral vision. He wanted to close his eyes, to somehow grab hold of the truth, of his identity. But Becca Keyes was talking to him. "Why don't you get her cooled down," Becca said, obviously repeating herself as she gazed at him with her seemingly average brown eyes. She was challenging him. Her words were a test—she wanted to know if he could do it. But he couldn't. Mish met her gaze levelly, honestly. "I'm afraid that's a little out of my league. But if you tell me exactly what needs to be done, I can—” She'd already turned away from him. "Perfect," she was muttering. "Incredibly, amazingly, stupendously perfect." She spun back to face him. "You're telling me you don't know how to cool down a horse, aren't you?" "I'm a quick study," he said quietly. "And you're short of hands—" "Short of brains, too, obviously." There was a flare of that hot-burning anger in her eyes, but the heat was weakened by her frustration and disappointment. "Dammit. Dammit!" The disappointment was hard to take. He would have far preferred her anger. "I didn't intend to deceive you." He couldn't explain. How could he? She just laughed as she took the saddle blanket from Stormchaser's back. "Right. Go and make sure Brown's packing his bags. He's in cabin number 12. Walk him back to the office, finish up the stalls, then stay out of my sight for the rest of evening. I can't handle this right now—we'll talk in the morning." Mish may not have known a thing about horses, but he knew when a situation called for silence. He turned and left the barn. He'd awakened again this morning with no past, no name, no sense of self. Yet somehow he now felt even emptier inside.

Chapter 3 It was after two o'clock in the morning, and someone was pounding on her apartment door. Becca sat up, groping for her flashlight in the darkness and coming up empty. The pounding continued—a frantic tattoo accompanied by a highpitched voice calling her name. She flung herself out of bed and nearly stumbled as she made her way to the light switch on the wall. Grabbing her robe from the hook next to her closet, she moved toward the noise and opened the door. Fourteen-year-old Ashley Alden stood on the other side of the screen, her face streaked with tears. "Chip's gone," she said. Becca pulled the girl inside and shut the screen before the entire mosquito population of New Mexico came into the kitchen with her. "Gone where?" "I don't know! I was in charge, and I fell asleep, and when Mom and Dad came home, Chip was gone! He took the blanket off his bed—I think he's playing cowboy and sleeping outside somewhere." Ashley was trying her best to hold back her tears, but a fresh flood brimmed in her eyes. "And now they're fighting, and a storm's coming and someone's got to go find Chip before he's struck by lightning!" The girl was right. A storm was coming. Becca could hear the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance. Although dangerous, lightning was the least of their worries. If Chip had set up his bedroll in one of the arroyos, or on the gentle valley of the dry riverbed... It didn't have to be raining here for the arroyos and river suddenly to flood. It only had to be raining upstream. She looked at the kitchen clock. Two-fifteen. No doubt the Aldens had stayed at the local roadhouse, drinking until the two o'clock last call. And if that was the case, they weren't going to be a whole hell of a lot of help in finding their son. Thunder crackled again, closer this time. Still, she was going to need all the bodies she could get. "Go get your mom and dad," she commanded Ashley, already on the cordless phone to Hazel. "And wake up as many of the other guests as you can. We'll meet in front of the ranch office." Ashley disappeared out the door. Hazel sounded dazed as she answered her phone, but she rallied quickly. Becca pulled a pair of jeans on over her nightshirt as she rattled out a stream of orders to her assistant. ' 'Wake up Dwayne and Belinda—tell them to saddle up the horses. The search'11 be easier on horseback." She yanked on her boots and jammed her hat on her head. "I'll wake the hands in the bunkhouse." * * * The bus ride was interminable, but as the driver pulled up to the checkpoint at the first of the fences, Mish didn't want it to end. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the gate shutting behind them, locking him in. He kept his eyes closed. There was no point looking at the security. No point studying the watch towers and the fences. He was here. And he'd stay here until Jake got him out. The bus jolted to a stop, but Mish didn't move until one of the guards approached and unlocked him. He had been wearing both arm and leg shackles. Mish stood up, and the guard roughly pulled his arms behind him, cuffing his hands behind his back. He still wore a tether, a short length of chain that connected his two ankles. It was hard navigating the steps down from the bus, and he jumped the last two, landing lightly in the dusty prison yard. Prison. He was in prison. He felt sick to his stomach as he looked up at the harsh gray buildings towering above him. "Move it," one of the guards barked. "Inside. Let's go." Mish started to sweat. Out here was bad enough, but at least out here he still had the sky, open and free above him. Inside would be only walls, only bars, only these chains that marked him as a very, very dangerous man. The guard shoved him and he stumbled, but he forced himself not to react, to find serenity from deep inside, that same serenity that had saved him so many times before. He was here. He didn't have to like it. He just had to endure it. Jake was counting on him. Jake needed him to...to... The answers were there—who Jake was, and what he needed Mish to do there in prison—but they were just beyond his grasp. Everything shifted then, the way dreams often do. And then Mish was in an alley, thunder rolling as the first huge drops of rain began to fall. In an instant, he was soaked. He pushed his wet hair back, out of his face, wishing he had a ponytail holder. Dim light gleamed on the barrel of his side arm and he ducked into the shadows, waiting for the footsteps to come closer. Closer... "Casey! Come on, Casey, wake up!" Rough hands shook him, and Mish opened his eyes, instantly awake, Rebecca Keyes leaned over him, her hair tousled from sleep.

He was shocked. What was she doing in his bed? Not that he didn't want her there, because he did. Badly. But he couldn't remember how she'd gotten there. And he couldn't imagine acting on his attraction for this woman. It would be flat-out wrong to become intimately involved with anyone until he'd reintroduced himself to himself. He couldn't imagine Becca allowing herself to be seduced, either. She'd been so frostily angry with him. How had that happened? He couldn't remember how he'd convinced her to warm up and sleep with him. And maybe worst of all, he couldn't even remember the sex. And that was shockingly alarming. Was this more amnesia? It didn't make sense. He could remember going to bed—alone—and turning off the light. He could remember the way Becca had looked straight through him during dinner. He could remember waking up in the shelter, his head pounding. He could remember Jarell, the motel, the bus ride to... Prison. He'd dreamt about prison. Being cuffed and chained. Remembered someone named Jake... She shook him again. "Snap to, dammit! I need you to help." Reality crashed in. Mish was lying in a cot barely large enough to sleep one, let alone two. And Becca wasn't dressed for a night of one-on-one— unless her idea of one-on-one was a cattle-roping contest. She was wearing jeans and boots and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat on her head. He sat up, the blanket sliding off of his bare chest, and Becca took a step back, as if afraid he wasn't wearing anything at all beneath those covers. He was. Boxers. He also remembered keeping them on last night. "Chip Alden's gone AWOL," she told him bluntly, "and we've got a storm moving in. I need all the manpower I can get—searching for the kid before the riverbed floods." Mish nodded, clearly reading her silent message. She needed all the help she could get—even from a low-down, good-for-nothing, lying snake such as himself. He swung his legs out of bed and pulled on his jeans and the T-shirt he'd worn yesterday, slipping into his boots as she turned and sprinted away. He followed her, quickly catching up. Thunder continued to rumble as the crowd of guests and employees gathering outside the ranch office glanced worriedly up at the dark sky. Becca quickly split them into groups, sending them off in different directions, some on horseback, some on foot. "Check the barn and public buildings," she ordered Mish before easily swinging herself up onto a horse and riding out. He could hear the echoing voices of the search parties as they headed into the darkness, calling loudly, hoping to awaken the sleeping boy. His was a throwaway job. He knew Becca didn't think they'd find Chip in the barn or the dining hall or even the arcade room. But someone had to look there, and he was that someone. He went into the barn. Stormchaser was the only horse left in the stables, and she cocked her ears curiously at him, as if amazed by all of the predawn activity. It had been Stormchaser's stall that Mish had been cleaning when Chip had come into the barn just that afternoon, to try to con him into saddling up a pair of horses. Mish froze, suddenly hearing an echo of Chip's pre-pubescent voice. There's this place, about a half a mile east of here "where there's these big, creepy-looking rocks, kind of like some giant's fingers sticking out of the ground.... There was a relief map of the ranch on the barn wall, and Mish quickly measured the scale with his fingers, trying to find those rock formations Chip had mentioned. He knew how to read maps, and he easily found something six-tenths of a mile east-northeast that might've been those rocks. It was right next to a low-lying area—the dry riverbed. Thunder cracked, closer this time, and the first plump drops of rain began to fall, hissing on the dry barn roof. If Chip had set up camp in that riverbed... Mish ran out toward the corral, but everyone was gone. He could hear their voices in the distance. Most of them had headed south. He went back into the barn, where a huge flashlight hung by the door. But even using that, it would be impossible for him to achieve any real speed running more than a half a mile over the rough terrain. He turned and looked Stormchaser directly in the eye. She whinnied nervously as another bolt of lightning flashed, the boom of thunder close behind. "Yeah, I don't like this weather, either," Mish said to the horse, opening the stall door, "but I know where this kid is, and I've got to get out there, so what do you say we make this a team effort?"

Stormchaser didn't disagree. Of course, she didn't exactly agree, either. "I've never done this before in my life." Mish took a bridle down from the wall, speaking in a low, soft, soothing voice, the way he'd heard Becca talk to the horse. "But I spent most of yesterday watching the procedure, so let's just give it a try, okay?" As Mish drew closer, the mare clenched her teeth. "I think this bit thing is supposed to go behind your teeth, not in front of them," Mish told her, still in that low voice. "And I think I saw the other guys touch you back here a bit, and just kind of wait until you're maybe not paying quite so much attention and then...slip it in. There we go. Good horse. Atta girl. Way to go." Stormchaser snorted, chomping disgruntledly on the bit. "I can't imagine that feels very pleasant," Mish continued, slipping a saddle blanket onto her strong chestnut-colored back. "I can't imagine any of this is a whole lot of fun for you, especially after the way that idiot treated you this afternoon." He took a saddle off the wall, gently placing it in the center of the blanket, and secured the belt around the horse's belly. As he'd seen the other ranch hands do, he waited until Stormchaser relaxed, and then tightened it several notches. The stirrups seemed to be about the right length for his legs, so he looped the reins over the horse's head and led her out into the night, tucking the flashlight under one arm. The rain was falling heavier now, and Stormchaser tried to back away, into the barn. 'No, you don't," he murmured to the horse, pointing her in the direction he wanted to go. ' 'What kind of tough-as-nails Western cow horse are you, anyway?" He put his left foot into the stirrup and held onto the pommel. 'Tm probably doing this all wrong and backwards, so I appreciate your patience," he said as he tried to imitate the move Becca had made, and swing himself into the saddle. He landed with a thud, nearly going over the other side. "Whoa!" Stormchaser snorted, pricking up her ears as Mish took gentle hold of the reins. He had to remember that these things were attached to the horse's tender mouth. Now, what was the opposite of whoa? "Giddyap!" he said. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and Stormchaser bolted. Becca couldn't believe her eyes. Lightning flashed again, and again she saw Stormchaser, running like a bat out of hell with Casey Parker lying low and flat along the mare's neck, riding like a seasoned rodeo cowboy. She felt a flash of annoyance—the guy had led her to believe he didn't know the least little thing about horses—including riding. She moved to cut them off just as Casey reined Storm-chaser in. "I know where Chip is," he called out, seemingly unaware of the rain that was now falling steadily, streaming down his face. He nudged Stormchaser's sides, and the horse took off again. Becca followed, pressing Silver hard to keep up. She had her flashlight on, and in its bright beam, she could see that Casey wasn't riding like a professional cowboy—he was holding on for dear life. "I talked to him this afternoon," the man shouted to her, "and he wanted to go out to this place where there were some rock formations." Finger Rocks. God, that was right on the edge of the dry riverbed. Only, with all this rain, it wasn't going to stay dry for long—if it wasn't already flooded from the rain up in the mountains. Becca gave Silver his head, letting him fly across the ground, praying they weren't too late. Please, God, let them find this little boy still alive.... She heard it before she saw it. The river was running. Lightning flared, and Finger Rocks appeared out of the darkness, looming crazily over them. The water in the riverbed was dark and frothy, and filled with bobbing logs and debris being washed downstream. There was no sign of Chip. Becca slid down off Silver, using her flashlight to illuminate the banks of the river. Casey was still atop Stormchaser, and he pointed out into the rushing water. "There!" She saw it, too. She saw what might have been the top of a small head near a branch that had been snagged on an outcropping of rocks.

"Chip!" she shouted over the roar of the river and the bursts of thunder. "Chip!" The head moved and became a small, pale face that reflected the light from her torch. It was Chip. He was clinging for dear life to the end of a weathered old branch. As Casey slid down off Stormchaser, Becca saw him take in the situation with a glance. The branch Chip was holding on to was wedged between two rocks at the river's edge, right before the water took a hard loop to the left and swept even faster down the hill. The white water down there told of rapids—rocks that could crush the life out of a ten-year-old flung against them with the water's raging force. It was only a matter of time before the debris knocked Chip free from his perch and swept him downstream. The tumble of rocks at the side of the river made it treacherous going. Casey slipped and slid over them, turning back to give Becca a hand. She didn't need or want his help. "I'm fine," she shouted at him. "Keep going!" Finally, they were both there. "Hang on, kid," she heard Casey call to Chip. "We'll get you out of there!" "I want my mom!" The little boy was weeping. "Please, I want my mom!" "Just let us pull you out of there, and we'll find her right away," Casey told him, his voice reassuring. They would get the boy out of the river. And if he was feeling any doubt about it, he wasn't letting it show. He tugged at the thick end of the branch Chip was clinging to, but it wouldn't give. Becca set down her flashlight and helped. It didn't take long to realize that the damned thing wasn't going to budge. They weren't going to be able to free the branch to pull the kid out of there. The rain was falling unmercifully now, streaming off the brim of her hat in a solid sheet. "I'll have to climb out after him," she shouted to Casey. He used one hand to wipe the water from his face, little good that it did. He shook his head. "No. I'll do it." "Are you kidding? That branch won't hold your weight!" "It might not hold yours." "Hold onto my legs," Becca told him. "If the branch breaks, I'll hang onto it, and you can haul us both out of the water." He didn't like it, but she didn't give him a chance to argue. She just started inching her way out along that branch. She could feel his hands on her legs, his fingers hooking around the bottom edges of her jeans. She could see Chip's pale, frightened face as lightning flashed again. The boy was edging toward her, even as she was moving closer to him. She was so close. Another foot and a half, and— It happened so fast. A piece of wood barreling downstream caught Chip full in the chest, and with a shriek, his handhold on the branch was broken. Becca heard herself scream as the boy, eyes wide with terror, fingers reaching for her, was swept underneath the water. She felt herself hauled upward and nearly thrown onto the shore and sensed more than saw Casey scrambling back up and over the rocks. She grabbed for her flashlight, holding it high, illuminating the river, praying for a glimpse of Chip's brown hair, praying he'd manage to grab hold of another branch. She saw him! Dear God, no! The boy was being swept downriver. Another few seconds, and he'd hit those rapids. But then she saw Casey, running along the river bank, heading directly for the place where the river turned. She saw him dive, a graceful, athletic movement. And then he was out of range of her light, and she saw nothing more. Mish knew without a doubt in the stretched-out seconds that he hung suspended over the raging water that he knew how to swim. And he didn't just know how to do the dog paddle. He knew how to swim. As uncomfortable as he'd been while riding Stormchaser, here in the river he was completely in his element. He was at home in the water unlike anywhere else in the world. He hit the river with a splash and it grabbed him, tugging, pulling, yanking him downstream. He went with it, using its power to push him up back toward the surface. Only when his head was above water again did he fight the current, searching for any sign of Chip.

He saw the debris coming—it looked like a solid chunk of a telephone pole—but he didn't have time to get completely out of the way. It hit him solidly in his left side, pushing him under and spinning him around, the white blaze of pain made worse by the water burning his lungs. He kicked and stroked against the pain, surfacing with a rush, coughing out the water he'd inhaled and gasping in a blessed flood of air. And the kid was swept right into his arms. If he hadn't believed in the workings of some kind of higher power before, he did now. Mish let the force of the water take him again, using his strength as a swimmer merely to steer them toward the rocky shore. And then he was crawling out, his side on fire, Chip still clinging to his neck, both of them sobbing for air. And Becca was there, helping pull the kid to even higher ground. She then reached for him. Lightning flashed, and he saw that she'd lost her hat. Her dark curls were plastered to her head and beneath her jacket, her shirt was glued to her breasts. It wasn't a shirt, he realized. She was wearing a white nightgown. And absolutely nothing underneath. She had an incredibly gorgeous body, but it was her eyes he found himself wanting to see again. Brimming with the warmth of emotion and relief, her eyes were impossibly beautiful. He could have sat there in the rain all night, just waiting for the lightning, so he could get another glimpse of her face. But Becca scooped Chip into her arms and pushed herself to her feet. "Let's get back to the ranch." Ted Alden, Chip's father, came out of their cabin. "The doctor says he's got a few broken ribs, but his lungs are clear and his blood pressure's strong. We'll monitor that through the rest of the night—make sure there've been no internal injuries we don't know about." The rain had stopped, and the clouds were breaking up. Becca could see the first faint stars shining hazily in the sky. She nodded. "Do you need help? You look as if once you fall asleep, you're going to stay asleep for a day or two." Alden ran his hands down his face. "No, we've got the alarm clock set. And Ashley's set hers, too. Just in case." "Well, I'm here if you need me." "Thanks." Becca turned to go, but he stopped her. "We've caused nothing but trouble this trip. Are you going to ask us to leave tomorrow?" She had to laugh. "You mean, like the way I asked Travis Brown to leave?" She shook her head. "No, I'm trying not to make a habit of running paying guests off with a shotgun. It's bad for business." "Thank that cowboy again for me," Alden said. "If the two of you hadn't been there, Chip might've..." Chip would have died. Becca knew what Ted Alden couldn't bring himself to say aloud. His son would have died. The hell with her— she'd had very little to do with saving the boy's life. The truth was, if it weren't for Casey Parker, they would be dragging that river right this very moment, searching for Chip's crushed and lifeless little body. Becca swallowed a sudden rush of intense emotion. She had to blink hard to push back a surge of moisture in her eyes. "I'll thank him," she said quietly. "Kiss Chip good-night for me, all right?" Alden nodded, easing the screen door shut behind him. It must have been the fatigue bringing all these waves of emotion to the surface. Becca couldn't remember the last time she'd cried, yet here she was, ready to curl up into a soggy ball and weep like a baby. Everything was all right. The boy was safe. But she couldn't keep herself from thinking about what might have been. She couldn't help remembering that look of pure fear on the little boy's face as he was swept out of her reach, Why didn't you save me? echoing in his eyes. If Chip had died, his face would have haunted her for the rest of her life. If Chip had died... What if Casey hadn't been there with his amazing abil ity to swim like some kind of sea animal? What if the river had swept Chip past him? What if... ? Her insides churned and bile rose in her throat. She had to sit down, right there on the edge of the muddy road, and try her damnedest not to retch. She clung to her wet jacket, wrapping it tightly around her, praying for the nausea to pass. "Are you all right?" The voice came out of the darkness, soft and gentle. "Yeah," she lied, not wanting to look up and into the bottomless depths of Casey's eyes, not wanting him to see that she was shaking. "I'm just...

I'm..." She felt him sit down next to her, felt his closeness and warmth. He didn't say anything. He just sat there as she tried to breathe, as she desperately tried to regain her equilibrium and stop this damned shaking that was rattling her very brain. When he finally did start to speak, Becca thought she might've been imagining it. His voice was so soft and perfectly woven into the velvet tapestry of the predawn. "You know, I don't think I've ever ridden a horse before," he told her. "At least not since I was a kid. I don't know why I haven't tried it—it was great. Exhilarating. Kind of like flying. But you already know that, right? I can picture you as the kind of kid who was born astride a horse." He paused, but only briefly. "When I was riding Stormchaser, I remember thinking it was kind of like being on a motorcycle, except this thing I was riding had a brain and a soul..." Becca knew exactly what he was doing. He was gentling her, soothing her with the softness of his voice, the way someone might talk to a frightened animal. The way she'd spoken to Stormchaser just that morning. And as Stormchaser had, she clung to the sound of that gentle voice. It was the only thing solid and steady in a night that was spinning and shaking. No, it wasn't the night that was shaking. She was shaking. And crying, she realized. Although there was nothing she could do to stop her tears. Nothing at all. He was still talking, describing his ride, describing the way he'd put the bridle and saddle on Stormchaser. His words were unimportant and she stopped listening, focusing only on the rise and fall of his voice. And when he reached out and touched her, gently, lightly running one hand across her shoulders and down her back, she didn't pull away. She didn't want to pull away. Instead she leaned toward him, letting him enfold her in his arms. He held her as she trembled, rocking her slightly back and forth, infusing her with his warmth, encircling her with his solid strength. "It's okay now," he murmured over and over. "Everything's okay." It was working. She could feel her nausea begin to fade, felt herself relax into his strong arms. And he was strong. His slenderness was only an illusion. His arms and chest were solid muscle. She hadn't missed that fact when she'd gone in to wake him up and found him half-naked in bed. He had no extra fat or weight on his body, none at all. Yet his arms were soft, too. Gentle. He continued to stroke her back, then ran his fingers gently through her hair, murmuring words of reassurance. He held her close without being threatening, offering only comfort, falling into silence as her trembling finally stopped. She let her head rest on his still-damp shoulder, let her eyes close, let all of the awful what-ifs float away. Except for one. What if this man whose arms felt so good around her turned his head and kissed her? Becca opened her eyes. That was a completely crazy thought. She pulled herself away from him, pushing herself to her feet. She shivered slightly, cold without Casey's arms around her, as the first glimmer of dawn started to light the eastern sky. He was still a shadow, sitting in the grayness. Becca backed away quickly, both afraid that he might break the silence, and afraid that he might not. “There's no way I could ever pay you enough for what you did tonight," she said softly. Oh, she could think of one way she could certainly try to repay him, but she firmly pushed that wayward thought away. "I didn't pull the kid out of the river for money," he said. "Oh, no," she said, afraid she might've offended him. "I didn't mean that. I just meant... I wish there was some way I could thank you for what you did." Her voice shook slightly. "And for sitting here with me just now." "Sometimes the hardest part of the battle comes after it's over," he said quietly, "when the adrenaline level drops and there's nothing left to do but think about what went down." Becca lingered as the sky continuously grew lighter, knowing she should say good-night and put a healthy distance between herself and this man. She was drawn to his gentle voice and quiet smile more than she wanted to admit. And as for his arms... "Were you in the army?" she asked, instead of taking her leave. He was silent for several long moments, then he pushed himself to his feet in one easy, fluid motion. "Are you sure you want to start a conversation right now? You look as if you could use about twelve hours in bed." With him? The thought popped into her head and she tried her hardest to pop it right back out again. What was wrong with her tonight? "You're right," she said. "I'm just... I'm still..." He held out his hand. He had big hands, strong, capable-looking hands that were callused from hard work. Attractive hands that were attached to attractive arms. "Come on," he said. "I'll walk you back to your cabin."

Becca shook her head. "I'm okay." She was afraid to touch him again. Even just his hand. "Thank you again, Casey." He nodded, dropping his hand. "I have a nickname," he told her, "that I prefer to answer to. It's Mish. I know it's...unusual, but it's how I think of myself." "Mish," she repeated. "Is it Russian?" "No. It's short for..." He laughed almost selfconsciously. "It's short for 'Mission Man.'" Mission Man? "What does that mean?" She saw another flash of his straight white teeth in the growing dawn. "I'm not sure I know myself. It's just a handle I was given by a...a friend." Becca backed further away. "Well, thank you. Mish." She paused. "We should...probably set up a time to talk in the morning," she told him awkwardly. "Whenever you like," he answered simply. "You know where to find me."

Chapter 4 Lt. Lucky O'Donlon sat alone in the back corner booth, in a deserted section of the Denny's on Water Street in Wyatt City, New Mexico, finishing his breakfast. Water Street. Yeah, right. The entire street—the entire town—was dry as a bone. He'd woken up after a ten-minute combat nap this morning, yawned, and his lip had split. God, he missed the ocean. He and his team had arrived in Las Cruces later than he'd anticipated. By the time they'd gotten their hands on an inconspicuous-looking car and driven all the way through the desert to Wyatt City, it had been well after midnight. Lucky had grimed himself up, said goodbye to Bob and Wes, gotten out of the car nearly a mile away from the First Church, and had walked over to the homeless shelter there. As he now watched, Bobby and Wes sauntered out of the shiny new motel across the street from the Denny's, clearly in no huge hurry to meet him for their scheduled sit-rep. In fact, Wes stopped to light a cigarette in the parking lot, cupping his hands to shield his match from the wind. Bobby nimbly plucked the cigarette from Wes's lips and tossed it to the gravel, grinding it out under his size-seventeen-and-a-half boots. And, as Lucky watched, they argued for the nine-thousandth time about Wes's inability to quit smoking. Or rather Wes argued, and Bobby ignored him. Bobby headed for the restaurant, and Wes followed, still arguing. They were showered and shaved and looking far fresher than Lucky. They were both wearing jeans and T-shirts, and Wes actually had a weather-beaten cowboy hat jammed onto his short brown hair. Bobby, with his darkly handsome, Native American features, looked like he could be one of the locals in Wy-att City. Wes looked exactly like what he was—Popeye the Sailor man in a cowboy hat. "I'm gonna quit," Wes was saying as they came into the restaurant and headed back toward Lucky's table. "I swear I am. I'm just not ready to quit right now." Bobby finally spoke. "When we're out on an op and we're buddied up, I can smell the smoke on your breath from yards away. And if / can smell you, so can the opposition. You want to kill yourself by smoking, that's your business, Skelly. Just don't kill me." For once in his life, Wes didn't have anything to say. Bobby sat down next to Lucky, clearly preferring, like the lieutenant, to keep his back to the rear wall. Wes slid all the way over on the other side of the booth, sitting half-turned, his back against the mirrored side wall, so that he, too, could see the rest of the restaurant. Good habits died hard. Too bad bad habits died hard, too. Bobby was dead right about Wes's smoking. When they were out in a group, the scent of a cigarette smoked six hours earlier could conceivably put them all in jeopardy. Bobby gazed at Lucky. "Whoa, you smell ripe. Sir." "And you both look as if you had ample opportunity to shower after a great night's sleep." "The room was very nice, thanks." "Yeah, I'm looking forward to seeing it from a prone position with my eyes closed," Lucky told them. Unfortunately that wasn't going to be soon. He hadn't gone to the church to sleep. He'd been there to check the place out thoroughly—to sneak and peek and find out as much about the shelter as he possibly could. He'd spent most of the night chatting up the volunteer workers, finding out how the system worked. "The shelter's purely a church-run organization," he told Bob and Wes. "The only rules are no drugs, alcohol, weapons or women on the premises. And the men have to be out of both the building and the neighborhood before 8:00 a.m. because the facility's used as a preschool starting at 8:45." "Anyone remember seeing Mitch?" Wes asked. Lucky shook his head. "No. And they don't keep records of the men who use the shelter. But they do have records in the church office of the volunteers who work the different shifts. One of you is going to have to go into that office and charm a list out of the church ladies who work there. We've got to find out who was on duty the nights we think Mitch might've been there." Wes pointed to Bobby. "He'll do that. Church ladies give me a rash." Bobby shrugged. "I'll do it—if you quit smoking." "Oh, God." Wes slumped forward so his head was on the table. "Fine," he said, his voice muffled by his arms. "I'll quit smoking. You just keep any church ladies away from me." Bobby turned to Lucky. "Luke, I've been thinking. If Mitch came into the shelter in disguise..." "Yeah, I've been thinking that, too." Lucky signalled the waitress to freshen his cup of coffee. She poured cups for Bob and Wes, too, and told them she'd be back in a minute to take their order. He waited until she was gone to continue. "If he doesn't want us to, we're probably not going to find him."

"Provided he's still alive," Wes said darkly. Lucky took a sip of his now-hot coffee, feeling it burn all the way to his stomach. "How well did you guys get to know Mitch Shaw last year when we were working with Admiral Robinson?" Bobby looked at Wes, and Wes looked at Bobby. Guys who had been swim buddies for years, the way these two had, could have entire conversations with a single glance. "Not very well," Bobby admitted. "He pretty much kept to himself." Wes looked at Bob again. "Or hung out with Zoe Lange." "Zoe Robinson, now." Bobby sighed from the memory. "I always kind of figured Mitch had a thing for her." "She have her baby yet?" Wes asked. "I never knew a pregnant woman could be so sexy until Zoe got knocked up." "She's not due for another few weeks," Lucky said, looking at Bobby and rolling his eyes in exasperation. Only Wes could refer to the pregnancy of a highly decorated and respected admiral's wife as "knocked up." "Can we stay on track here? Let's focus on Mitch Shaw. I didn't get to know Mitch very well either." "He was one spooky dude," Wes said. "Jake Robinson trusts him," Bobby pointed out. He frowned slightly at Wes. "And don't talk about him in the past tense, please." "Okay." Lucky pointed at Bobby. "You go make friends with the office staff at the church." He pointed at Wes. "You get on the computer and search out whatever personnel records and files you can about Mitchell Shaw. I want to know where he grew up, what his nickname was during BUD/S training, what medals he's won, his favorite vegetable, his favorite color. I want to know everything there is to know about this guy." Bobby stood up. "I'll grab a donut on my way out." He pulled the motel room key out of his pocket and put it on the table in front of Lucky. "You'll be wanting that." "I want it but I'm not going to use it. I'm going to go check out the neighborhood around the church shelter. See if anyone in the grocery shops remember seeing Mitch. And as soon as the bars open, I'll check them out, too." "Forgive me for singing the same old refrain, but you look worse than you smell, Lieutenant," Bobby said. "Maybe you should crash for a few hours." "We've got another check-in with the captain coming up in twelve hours," Lucky reminded them. "I'm not looking forward to giving him a repeat of this morning's sit-rep—that we're here but we're still clueless." Lucky slid out of the booth's bench seat and threw enough money onto the table to cover his breakfast. "I'll take a quick shower, but that's all I have time for. Let's meet back at the motel at 1300 hours." "God, I wanted a real breakfast." Wes gazed longingly at the scrambled eggs and ham pictured on the menu, then pushed himself out of the booth. "I'll buy you a super-deluxe breakfast special to go," Bobby said, "if you'll trade assignments with me." "Searching computer records versus duking it out with the church ladies?" Wes shook his head. "I don't want breakfast that bad." The Aldens were leaving. Mish waved goodbye to Chip as the van pulled away, down the long driveway. Last night's events had been too much for them. Their vacation was over, Ted Alden had told him as he'd thanked Mish again. Besides, they wanted to get Chip checked out by their personal physician back in New York. "Are you completely insane?" Mish turned to see Becca standing slightly behind him. She was holding a piece of paper in her hand and... He turned away, recognizing it as the exorbitant check—a thank-you gift, the man had called it—Ted Alden had tried to press into his hand as he said goodbye. "How could you refuse to accept this?" Becca asked, moving in front of him, holding the damned thing up. There was no way he could explain that the thought of taking money for saving a kid's life made him squirm— especially since the nightmarish dreams that continued to haunt him made him wonder if maybe he'd earned that big wad of money he carried by taking people's lives. "I didn't go into the river after Chip because I wanted a reward," he told her. "I did it because I liked the kid." He shook his head. No, that wasn't exactly true. "Look, I would've done it even if I didn't like the kid. I just...I did it, okay? I don't want Alden's money. He thanked me—that was enough." Mish headed back toward the barn. There were stalls to shovel out and other chores that needed doing. He'd gotten a late start today, and he was moving more slowly than usual, thanks to that piece of telephone pole that had smashed into him in the river. He didn't think his rib was broken, but it probably had been cracked. Either way, there wasn't much he could've done about it. He'd grabbed an Ace bandage from the first-aid kit in the barn, and he'd wrapped himself up—not that it really helped. It hurt, but that would fade in time.

Becca followed him, a sudden brisk breeze making her clutch her cowboy hat to her head. "Casey—Mish. God, this check is for a hundred thousand dollars! That kind of money is nothing to Ted Alden—he's got bushels of it back on Wall Street. But for someone like me or you... You can't just say 'no thanks' to an opportunity like this." He stopped short, and she nearly ran into him. "Funny, I thought I already did." She was completely bemused and almost entirely confused as well as she stood there gazing up at him, as if she were trying to see into his head. "I promised Ted I'd talk you into accepting this." "You're going to have to break your promise, because I don't want it," Mish said again. He reached for it, intending to tear it up, but she pulled it away from him, safely out of reach, as if she had been able to read his mind. "Don't you dare! I'm going to hold on to this for you while you think about accepting it. Take all the time you need." Exasperated, he turned back to the barn. "I don't need time. I've already thought about it. You'll just have to send it back to him." Again, she followed, all the way inside. "With this kind of money, you wouldn't have to work here, shoveling horse manure for most of the day." He glanced back at her as he picked up his shovel and started doing just that, trying to ignore the flare of pain in his side. "Are you firing me?" "No!" Her answer came quickly. "That's not why I said that. I need you to stay, I'm shorthanded already, but actually I'd..." She cleared her throat. "I'd like it if you stayed." Mish didn't stop his work cleaning out the stall, but he couldn't keep himself from glancing up at her again. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt open and untucked over a T-shirt. It hid the soft curves he didn't need to see to know were there. She'd fit perfectly in his arms last night. Maybe a little too perfectly. As she gazed back at him, her eyes were dark brown, bottomless pits that he knew he could fall into and lose himself in far too easily. She was looking at him as if he were some kind of hero. And he knew with a flash that his refusal to accept that money had only made her like him more. Damn. "That is, if you want to stay," she added, embarrassment tingeing her cheeks with pink. "You know, just...for a while." Mish forced himself to look away, forced himself not to think about the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he'd had sex. Of course he couldn't remember. Everything before Monday was a total blank. Yet still, somehow he knew—as he'd known the waist and inseam measurements of his jeans—that it had been a long time since he'd been with a woman. A very long time. And he found this woman to be incredibly appealing. She'd turned down his offer to walk her back to her cabin as the sun was starting to creep over the horizon early this morning. That had been a good call on her part—Mish didn't know what he'd been thinking at the time. She'd just been through an emotional wringer and surely had been vulnerable. He himself had been running what-if scenarios all morning. It had been sheer luck that Chip had been swept directly into his arms in the river. Sheer luck the kid hadn't been killed. The line between what was and what might have been was a very thin one. Tragedy had been averted by mere inches. And afterward, Mish had been a little too close to an emotional edge himself, and he knew now what he'd only suspected last night. It wouldn't have taken much for that friendly comfort he'd given Becca to turn into comfort of an entirely different kind. If he'd walked her home and she'd invited him in, he would've kissed her sweet mouth. And if he had kissed her... He focused on the job at hand, attempting to banish the too-vivid thoughts of just where kissing Becca might've led. He couldn't let himself think that way. It wouldn't be fair to her. It wouldn't be right. Mish couldn't tell her the truth, although, Lord, there were times when he longed to confide in her. But he couldn't. Just the thought of it filled him with an overpowering sense of unease. Somehow he knew he wasn't supposed to talk about any of this—why he was here. He couldn't risk revealing too much, couldn't give anything away. Why? He didn't remember. But the need for secrecy had obviously been ingrained in him. He couldn't tell her. And he'd already deceived Becca once—by convincing her he was capable of this job as a ranch hand, during that phone interview he couldn't remember. There was no way he was going to deceive her again by becoming phys ically intimate with her. At least not until he knew for sure exactly who he was. And maybe not even after that. This was not a woman who'd want to have anything to do with a criminal. And he was probably an ex-con at best, if his dreams of handcuffs and prison walls were based on any kind of truth. Although, when she looked at him the way she'd been looking at him just a few seconds ago, it was easy to imagine his resolve to keep his distance flying right out the window. It was easy to imagine her melting willingly in his arms as he pulled her down with him, right here on the sweetsmelling, fresh hay he'd just spread on the floor of the stall and... Lord have mercy. Yes, it had been far, far too long since he'd been intimate with a woman. But Becca wanted him to be a hero, so he was going to do just that—by not letting himself get too close to her.

She looked down at the check she still held in her hands, her cheeks still slightly pink, as if she'd been able to follow his wayward thoughts. "I just can't imagine why you would want to work for slave wages, with somebody willing and ready to hand you this much money." Mish shrugged as he set the shovel down. “Money's not everything." He picked up the handles of the nearly full wheelbarrow and pushed it out of the stall. He passed closely enough to Becca to catch a whiff of the same fresh perfume he'd breathed in last night when he'd wrapped her in his arms. Lord, but she smelled good. He moved away from her quickly, leaning closer to the overpowering contents of his wheelbarrow to exorcise her scent as he headed toward the back entrance of the barn. "It may not be everything, but it's damn close," Becca countered, following him out. "If 7 had this kind of money—" She broke off. "Mish, please, you should at least think about accepting this check. This could be the break you need." He squinted against the bright morning sunshine as he pushed his pungent load out to a manure pile well back from the barn, his side smarting with every step he took. "Your giving me this job was the break I need," he said. "Of course, that assumes I need a break in the first place." "You walked in here with one change of clothes under your arm, no wallet and no ID," she pointed out. "You accepted a job at an embarrassingly low hourly rate. This isn't the movies. I've pretty much rejected the idea that you're some kind of eccentric millionaire in disguise." He glanced back at her. "Yeah? What if I am?" Becca laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She really had beautiful eyes. "If you are, why the heck are we having this conversation while you lug a load of manure in this heat? Let's call for a break and reconvene for dinner at your favorite restaurant in Paris. Because as long as you can afford it, I've always wanted to fly on the Concorde." She was teasing, but there was some truth in her words. She wanted to have dinner with him. He could see it in her eyes. Mish dumped the wheelbarrow, feeling glad— and very stupid. He didn't want her to like him. He couldn't want her to like him. Yet he was happy that she did. "Sorry, I seem to have misplaced my bankcard." "Aha," she said with another smile. "Proof that even if you are a millionaire in disguise, you need a break." She had such a beautiful smile, it was impossible not to smile back at her. And as he did, Mish felt himself start to slip. She more than merely liked him. He may not have been able to remember his own name, but he knew how to read a woman. And this woman was Interested, with a capital /. If he pulled her into his arms and lowered his head, she would lift her mouth to meet his. And while getting it on with her on the floor of the barn in the middle of the day was stretching the edges of the fantasy envelope, the idea of spending the night in her bed in the very near future was not so far-fetched. But she wanted a hero, he reminded himself. So instead of moving closer, Mish took a step back. "I do need a break," he told her, willing her not to move any closer. "And the fact that you're letting me stay despite knowing that I lied to you is—” "But you didn't/' she told him, moving closer despite his attempt to control her through telekinesis. She moved close enough for him to see the individual freckles that swept across her nose and cheeks. Close enough to see the flecks of green and gold mixed in with the darker brown of her eyes. "Not really. I looked in your personnel file, at the notes I made when we spoke on the phone. You definitely omitted some information, but I didn't ask, so it wasn't a lie. You told me you were mainly a handyman and that you'd worked on ranches before. I made the mistake of assuming you'd be able to handle the horses, too." Personnel file. There was a personnel file with his name on it, somewhere in Becca's office. It was entirely possible that file would contain his last known address and phone number. He had to have some clothes, some belongings some where, didn't he? If he could find those, he might start to remember who and what he was. "I wasn't completely honest with you, either," Becca continued. "I didn't mention the fact that your starting salary isn't going to increase any time in the near future. The owner of the Lazy Eight doesn't believe in raises." "The money you're paying me is good enough for now." Mish pushed the wheelbarrow back toward the barn. He was far from done with the stalls, yet it was nearly time for lunch. He was simply going to have to grit his teeth against the pain and pick up his pace. Becca's pager went off and she looked down at it, turning it off. "Shoot, I've got to go take this call." She started toward the office, walking backwards. "What do you say you let me treat you to a drink after dinner tonight? As a sort of a thank-you? There's a roadhouse about twelve miles down the road—it's not too far away. They have a really great band on Thursday nights." She'd asked him out. Mish had thought he was safe as long as he kept his distance and didn't do something crazy like invite her to have dinner or a drink with him. But he should've known that Rebecca Keyes wasn't the kind of woman who'd sit back and wait for something she wanted. "Um," he said, but she didn't give him a chance to figure out how he could turn her down without hurting her feelings. "I've got to run," she told him with another of those killer smiles that made his insides tangle. "I'll talk to you later." And she was gone, leaving Mish with an entirely new set of what-if questions. What if he let himself go out with her? She only wanted to have a drink. It wasn't as if she'd invited him over to her place to spend the night, was it?

So what if he went? He'd have a chance to sit across the table from her in some dimly lit bar. He'd have a chance to gaze into her eyes as they talked. As she asked him questions about himself. Where he came from. Where he'd worked before this. Questions about his family. His childhood. His hobbies. Former girlfriends. Present girlfriends. Lord God, what if he was married? What if he had a wife and children somewhere, but he simply couldn't remember them? Of course, it was entirely likely that if he had been married, his wife had left him while he was in prison. Mish shook his head as he began shoveling out the next stall in the barn, almost welcoming the punishing pain in his side. Yeah, he was one hell of a hero.

Chapter 5 Mish cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Is Becca here?" Hazel, the gray-haired woman who worked part-time in the Lazy Eight's office, looked up from her computer and smiled at him. "Oh, hi, Casey. Yeah, she's in the back. You want me to call her for you?" "No," he said. Somewhere in this office was a personnel file with his name on it. Was it in the file cabinet underneath the far window, or the one next to the computer? "Thanks, but if she's busy, it's not necessary." "She's not busy. Becca!" Hazel called, then turned back to Mish. "A package came for you today," she told him. That drew his attention away from the file cabinets. A package. For him? "It says Hold For Arrival," she continued, pushing her chair back and pulling herself to her feet, "but since you arrived early, I can just give it to you now, can't I?" Hazel pulled a small brown padded mailing envelope from a set of mail cubbyholes and slid it across the counter to Mish. A package. There didn't feel as if there could be much inside as he picked it up and turned it over. There was no return address, not even on the back. "Casey Parker" and the address at the ranch was written in a large, faintly childish hand. The handwriting—messy block letters—was completely unfamiliar to Mish. But then again, just a few days ago, his own face had been unfamiliar. The post-office cancellation stamp on the package read "Las Cruces." That was the closest large town to Wyatt City, where he'd woken up in a homeless shelter. Coincidental? Maybe. Maybe not. "Hey, Mish, hi. Did you get mail?" Becca came out from the back, her eyes and smile warm, clearly glad to see him. "Yeah, I, uh, did." Mish nodded to Hazel. "Thank you." "Anything good?" Becca leaned over the counter, smiling up at him. "Nah." He shrugged as he tucked the package under his arm. "Just, you know, tax information from my accountant—about my stock portfolio." She laughed. "Oh, of course." Mish's heart rate had accelerated at the thought of what he might find inside that innocuous brown envelope, but he'd wait for the semi-privacy of the bunkhouse to open it. He couldn't imagine what might be in there that he'd need to keep private, but then again, he hadn't suspected he'd find a huge wad of money and a .22-caliber handgun in his boot, either. "It's going to be slow around here tonight," Becca told him, her chin in her hands, her eyes warm as she looked up at him. "If you'd like, we could leave as early as six, grab some dinner while we're out...?" At least he'd thought it was the package that had made his pulse kick into double time. But maybe it had been the sight of Becca's smile. It would be so easy to tell her yes. It was what he wanted to do, and it would keep him from disappointing and possibly even embarrassing her. Rejection was never fun, even when it was done as gently as possible, with the best of intentions. He glanced over at Hazel who was working on the computer again. "Actually..." He lowered his voice, and Becca leaned closer to hear what he had to say, close enough for him to catch a whiff of her subtle, sweet scent. But it wasn't perfume, he realized. That was her hair he could smell— her shampoo. And that made so much more sense than perfume. Becca didn't seem like the type of woman who would get dressed in worn-out jeans and a T-shirt, apply only sunblock to her face, and then spritz herself with designer perfume for a hard, hot day of work on a ranch. "Actually what?" Her voice was husky, and he realized he'd been staring at her for many long seconds, just breathing in her sweetness. Their two heads were close together. Almost close enough to kiss. Thank heavens the counter was between them or he might well have pulled her into his arms, both Hazel and his good intentions be damned. Even if he hadn't already completely lost his train of thought, he would have done so as Becca's gaze dropped to his mouth. She quickly jerked her gaze back up, but she'd given herself away. Her body language may have been inadvertent, but it was unmistakable. She wanted him to kiss her. And he wanted... He wanted to bury himself in the serenity of her beautiful eyes. He wanted to hide from whomever and whatever he'd been in his probably lurid past. He wanted... "It's funny, isn't it?" she said softly. "When an attraction is as strong as this." She laughed in disbelief. "I mean, where did it come from? Why does it

feel so right ? Mike Harris—he was a cowboy who worked here up until a few weeks ago—he asked me out maybe five different times. He was good-looking, too, like you, but..." She shook her head. "We had a lot in common, but there was no chemistry. I thought it was the bad timing—I was trying to figure out whether to keep working here or to start sending out resumes, but that hasn't changed. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with my life. The timing's still lousy. And yet..." She forced a nervous smile, as clearly as shaken by his proximity as he was by hers. "Here I am, asking you to dinner. Go figure, huh?" Mish found his voice. "The timing's bad for me, too, Becca. Really bad." Becca glanced at Hazel, who seemed completely absorbed by the information on her computer screen. "I have four million things I need to take care of before I'm done for the evening. What do you say we pick up this conversation in a few hours and—” Mish forced himself to straighten up, to back away. "I think it would be better if I just stayed here at the ranch tonight." He looked down at the floor so he wouldn't have to see her face. She straightened up, too. "Oh," she said quietly. "The timing's that bad, huh?" "Yeah. I'm sorry." He truly was. He knew it was time for him to take his sorry ass and make a quick exit, but instead, he made the mistake of looking up. And when he saw the mixture of embarrassment, disappointment and chagrin in Becca's eyes, he couldn't seem to make himself go anywhere. Instead he opened his mouth again. "I'm also... I could really stand to get to sleep early tonight," he told her. "I got a little banged up in the river and..." Wrong. That was the dead wrong thing to say, and he knew it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Someone like Becca wouldn't respond to news that he'd been hurt by casually waving and saying "Oh, too bad. Hope you feel better—see you in the morning." "It's nothing, really," he added hastily. "Just, you know, a cracked rib." "Just?" Becca looked at him as if he'd just announced his intention to cross the Pacific Ocean in a leaky canoe. "Oh, my God, Mish, why didn't you tell me last night you were hurt? You didn't say anything at all!" "I'm fine," he said, silently cursing himself even while a completely twisted part of him enjoyed her wide-eyed concern. "A piece of wood—nothing big—hit me while I was in the water. Like I said, it's only a—" "Cracked rib," she finished for him, her gracefully shaped lips tight with disbelief. "I know what a cracked rib feels like, my friend, and I'm sorry, it's not an only." She opened the hinged part of the counter that allowed access to both the front and the back of the room with a bang. "Get in the truck, I'm taking you to the hospital." "No!" He couldn't go to the hospital. If one of the doctors or nurses looked a little too closely at the healing wound on his head... She looked surprised at his vehemence—even Hazel glanced up. Mish forced himself to smile. "You know that all they'll do is wrap it, and I've already done that." Let's be grown-ups about this, he told her with his tone. But Becca was upset. "How do you know it's not broken? I've heard of people with broken ribs actually puncturing their lungs—” "It's not broken." Mish raised his voice to speak over her. "I know it's not broken because I've had medical training." He was as surprised by his words as she was. Medical training. He hadn't been thinking, and the words had just spilled out. Dear Lord, was it possible he really was a doctor? Or was he just an accomplished liar? Whichever it was, he'd managed to distract her from her mission of getting him into the truck and to the hospital. "Look, I'm just a little bruised," he told her, pushing for a win while he was ahead. "Nothing a good night's sleep won't go a long way toward healing." Becca still didn't look convinced. "I wish you'd told me about it last night." "I should have," he agreed. "You're right. I just... I knew it wasn't that big a deal. You had enough to think about, and..." He had to put his hands in the back pockets of his jeans to keep himself from reaching out to touch her reassuringly. "Don't make me go to the hospital, Bee. I'm too tired to handle their red tape and...and to sit in the waiting room for hours, and..." He shook his head. "Come on. Please?" She exhaled a burst of air, as if giving in to a tough decision. "Let me see it." He blinked at her in surprise. "Let you...?" "You heard me," she said brusquely, motioning toward the open counter and the door behind it. "Step into the back room if you're modest. Do it right here if you're not. Take off your shirt and let me see." She wasn't kidding. "It looks worse than it is," he told her. "It's pretty badly bruised—doing the ugly rainbow thing, you know. Yellow and green and purple?" "Now it's badly bruised? I thought it was just a 'little' bruise." "Well, yeah, it is. I meant compared to other bruises I've had. You know. I mean, I've had worse." Lord help him, he was babbling.

Becca crossed her arms. "Then what's the big deal, Parker?" The big deal was that he'd managed to wrestle his T-shirt on this morning, but taking it off—especially now, after he'd tightened up a whole lot during the day—was going to be next to impossible. Or screamingly painful. Or both. "I don't think I can get my T-shirt off," he admitted. "I'm okay, you understand? I just have a little bit of ...of discomfort when I lift my arms above my shoulders." It was the understatement of the century, and Becca knew it, too. She shook her head in exasperation. "You should've worn a shirt that buttons in the front." "Yeah, well, the butler must've sent them all to the dry cleaner." He was able to make a joke, but he was ashamed to admit he didn't have a shirt that buttoned down the front. He felt his face heat with embarrassment. What kind of man didn't have more than a few T-shirts, four pairs of boxer shorts, and two pairs of jeans to his name? He'd hoped he'd regain his memory and find his closet, but clearly that wasn't going to happen any time soon. And whoever had sent him this package clearly hadn't included his wardrobe. He had to go into town, spend some more of that money he'd found in his boot. He just hoped it was his to spend. Becca put her hand on his arm. Her fingers felt cool against his skin. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, squeezing him slightly before she pulled her hand away. "I didn't mean to sound—" "No," he interrupted her, wishing he'd covered her hand with his, glad that he hadn't. "It's all right." "I have a few shirts you can borrow. Castoffs from old boyfriends," she explained with a rueful smile. She raised her voice, turning toward the back of the room. ' 'Hazel, excuse me. Do you still have that big pair of scissors in your desk?" Hazel opened her top drawer. "Miracle of miracles, I actually do." "May I borrow it, please?" "Sure thing." Hazel approached them with the scissors, her eyes betraying her curiosity. "What's up? You going to give the hero of the hour here a haircut?” "Nope. I like his hair long." Becca smiled up at him a little too grimly. "Hold still please, Mish." She reached out and as she pulled the bottom edge of his T-shirt from his jeans, her cool fingers brushed his stomach. Mish nearly went through the roof. What the...? "Hold still, dammit," she said again, making it an order as she brandished the scissors. "What—" he started. "I'm cutting this off of you." She grabbed hold of his T-shirt again and started to do just that. She had to saw at the bottom hem, the scissors were so ridiculously dull. Hazel laughed aloud. "Rebecca, honey, there's a time and place for everything, but—” "He was hurt last night," Becca told her assistant flatly. "He was hit by a big chunk of wood running down the river when he jumped in after Chip." "It wasn't a big chunk—" "And now he's having some discomfort," she glowered up at him. "He thinks he cracked a rib, and he just told me about it now. Now. Hours and hours and hours later. He can't get out of his shirt without it giving him more discomfort, so I'm cutting it off so I can see how bad it really is, okay?" "I guess that makes sense, but if someone walks in here—" "Do me a favor, Hazel," Becca said, "and run to my cabin. There're a couple of large, button-down shirts hanging in my closet, toward the back. One of 'em's red. Go and get it for me, please." "Are you kidding? And miss this?" "Go. Please?" Becca finally managed to cut through the hem, and she put the scissors down on the counter. She took the package Mish was still holding and set it down as well. "You want me to lock the door behind me?" Hazel was having way too much fun. She winked at Mish.' 'You know, it's been a real long time since Becca's cut off a cowboy's T-shirt. You should be honored. She doesn't do this to just anyone." "Hazel." Becca closed her eyes. "Go." She shook her head as the door closed behind Hazel, purposely not meeting his gaze. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to embarrass you. Which side is it on?" Which side...? "I'm afraid of nicking you with the scissors, so I'm going to tear your shirt—at least up to the collar. But 1 don't want to bump your broken rib."

"Cracked," Mish corrected her. "Left side." reached for the cut in the T-shirt. "I can do this." But her hands were already there. And she tore the cotton upwards, swiftly but carefully. The sound of the fabric tearing seemed impossibly loud in the stillness of the room. It was a dangerously erotic sound, one that implied impatience and hinted at an intense passion. They were alone, and this woman he wanted so badly was literally tearing off his clothes. Heat coursed through him, flames licking the desire he'd so carefully concealed, and bringing it to life. Amusement followed instantly, but it wasn't enough to extinguish the heat. It was hard to swallow, hard to breathe. Her fingers brushed his bare chest as she gave another pull and tore his shirt all the way to his collar. It was that second time that completely finished him off. He desperately tried to fight his growing arousal even as he laughed softly at the absurdity of it all, but it was a losing battle. Becca was standing close enough to kiss, and Lord, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to pull her tightly against him, so she could feel just what she did to him. He wanted to wrap her legs around him, cracked rib be damned. But he didn't. He stood perfectly still, his hands down at his sides, all amusement completely gone as he forced himself not to reach for her. The effort of doing so, however, made him start to sweat. She made a soft sound of dismay when she saw the colors of his bruise spreading beyond his Ace bandage. Reaching again for the scissors, she began to saw through the heavier cotton of his crew-neck collar. She had to move even closer to do it, her thigh pressed against his, her breasts brushing his chest. Mish closed his eyes, feeling a bead of perspiration trickle down the side of his face, praying she'd be done soon. He was trying to be good, but he wasn't a saint. Finally, she cut through. He opened his eyes only when she stepped back, when he heard the clatter of the scissors on the counter. But he was premature—the torture wasn't over yet. Becca moved closer again, and began to peel his shirt off his shoulders. "Don't lift your arms or try to help," she instructed him softly, her hands cool against the heat of his skin. She worked his sleeve down his right arm, touching him every inch of the way, and then gently pulled the rest of the shirt from his left. Mish unfastened the bandage himself, stepping slightly back from her, bracing himself for the words he knew were coming. "God, you call that a little bruise...?" Her words were laced with a tough disbelief, but she actually had tears in her eyes. "I told you, it looks worse than it is." Please God, don't let her start to cry. If she did, he'd never be able to keep from reaching for her. She blinked them back forcefully, grimly. "That must've hurt like hell. It hurts you right now—even just to stand there, doesn't it?" She was angry at him, and while anger was better than empathic tears, it could get him taken to the hospital if he wasn't careful. "Becca, I swear," he said calmly, as matter-of-factly as he could manage, considering the way his heart was still pounding from her touch. "It's really not that bad." "Bad enough for you to break out in a cold sweat." With one finger, she caught a bead of perspiration that was dripping down his face, holding it out somewhat triumphantly to show him. That wasn't cold sweat. It was very, very hot, very steamy sweat. But it was probably better that she didn't know that. "I can't believe you put in a full day of work," she continued, refusing to be calm or matter-of-fact in response. "I can't believe I stood there and watched you mucking out the stalls, and I didn't have a clue you were hurt!" She was so angry her voice was shaking. She crossed to the back of the office, her movements jerky as she opened one of the drawers and took out a key. "As of right now, you're out of the bunkhouse and staying in cabin 12. I'm marking it unavailable on the books—it's all yours until the end of next week. After that, be ready to clear out if we get any walk-ins, but I doubt we will. We're not full up with guest reservations for another month and a half." She slapped the key onto the counter in front of him. "I'm also giving you a week off." He opened his mouth, and she held up her hand. "At full pay," she added as ferociously as if she'd just informed him he was getting twenty lashes. "And if it doesn't heal enough for you to move without pain by then, I'll give you another week, but you'll have to let the doctor in town check you out first. Does that sound fair?" "I appreciate your generosity," Mish told her. "But it's not fair. Not for you. You're already short-staffed." She looked startled, as if she'd never expected him to consider that. "I'll take care of your chores." "Along with your regular job?" It was insane, and she knew it. "I'll...call Rafe Mc-Kinnon. He told me he was going to his brothers' for a few days before he started looking for work up north. I'll give him that raise he wanted. He'll come back in a flash. He had a major thing for Belinda." "I thought you said the owner didn't want to—"

"To hell with what Justin Whitlow wants," she said fiercely, coming back out from behind the counter. "If he doesn't like the way I manage his ranch, he can just fire me." With her eyes sparking and her chin held high, she looked unstoppable. If he weren't careful, she would bulldoze straight over him. "You say that as if it would be a good thing." He tried to smile, keep things a little more light. She glared back at him. "Maybe it would be. If I'm too damned chicken to quit, then I have to make him fire me, don't I?" "There's a difference between being chicken and being cautious." Mish didn't know what was happening. Becca was standing still, but she just kept getting closer and closer to him. And then he realized that he was the one who was moving toward her, pinning her back against the counter. He was drawn toward her as absolutely as if he were a magnet and she were true north. He could smell her hair, see every individual freckle on her nose, watch the irises of her beautiful, warm eyes widen as he leaned closer and closer. He forced himself to stop, just a whisper away from the softness of her lips, and he felt a rush of relief. Another second, and he would have kissed her. Another fraction of an inch and... She still didn't move, yet her lips brushed against his. He heard her sigh, saw her eyelids flutter closed as he kissed her again. As he kissed her. What was he doing? Was he completely insane? This was wrong. This was crazy. This was... Incredible. She tasted as sweet as he'd imagined, her lips introducing him to a whole new definition for the word soft. Three kisses was enough. Lord, it had to be, it was three kisses too many. And he surely—well, probably— would've pulled away from her after three, if only she hadn't touched him. But the sensation of her hands on the bare skin of his arms was one he couldn't deny himself the pleasure of knowing. And when she slid her hands up to his shoulders, and then to the hair at the nape of his neck... Three kisses became four and five and more and he lost count, lost all sense of up and down, lost himself in the dizzying sweetness of her mouth. He pulled her close, dying to cup the softness of her breasts in his hands, but settling for the feel of her against his chest. He kissed her longer, deeper, but still slowly, claiming complete ownership of her mouth. She'd worked his hair free from the rubber band he'd used to hold it back, and as she ran her fingers through it, he knew the truth. Three hundred wouldn't be enough. He had to stop kissing her. This could have been the rightest wrong he'd ever done, but it was wrong. Her hands trailed down his back, cool against the heat of his skin, and he groaned. And Becca nearly jumped back, away from him. "Oh, God." She brought her hand up to her mouth, her eyes enormous. "I'm so sorry—did I hurt you?" He stared back at her. Hurt him... ? And he realised she wouldn't have pulled away if she hadn't thought she'd somehow hurt his bruised side. If he hadn't made that strangled sound, she'd be kissing him still. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "There's a Jacuzzi up by the swimming pool," she told him. "Just inside the main cabana. It might help if you spent some time soaking." "I'm okay." Mish had to clear his throat. "It's not that bad, really." How was it possible that mere moments ago his tongue had been inside of her mouth, yet now they were talking to each other as if they were strangers? They were strangers. And he shouldn't have kissed her. “Becca, I really have to—" The office door opened with a squeak. And Mish quickly turned toward the counter, suddenly extremely aware that he was standing there not only without a shirt, but still nearly fully aroused as well. "Oh, yikes," Hazel said. "That must really hurt." He could only hope she was referring to the bruise on his side. She turned to Becca. "Sorry that took so long. Going into your closet should merit hazardous-duty pay." "Ha, ha." Becca took the shirt from her assistant. "I've assigned cabin 12 to Mish, at least until the end of the week. He's got some sick days

coming to him, as well." She moved behind Mish, holding the shirt open, so that he could slip his arms into it with relative ease. The soft cotton smelled like Becca. It was like being enveloped by her hair. As if she'd been touching him forever, she gently turned him to face her. "Need help with the Ace bandage, too?" Mish glanced at Hazel, who was back at her computer, across the room. "I need..." What? To take off Becca's clothes? Undeniably. He lowered his voice, leaned closer to her. ' 'To talk to you. Come outside with me for a sec." It would be private, but not as private as pulling her with him into the back room where he could shut the door and... Becca glanced at Hazel, too. And she scooped the key to his cabin, his package and his bandage off the counter. Til walk you over to number twelve." "Thanks, Hazel," Mish called, letting Becca open the door for him. Without the bandage, every step he took seemed to jar his side. Of course, it jarred with the bandage on, too. "Feel better, sweetie. And don't keep Becca out too late tonight" "Ignore her," Becca said. "You have permission to keep me out as late as you want." Oh, Lord. Mish waited until they were both several yards away from the office. "Becca, look, I let myself get carried away back there, and I want to apologize." She stopped short, right there in the driveway. "Are you apologizing for...kissing me?" "No, I'm..." He briefly closed his eyes. "Yes. Yeah, lam." Becca started walking again, quickly enough so that he had to work to keep up with her. "That's funny. I didn't seem to think any of those kisses warranted an apology. I mean, jeez. If you're sorry about those, well, the ones you aren't sorry about must be out of this world." "Becca, I—" "That was a joke, Parker. You're supposed to laugh." She turned, slowing her pace as she walked backwards. "I don't suppose you'd want to discuss this over dinner." One look at his face and she turned around again. "Yeah, I didn't think so." "I meant what I said about the timing being bad for me," he told her quietly. "I'm sorry if I confused things back there by finding you completely irresistible." Becca laughed as she glanced at him, shaking her head. "Well, there's the prettiest rejection I've ever heard." "I am sorry," he said again. "I don't know what happened." She handed him the key, the package and the Ace bandage. "The cabin's down to the left," she told him. "I'll have dinner brought to you on a tray tonight." 'That's not—" "Don't worry," she said. "It won't be me carrying the tray. I can take a hint—particularly after it's hammered home." Mish watched her walk away. "Becca." She turned back, her eyes subdued. "If it were purely a matter of what I wanted... If there was nothing else to consider..." She smiled crookedly. "Get some rest," she said. "It's got to be tiring being so damn nice." "It's definitely Mitch's case," Lucky said to Wes over the phone. "Remember that old leather thing he always carried? Called it his bag of tricks? Well, it's here. In bus locker number 101." Lucky had lucked out and found Mitch's bag on his fifth try. The locks had been ridiculously easy to pop open—the luck had come from the lack of bus station security guards to question why he was opening locker after locked locker. "We're going to set up twenty-four-hour surveillance," Lucky decided. "If he's anywhere in this part of the state, sooner or later he's going to come back for his bag. And when he does, we're going to be watching." "Sitting in a bus station for hours on end," Wes con templated. "Bob's gonna hate that almost as much as I do." "You don't have to like it, you just have to—"

"Do it. I know, I know," Wes interrupted. "You've gotta stop reading those Rogue Warrior books." "Look, since I'm already here," Lucky said, "I'll take the shift till 0100 hours. I'd offer to stay later but—" "You've only slept an hour in the past forty-eight. Don't be a hero, Lieutenant. I'll be there at 2000." "Make it midnight, Cinderella, and I'll take you up on that offer," Lucky countered, looking out the grimy windows at the street. "But first trade in the Batmobile for something with tinted windows. This place is a ghost town. We're going to get looked at if we're sitting in here, watching the lockers. We'll need to sit out on the street." They'd have a clear shot of almost the entire bus station if they parked a vehicle in the right place. "You and Stimpy can duke it out over who plays watchdog for the rest of the night. Any word from our beamish, church-going boy, by the way?” Wes laughed. "Believe it or not, he's taking one of the church ladies to dinner. He left a message saying that we need to talk to a guy named Jarell Haymore. He was on duty the night we think Mitch might've been at the shelter." "So if Bob's already found that out, what's he doing taking this lady to dinner?” "Beats me. He gets weird sometimes." "What'd you find?" Lucky asked, his gaze sweeping the bus station. Even when he wasn't looking directly at it, he kept the row of battered lockers in his peripheral vision. Nothing moved. Anywhere. The bus station was as empty now as it had been an hour ago. "Well," Wes said, "let's see. Mitch Shaw's nickname during BUD/S training? The Priest." Lucky laughed. "You're kidding." "Yeah, and you're going to love this. There are still rumors floating around that Shaw either was or is some kind of, ahem, shall we say...man of God?" "A SEAL who's really a priest?" Lucky shook his head in disbelief. "No way, Skelly. That reeks of BUD/S legend. Kind of like the story about the boat team that got so hungry they barbecued the instructor—and were secured two days early, and given shore leave in Hawaii for their ingenuity. I just don't buy it." "I've never seen him with a woman," Wes said. "Have you ever seen him with a woman?" "Yeah," Lucky said. God, he was: tired. "I saw him with his tongue dragging in the dust as he followed Zoe around out in Montana. And you did, too." "Yeah, yeah," Wes said impatiently. "Zoe Robinson could make a dead man stand up and dance. But Bob and I went drinking with Shaw a few times after we got back to Coronado. He never went home with anyone—not that I ever knew about. And it wasn't a case of no opportunity, if you know what I mean." "He is a covert operative," Lucky pointed out. "He probably knows a thing or two about how to be discreet. Let's keep this conversation moving forward, Skelly. What else did you find out about him?" "Medal, medal, medal. Every time the guy turned around, he was being awarded another damn medal," Wes said. "Eighteen, to date." Eighteen. Lucky swore in admiration. "Yeah. Won his first medal when he was—get this— fifteen years old." What? "Are you serious?" "Why would I make this up?" "Maybe it was a typo, or—" "It's too unreal, Luke. It's got to be true. Combine that with Shaw having gone into the SEAL program his first year in the navy. In fact, I think he went from the recruiter's office to BUD/S training. How often does that happen?" "Never?" "No, it happened at least once. With Mitch Shaw. The man won two more medals straight out of BUD/S. Since then, it's been kind of a yearly thing for him. 'Oh, it's April. Time for another trip to the White House to add to this collection on my chest.'" Lucky exhaled a burst of air. "Well, if that's the case, I think we can pretty much assume he hasn't sold the plutonium to the first third-world country ready to hand him a suitcase filled with a million dollars in small bills." "I don't know about that, Luck-meister. It's these su-perheroes you've really got to watch out for. When they turn, they turn bad. Guys like Shaw are lugging around a ton of resentment. You know, 'The United States made fifteen billion dollars because I saved the world, and all I got were these eighteen lousy medals...'" Lucky laughed. "Yeah, Skelly, right. You keep on thinking that way. This is a man Admiral Robinson trusted with his life." "That's true," Wes admitted. "Apparently Robinson tapped Mitch Shaw to join his Gray Group at its inception. In other words, Shaw was Gray Group's agent double-oh-one. You know, I'm glad I didn't know all this last year. This guy scares me."

"Anything else?" Lucky asked, rolling his eyes. Wes was the scary one. "I've got some feelers out," Wes said. "You know, asking around, looking for anyone who might've gone through BUD/S with him. But apparently not too many people survived and... Oh, my God!" Lucky nearly dropped the phone. "What? Skelly—sit-rep! What's happening?" ' 'Bobby just walked by with..." "What?! Who?" "Oh, baby! Bobby's church lady looks like a supermodel! She's got long hair and a miniskirt and lo-o-ong legs and..." Wes started to laugh hysterically. "I gotta go—maybe she has a sister." Wes hung up, and the silence in the bus station was even more complete than it had been before. Bobby just walked by with a church lady who looked like a supermodel. Go figure. Lucky and Wes had both made the mistake of making an assumption, while the truth was, there were no red givens in this world. Bobby had ended up lucky, in the company of a beautiful woman for dinner, while Lucky had wound up alone in a urine-scented bus station. Lucky would have assumed the odds of that ever happening were impossibly low. Kind of like the odds of Admiral Robinson's top covert operative selling out his country by selling stolen pluto-nium to the highest bidder. God, what if it was true? What if Mitch Shaw had turned?

Chapter 6 Mish sat on the porch of his cabin, waiting for the sun to set. He'd slept fitfully all day, his dreams haunted by violence. He'd awakened countless times, his heart pounding and his side throbbing. He sat quietly now and tried to pull apart the visions into his past that his subconscious had belched up, like malodorous bubbles from a tar pit. Because dreams, although sometimes imagined events, were often based on things the dreamer had seen or done, weren't they? There had been a man in religious robes, standing bravely in front of a group of men with assault weapons. Terrorists. It had happened in a heartbeat. One of them had raised his side arm and fired a double burst into the man's head. And as Mish had watched, helpless as a child, so filled with fear and horror that he didn't even dare to cry out, the man had slumped, a lifeless rag, to the floor. The image still made him feel sick. He'd dreamed of gazing through a sniper scope, dreamed of sighting a target and squeezing the trigger. He'd dreamed of more personal violence as well. Hand-to-hand combat, a martial-arts free-for-all with the only rule being survival. And he'd dreamed of a woman—his mother? It was hard to say; her face was turned away, and it kept changing. She sat, her head bowed in grief, weeping. When she did look up at him, her tear-bruised eyes silently accusing, he realized she was Becca, and he sat up, instantly awake. It didn't take much to figure that dream out. He was trouble. He'd always been trouble, and the only thing he could bring Becca was pain. A party of riders approached, heading out for a late-afternoon trail ride. Becca led the way, giving him no more than a brief glance, lifting a hand in a vague greeting as she passed. True to her word, she'd kept her distance all day— except for that one brief appearance in his dreams. Hazel had brought him both breakfast and lunch on a tray. Dinner was going to be served in just an hour, but Becca would be out on the ride for most of that time. Mish could go sit with the guests and... He didn't want to sit with anyone. He didn't want to do anything except get into the ranch office and look at that personnel file. He needed to find out his former address, and then he had to go there—wherever "there" was—to see if anything was familiar to him. Frustratingly, the package that had come in the mail yesterday had held no answers—only more questions. It had contained only a key. It was a bank key—the kind that unlocked a safe-deposit box. But there were no markings on it, no note stuck in with it, nothing. It could have belonged to any of hundreds of safe-deposit boxes in any thousands of banks in New Mexico. Or the world. Why keep it only to New Mexico? This key could well have come from anywhere. It was driving him mad, his complete lack of a past. Mish had spent some time today gritting his teeth and trying to force himself to remember. Who was he? What was he? But the answers continued to elude him. All he knew for absolute certain was this relentless sense of unease. Don't tell anyone. Don't talk about why he was here. Don't reveal his weaknesses... The sound of Becca's laughter drifted back to him through the lengthening shadows, and he had to wonder— not for the first time—if maybe, just maybe he'd be better off not knowing. "Oh, my God, what are you doing in here?" Becca jumped back from the office screen door when she realized someone—Mish—was inside. She grabbed hold of the porch railing to keep herself from falling backwards down the stairs. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Mish stepped outside. "I was..." He cleared his throat. "I was actually looking for you." She stared at him. "In the dark?" "Well, no," he said mildly. "Of course not. There was a light on in the back. I knocked, but no one answered, so I went in." Becca moved past him, trying not to notice how good he looked standing there in the soft moonlight, wearing the red shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Her heart was pounding, but only because he'd startled her. She refused to let it be for any other reason. "The door was unlocked?" she asked. Inside, she turned on the lights. All of the overhead lights, not just the pleasantly dim one on her desk. Mish squinted slightly in the glare as he followed her. "I had no problem getting in." "I'll have to talk to Hazel. This door needs to be locked at night." She shuffled through the papers on her desk, aware that he was standing there watching her, aware that she was wearing her bathing suit under a very short pair of cutoffs, aware that she had virtually thrown herself at him and he had pushed her away. But he'd just said that he'd come there looking for her. She glanced over at him. "So what's up?"

He had the kind of dark hair and complexion that had helped coin the phrase "five o'clock shadow." It was now after eight, and he had stubble worthy of the cover of GQ magazine. He rubbed his chin in a spot where he had a small white scar as he shrugged. "I just, um... I don't know, really. I was feeling a little better, and I wanted to..." He shrugged again. "I'm glad you're feeling better. You look..." Delicious. "As if you're...feeling better." Oh, God, why didn't she just go over and drool on his boots? "I'll definitely be back before the week's out," he told her. "Helping in the barn, I mean." "What are you, nuts?" He smiled. It was ludicrous. When he smiled he was even more good-looking. "No, just...bored." "Ah," she said. "Bored." Becca found what she was looking for—tomorrow's sign-up sheet for the tennis court—and she breezed past him toward the door. She held it open and gazed at him pointedly. He got the message and went out. She flicked off the lights, and shut the door behind her, making sure it was securely locked. ' 'Is that why you came looking for me? Because you were bored?" "Oh, Lord," he said. "No. Absolutely not. I just... I..." "Forget it." Becca was embarrassed for herself all over again. And angry at herself, as well. She'd practically invited him to kiss her yesterday, and then when he had, she'd stupidly assumed that he'd been as affected by those kisses as she was. They had been nuclear-powered kisses, kisses that completely bulldozed over any of her doubts about bad timing. Hey, for the promise of more kisses like that, she would have invented a whole new calendar. It had been well over twenty-four hours since his lips had last touched hers, and her knees were still weak. Yet Mish had said no thanks and walked away. It was a new twist on an old story—a man who was in such a hurry to leave he didn't even bother to start the love affair first. But right now he was blocking her path. "I was just thinking that even though the timing's bad..." He couldn't quite hold her gaze. "I don't know," he admitted. "It feels kind of like playing with C-4..." He broke off, shaking his head slightly. "I mean, like playing with explosives," he continued. "But..." "You want to go get a drink?" she asked him. "Or are you thinking we should skip the formalities and just go straight to bed?" Oops, her anger was showing. But at least she'd managed to get him to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was rude of me, and uncalledfor, and—" "This was a really bad idea," he said quietly. "You're still upset with me, and you have every right to be. I'm really sorry." He turned to leave, and this time she blocked his path. She knew he would eventually leave. Call it whatever you like, self-sabotage, a built-in defense mechanism, lowered expectations, whatever, but she simply didn't hook up with guys who were viable candidates for anything long-term. She knew that about herself. She was okay with Mish leaving. In fact, she was practically planning for it to happen. That was because she was a realist. That was because she faced the truth and was honest with herself. But there was a very, very small fragment of time in every relationship, right at the very start, where magic could conceivably happen. There was a small moment, maybe an hour or a day or maybe even as long as a week, where hope reigned, and possibilities seemed as limitless and wide as the vast New Mexico sky. And during that moment, happily-ever-after didn't seem as much like a myth. And true love didn't sound quite so much like some con artist's clever lie. Becca knew, she knew, that Casey "Mission Man" Parker's vocabulary didn't contain the word forever. But when she'd looked into his eyes as he'd slowly lowered his mouth to hers, something had shifted, and in that instant she'd been filled with enough hope to cloud her 20/20 vision. She could have squeezed an entire month of hope out of just one kiss. "How can you just ignore this?" she asked, gesturing between them. Once again she was throwing herself in front of the rejection train, heaven help her. But she had to know. "How can you walk away from something that has such incredible promise?" He smiled, a beautiful, regretful, slightly crooked smile. "Well, that's just it. For someone who's walking away, I seem to be back where I started, don't I?" "So where on earth did you learn to swim like that?" Mish looked down into his glass of beer. He drank imported Canadian beer, he'd somehow known that without really having to think about it. The light from the pool area lit the amber liquid in a way that was completely familiar. Yes, he'd sat in the shadows and stared into many a glass of imported beer and—he tried to make it completely effortless—he'd learned to swim back when he'd... Nothing. Nothing came. "I don't know," he told her. "I've been able to swim since before I can remember." He had to toss the focus back to Becca, but gently. He was treading a conversational tightrope here. If he asked her the obvious questions about herself—where are you from, how long have you worked here—she'd take that as an invitation to simply turn around and throw similar questions

back at him. He didn't want to lie to her, didn't want to make up a fictional past. Yet at the same time, he knew he couldn't tell anyone about his amnesia. Not even Becca with her beautiful eyes. "I bet you can't remember the first time you rode a horse," he said. She smiled, and he was glad she'd caught him breaking in to the ranch office. If she'd come along two minutes later, he'd have slipped out undetected, and he'd be sitting alone in his cabin, frustrated by the lack of information in his personnel file. That file had contained a previous address and a phone number in Albuquerque. There was a fax number jotted on the margin that had a Wyatt City exchange. Other than that, his so-called file was absurdly thin. Still, an address and phone number was more than he'd had to go on an hour ago. And, unlike an hour ago, he was no longer sitting in his cabin, alone. "Actually," Becca said, "I can remember in complete detail the first time I rode a horse. I was ten, and it was May. It was warm for New York—I can still feel the sun on my face." She closed her eyes, lifting her face slightly, as if toward the sun, and just like that, everything Mish was feeling flip-flopped. This was a mistake. Yes, he enjoyed Becca's company. He enjoyed it too much. He knew he should stand up, plead sudden intense fatigue—which would go over better than insanity—and walk, very, very quickly, back to cabin 12. Alone. What was he doing, sitting here this way? Letting himself dream about kissing the graceful length of her neck? Letting himself imagine burying his face in the soft, sweet-smelling cloud of her hair? Letting himself remember how it had felt to kiss her, the giddy, breathless sensation of her mouth and body pressed against him? Letting himself fantasize about waking up early, in bed next to her, and watching her sleep? He was a killer. Okay, maybe he didn't know that with absolute certainty, but he was pretty close to positive. He'd certainly spent some time in jail—and if he had to guess what for, the carnage that splattered his dreams provided a heavy-duty hint. "I sat there in a saddle for the first time," Becca continued, opening her eyes and giving him a smile that would have melted a glacier, "with all this power and grace beneath me. I was so awed, so completely over whelmed, I nearly cried. The horse was a mare named Teacup, and she must've encountered a dozen little girls just like me every day. She was patient and dignified, and whenever she looked back at me, she seemed to smile. And I fell completely in love. From that moment on, my goal in life was to spend as much time riding as I possibly could. Which wasn't easy, considering I lived in New York." He couldn't keep himself from asking. "In the city itself?" "No, about forty-five minutes north of Manhattan. Mount Kisco." She paused, and he braced himself. Here it came. "How about you? Where are you from?" He'd actually prepared for this one. "I never know what to say when people ask me that," he told her. "I've lived in a lot of different places. I'm not really sure which one I'd call home." Thankfully, she didn't seem to think his evasive answer was odd, and he turned the focus back on her. "But I don't think I've ever been to Mount Kisco, New York. It's hard to imagine a town with riding stables and horses only a few minutes north of New York City." "The really good stables were in Bedford," she told him. "I used to ride my bike ten miles..." She laughed. "So I could work in the stables for free. In exchange for riding time, you know? Funny, I still work for close to nothing, only these days I don't have a lot of extra time to ride." She rolled her eyes. "Of course, when Whitlow gets back and fires me, I'll have a lot of free time, but nowhere to stable Silver." "Silver's your horse?" Becca nodded. "Yeah. This summer we're celebrating our seventh anniversary." "Silver," he said. "Named after...?" "Yes, the Lone Ranger's horse. Hi, ho Silver, away. Yeah, I know what you're thinking—not very original. But I didn't name him. And I didn't geld him, either. He was already cut when I bought him." She laughed then. "That's one way to identify a man who's a greenhorn," she continued. "Talk about geldings. He'll wince every time." Mish laughed self-consciously. "Did I?" Her smile was so sincere and contagious. "Oh, yeah." "It seems...so barbaric."

"Stallions can be pretty wild," she told him. "And too much testosterone in one stable can create chaos. They fight, sometimes pretty viciously. And they get...shall we say amorous at the most inopportune moments. Like the time that the Mortensons—four kids under age eight— were staying here at the ranch. I swear, every time we turned around, Valiant had broken through his fence again and was mounting one of the mares." How had this happened? They were sitting here talking about sex. True, it was only about horses having sex, but still... Mish cleared his throat and grabbed hold of the conversation with both hands. "You know, I just can't believe Justin Whitlow would fire you." He took another sip of cold beer. "This place can't run itself. And from what Hazel's told me, she's not interested in your job." Becca drew lines of moisture on the plastic table with the bottom of her glass. "I don't blame her—the way things've been going, I'm not interested in my job." She looked up at him. "I don't suppose any of the places you've worked recently were looking for a manager?" Mish forced himself not to shift in his seat. "Not that I know of, no." He finished his beer, knowing that it was time for him to stand up and say goodnight. He had to get out of here before her questions got more personal. Or before he did something completely idiotic, like hold her hand. If he held her hand, he would kiss her again. And if he kissed her again... "Yeah, I didn't think so." She sighed, her chin resting dejectedly in her palm. "God, I despise the whole job-hunting, resume thing. And the thought of going into a new position, in a new place, expending all that energy, hoping that this time it'll be better or at least different, and then..." She sighed again. "It's depressing. Finding out it's all exactly the same. Same struggles, same old boss-induced problems." "You need to work for yourself," Mish told her. "Buy your own spread." Becca laughed. "Yes, thank you very much, I should, but last time I looked, the millionaires weren't exactly lining up with marriage proposals. And the bank's not likely to give me a three-million-dollar mortgage with only a beat-up pickup truck as collateral." He couldn't seem to force himself to stand up. "Is that really what it would cost?” "I don't know," she admitted. "It's so outside of the realm of possibility, I haven't even checked to see if any local properties are for sale." "Maybe you should." "Why torture myself?" she challenged. "It's only torture if you think in terms of what you don't have. If you look at it as something to strive for, it's a dream. And it's amazing what people can achieve with just a little bit of hope and a dream." She was looking at him the same way she had back in the barn, the same way she'd looked at him right before he'd kissed her in the office. Her eyes were soft and so impossibly warm. "What's your dream, Mish?" she whispered. "Peace," he said. He didn't have to hesitate. "My dream is to find some peace." Oh, Lord, he was doing it again. He was leaning toward her, closer and closer and... He pushed himself back in his seat and somehow managed to smile. "Peace, and a ride into Santa Fe tomorrow morning." "Santa Fe?" She shifted slightly back in her own chair. "Are you leaving already?" She'd moved just slightly, barely noticeably. That and the shade of disappointment in her eyes were almost imperceptible. Yet there was something about her words, something about her resignation that sucker punched him with a double dose of emotion. Frustration. And anger. Anger at himself. Anger at her for guilting him out every time he... Every time he... Left...? What the hell...? "Mish, are you all right?" Across the table, Becca's eyes were wide as she gazed at him. He took a deep breath, blowing it out hard. "Sorry," he said. "I was... That was...deja vu or something, I don't know. Weird." He ran his hand down his face. "I'm just...I'm going to Santa Fe—Albuquerque, actually—for a few days. I have something that needs to be taken care of. I figured as long as you're giving me this time off, I might as well put it to good use. I'll be back by Monday at the latest." She was still watching him closely, concern in her eyes. "Anything I can help with?" Becca wasn't being nosy. She actually meant it. She wanted to help. But what would she do if he told her, "Yeah. See, I have complete and total amnesia. I have absolutely no idea who I am—oh, except for the little clues I've picked up here and there, which lead me to believe I'm a hired assassin and an ex-con. While I go visit the previous address that was listed in my personnel file and try to stir up any suppressed memories, why don't you check out the faces on the most-wanted list in the post office, and see if you can find me there?”

Mish cleared his throat. "No," he said instead. "Thanks, though." She poured the rest of her beer into her glass. "Well," she said. "I'm actually driving into Santa Fe day after tomorrow, if you want to wait until then to go. I've got to put in an appearance for the Whitlows at a fund-raising dinner for the Santa Fe Opera." "Thanks," Mish said again. "But the sooner I get there, the better. I really should go tomorrow." "Maybe," Becca said, then stopped. She laughed. "God, this is insane, but... I have an extra ticket to the dinner. The food's great...and I'm just so pathetic—I can't believe I'm asking you out again." She laughed again as she slumped over the table, head buried in her arms. Mish didn't know what to say. She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. "I don't do this with everyone. In fact, I've never done this with anyone. I just...really like you." Her words warmed him. She liked him. "I don't know why. You don't know me, Bee. I could be someone awful." "No, you couldn't. You're too nice. You have this basic goodness at the core of your being—” He let loose a pungent curse he rarely said aloud. "You

don't know that. So I pulled a kid out of a river. That doesn't make me a saint."

' 'Maybe not, but it makes you someone I want to know better." She leaned toward him. "Come to this dinner with me—as a friend. We can set some boundaries right now, if you want. No sex. Okay? We meet at the dinner, we leave separately. No pressure, no temptation, even." Mish had to laugh at that. "You know, I think this is a first for me. Being enticed to go out to dinner by the promise of no sex." Her eyes sparked. ' 'If you want, we can set different boundaries—” "No," he said hastily. "I'll leave the ticket at the door for you," Becca told him. She stood up, and he rose to his feet, too. "The party's being held at the Sidewinder Cafe— it's a restaurant near the center of town. Doors open at six. I'll probably arrive at six forty-five." He had nothing to wear to a formal party. And even if he did, he had no business deceiving this woman any further. She thought he was nice. He knew—for both of their sakes—he should stay far away from her. But when he opened his mouth, he said, "All right. I'll see you on Saturday. At six forty-five." He was completely insane. "Well," Becca said. "Good." And she smiled. And when she smiled, her entire face lit up, and as Mish watched her walk away, being completely insane suddenly didn't seem so terrible. Bobby and Wes climbed into the van, carrying two paper bags from which there escaped an incredibly delicious aroma. "Hey," Lucky said, glancing up from the less-than inspiring view he had of the bus station lockers. From where he was parked, he could see locker number 101 through the tinted van windshield and through the bus station window. It wasn't the most inconspicuous surveillance setup, but it was better than sitting on the grimy plastic bus-station chairs, in full view of anyone driving by. "I didn't expect you guys for another few hours." "Man cannot live on M&Ms from the candy machine alone," Wes said, digging through the bags. "So we brought you this celebratory meal from Texas Stan's." With a flourish, Wes handed Lucky a large container of Texas Stan's four-alarm chili and a plastic fork. "Bless you, Ren. Bless you, Stimpy. What are we celebrating?" Lucky asked, taking the lid off the container. God, it smelled good. "Joe Cat called," Wes reported, his mouth already filled with one of Texas Stan's spicy beef enchiladas. Lucky nearly dropped the chili. "Did Shaw turn up?" "No," Bob said from the back seat. "The news is good, but not that good. The captain had a message for you from your sister." "Ellen?" "Yeah," Wes grabbed for one of the sodas, using it to hose down the inside of his mouth. Lucky knew from experience that Texas Stan's spicy enchiladas were only slightly less hot than the chili. "She called to tell you she's getting married." Lucky laughed at that. "Yeah, right, Skelly. Very funny. What did she really want?" "We're serious," Bobby said. "Ellie's engaged. I called her from the motel. She sounds really happy." "The guy's some college geek," Wes reported.

They weren't kidding. Lucky carefully put down his container of food. "Ellen's not old enough to get married. She's only...what?" He had to do the math. "Hell, she's barely twenty-two." "My little sister, Colleen, is twenty-two." Wes took another bite of his enchilada. "Ann frr's hrr errrurr mrnrrr." "Colleen is old enough to get married," Bobby countered, completely able to understand him even with his mouth full. "You guys look at your little sisters and see ten-year-olds. It's like you're stuck in a time warp. Other guys look and see two very hot, very full-grown women." Wes swallowed and turned to face the back seat. "Colleen? Hot? No way. Last time I was home, she skinned her knee skateboarding. She's the world's oldest living tomboy—she doesn't even know she's a girl. Thank God." "Oh, come on, Skelly." Bobby shifted so that he was sitting forward and the entire van shook. "Remember when we visited her at college? Guys like her. A lot. They were always dropping in to her dorm room, remember?" "Yeah, she's a great mechanic and they came asking her to fix their cars," Wes countered. "That's not the same thing." "There's no way I'm letting Ellen get married," Lucky said grimly. "Maybe she's pregnant," Wes said helpfully. "Maybe the geek knocked her up." Lucky glared at him. "You should consider a new career writing greeting cards, Skelly. You always know exactly the right thing to say." He glowered at Bobby in the rear view mirror. "Why aren't you eating?" "He's having dinner again with the supermodel." Bobby smiled serenely. "Her name is Kyra." "I hate you," Wes said. "First you make me stop smoking, now this." 'Trade you Kyra for Colleen." Wes snorted. "Yeah, sure you would." He turned to Lucky. "I got E-mail today from a SEAL went through BUD/S training with the Priest." Ellen was getting married. Lucky shook his head in disbelief. "Actually," Wes expounded, "this guy—Ruben is his name—he went through BUD/S, but the Priest—Mitch— didn't." That caught Lucky's attention. "Come again?" "Apparently, Mitch didn't make it through BUD/S his first time around. It took him two tries." Wes paused and noisily sucked down half of a milk shake. "It's a great story, Lieutenant. You're going to love this." Lucky just looked at him. Waiting. Wes was unperturbed as he searched for a napkin and delicately wiped his mouth. "Ruben told me in this E-mail that the Priest made it nearly all the way through BUD/S—no complaints, not a lot of talking at all. Just silently getting the job done." "Unlike those of us sitting here who talked nonstop through basic training," Bobby interjected. "I'm not talking to you anymore," Wes said. "I hate you, remember? You've let a supermodel come between us." Lucky closed his eyes. "Skelly." "Yeah. So it's the morning before Hell Week starts, right? And the Priest wakes up, and he's got the flu. Raging fever, intense intestinal distress. I mean, he's sick as a dog. Sicker. He knows if any of the instructors find out, he'll get pulled and stuck in the hospital." Wes finished the rest of his milk shake. "So," he continued. "He keeps his mouth shut. At least he tries to. But he gets pulled when he starts vomiting blood. Dead giveaway he's got some medical problem. They try to talk him into ringing out, but he refuses. They drag him to the hospital, but as soon as they leave him alone, he breaks out of his room. He goes out the window—and this is with a hundred-and-four-degree fever—and rappels to the ground from the fifteenth floor. ' 'Ruben told me the Priest just showed up back in Cor-onado. Middle of the night. He just rejoins his boat team as if he's never been gone. He can barely stand, but there he is. 'Ready for duty, sir!' This time, the instructors figure they'll just wait for him to keel over, but when he falls, he crawls. The tough little sonuvabitch doesn't stay down. So they promise him he can start over again with the candidates from the next cycle, but that's not good enough for the Priest. He won't quit. They end up having to knock him out with a shot of Valium. And when he wakes up, Hell Week's over." "Oh, man." Lucky couldn't imagine going through Hell Week, that awful endurance test while stricken with the flu. "He came through the next cycle," Wes said, "head of the class." For several long moments, they sat quietly. "Wherever he is," Bobby said, breaking the silence, "I hope he's okay."

Then Wes spoke, voicing aloud the question running through Lucky's mind. "Is it possible for a guy like that to sell out?" "No way," Bobby said. Lucky wasn't so sure.

Chapter 7 Becca took a glass of champagne from the waiter's tray, smiling her thanks, trying her hardest to pay attention to Harry Cook as he talked about his granddaughter's first ballet recital. Harry was a sweet man—generous with his millions, too—and Becca had met four-year-old Lila during last year's Children's Hospital fund-raising picnic. The story Harry was telling was amusing, but Becca was finding it hard to focus. She turned her back on the arched entrance that led into the restaurant from the lobby, determined not to spend the evening waiting for Mish to show. Or not to show. That was tonight's question. She took a sip of champagne, forcing herself to slow down, to breathe. She usually didn't drink during these parties. After all, she was being paid to attend, to schmooze, to reinforce Justin Whitlow's contacts with the well-to-do population of northern New Mexico. But tonight, she needed the champagne. She laughed with everyone else as Harry finished his story, as he did what had to be a rather accurate imitation of Lila's final bow, but then she broke away from the group, heading toward the door to the Sidewinder's central outdoor plaza. The night air was much warmer than the relentless chill of the restaurant's air-conditioning. And since the long dress she was wearing exposed all of her arms and most of her back, she welcomed the heat. There were only a few people outside, and Becca was glad to take a breather from the crowd. She sipped her champagne, gazing up at the strings of festive lights that decorated the plaza, dancing in the gentle breeze. Mish wasn't going to come. Even if he did, he would probably be too embarrassed to enter the high-class restaurant in his jeans and T-shirt. The moon was a sliver in the sky—far more beautiful than the strings of lights. And the breeze carried the scent of flowers—proof that nature could provide far more enticing decorations for a party than even the chic Sidewinder. Becca looked up at the moon, refusing to wonder if she would ever see Mish again. If she didn't, so be it. He'd been around when it had been most important—to save Chip's life. If she had to choose between that and his appearance tonight at this party, well, that was a no-brainer. As much as she liked Mish, she'd take Chip, alive and well, any day. And even though Mish wasn't going to show, well, at least the possibility of his appearance had inspired her to wear this dress. It had been hanging in the back of her closet for years, hanging in the back of her mother's closet since before Becca had been born. Her greatgrandmother had made it during the 1930s. It was elegant and graceful and undeniably sexy. Blatantly sexy. Definitely not something she wore every day. She heard the door to the restaurant open, like a portal to a different world. The music and laughter was momentarily louder before it closed again, shutting out all but the heartiest laughter and the faint kitchen sounds of dishes clinking together. Becca glanced up to see a man in a dark suit stop to get his bearings, still standing by the door. He wasn't Mish—his hair was too short, and besides, the suit looked expensive. She looked away. But she could see him from the corner of her eye as he took in the bar on the far side of the plaza, the couples talking quietly in the shadows, the strings of lights, the flowers, the trees, the moon. He looked at the moon for a long time. She turned her back to him before he could glance at her a second time. One thing about this dress, it made men take long second glances. And some men even were bold enough to approach her. Sure enough, she could hear his footsteps on the bricks, coming closer. He'd started walking toward her. Becca turned toward the door, ready to nod politely on her way back into the restaurant and... "Sorry I'm a little late. The bus from Albuquerque had aflat." Mish? It was. He'd gotten a haircut. And a new suit. And he was so clean-shaven, he must've stopped for a touch-up in the men's room before coming outside. "You look incredible," he told her, his voice nearly as velvety-soft as the night.

"You do, too." Her own voice was husky as well. He smiled crookedly, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. "Yeah, I cleaned up pretty well, huh?" She touched the lightweight wool of his jacket sleeve. "Where on earth did you get the money for this?" He stepped back slightly, pulling free from her grasp, putting both of his hands into his pockets. A gentle reminder. No sex. No touching. "I called my man Jeeves, had him wire me some funds from my Swiss account." Becca laughed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business." "Truth is, I had some cash," Mish told her. He'd been hoping he'd find the rest of his clothes and his other belongings—books, at least, because surely he had books— at the address listed in his personnel file. But he'd gone all the way to Albuquerque only to find that the address had been a fake. The street existed, but not the number. It had been a business district, filled with rundown pawnshops and seedy topless bars. Everything about it was completely unfamiliar. The phone number Mish had found in the file had been disconnected, as well. He'd spent nearly two days wandering around Albuquerque, looking for something, anything that triggered any kind of recognition. The closest he'd come to a flicker of memory had been when he'd gone to the mall and tried on this suit. As he slipped on the jacket and looked at himself in the mirror, he'd gotten the sense that something was wrong. He'd worn suits before, but the jacket had been different. There was something about the neckline or the collar or... He'd stared at himself in the three-way mirror until the fitting-room clerk had gotten nervous, but the answer hadn't come to him. How could a suit jacket be different? Men's jackets had been virtually the same for nearly a hundred years. It didn't make any sense at all. "How are you feeling?" Becca asked. "Much better," he told her. "Although I'd appreciate it if you could refrain from elbowing me in the side for another day or two." She laughed. 'Til try." She really did look amazingly beautiful. Her dress was a killer, with narrow straps that were barely there, but necessary to hold up the front, like some kind of feat of engineering. The fabric was shimmerv—not quite white, not quite gold, but a color somewhere in between that set off her golden-brown curls almost perfectly. She'd actually tried to comb her hair into some semblance of a style, using clips to hold it in place, but it was rebelling. He had to smile. "You decided to leave your cowboy hat home, huh?" "No, just out in the truck," she countered. Mish kept his eyes on her face, away from all that smooth skin, away from the golden-white material that clung enticingly to her breasts and stomach and fell in a smooth sheet all the way to the floor. But he couldn't resist taking a peek at her feet. "No," she said, "I'm not wearing boots." She lifted her skirt slightly to show him. Her shoes looked like something Cinderella might wear. Delicate and barely there. As sexy as the dress. She was smiling at him, and despite the fact that he was playing with fire here tonight, he felt himself start to relax. Albuquerque had held no answers. Maybe he'd never find out where he'd come from, what he'd done. And maybe that was okay. "Are we allowed to dance?" he asked her. She knew he was referring to the no-sex rule, and she thought about it. "I think it's probably okay. I mean, as long as we're in public, sure. We can dance. But only after dinner." Mish had to laugh, and he couldn't begin to guess. "Why only after dinner?" She finished her glass of champagne and set it down on a nearby table, giving him a smile that warmed him to his very soul. "Because I'm starving." She headed for the door, and Mish followed her inside. He probably would have followed her anywhere. "She moved next door when I was in second grade," Becca told Mish. They'd found a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant, and had talked about books and movies while they'd had dinner. Or rather, she'd talked. Mish had listened. He was listening still, watching her across the small table, giving her every ounce of his attention. He listened with his eyes as well as his ears, his face lit by the flickering light from a single candle. It was a little disconcerting to be the focus of all that intensity. But it was extremely nice, too—as if everything she had to say mattered. As if he didn't want to miss a single word.

"We were inseparable right through high school," she continued. "And when we went to college, we stayed tight. Peg was going to be a kindergarten teacher, and I was going to be a veterinarian." She had to smile. "Only I hated it. I don't know what I expected—probably a few years of classes and then an internship spent cavorting across the countryside with the doctor from All Things Bright and Beautiful, helping birth lambs and foals and bunnies. Instead, I was stuck in a city animal hospital, tending to dogs that had been hit by cars. House pets that had been abused. We had one woman bring in her cat— someone had sprayed him with lighter fluid and set him on fire. It was..." She shook her head. "It was really awful. But I was determined not to quit. Being a vet had been my dream for so long. I couldn't just abandon it." Mish had been watching her, his eyes the most perfect blend of green and blue and brown, but now he looked down, into his coffee cup. "It's hard to admit you've made a mistake, particularly on that scale." "I think I was afraid of my parents' disapproval," she admitted. He looked up again, into her eyes, and Becca felt the room tilt. ' 'So what happened?” "Peg was diagnosed with cancer." Mish nodded, as if he'd been expecting her to tell him that awful news about her lifelong best friend. "I'm sorry." "It was Hodgkin's disease. In an advanced stage. She did chemo and radiation, and..." God, it had been ten years, and Becca still had to blink back tears. Of course, she never talked about it, never talked about Peg. She couldn't remember the last time she'd given so much of her soul away for free. But she truly wanted Mish to understand. Because maybe then he'd know why she'd been pursuing him so relentlessly. "She died eight months later," Becca told him. Silently, Mish reached across the table and took her hand. Becca felt fresh tears well as she gazed down at their intertwined fingers. His hands were warm, his fingers broad and work roughened. She wanted him to hold her hand, but she didn't want him to do it out of pity. Gently, she pulled her hand free. "She knew she was dying," Becca said. "And even though I'd stopped complaining about school—how could I bitch about something as trivial as boring classes and dull teachers when she was going through this real life hell?—she knew I was unhappy. And she made me talk about it. Yes, I hated school, but I wouldn't quit. I felt trapped by my expectations and my sense of responsibility. And she asked me what I loved doing best, more than anything else in the world. Of course, she knew—I loved riding. I told her, great, who was going to pay me money to ride all day? And she told me to go be a cowboy, work on a ranch, to do whatever I had to do—just make damn sure that I was happy. Life was too short to waste." Mish's eyes were beautiful but inscrutable. He surely understood what she was telling him, but he didn't acknowledge that her words applied to him —to the two of them and the attraction that simmered between them. And when he spoke, he surprised her. "So why are you still working at the Lazy Eight?" She didn't answer right away. "I love New Mexico." It sounded exactly like what it was—an excuse for wimp-ing out. Mish nodded. Becca briefly closed her eyes. "Yes, okay, so I'd be much happier working for myself. I bought a lottery ticket tonight. Maybe I'll get lucky and win enough money to buy my own ranch." And maybe Silver would grow wings and fly. Or—even more unlikely—maybe she'd wake up tomorrow morning with Mish in her bed. She looked away, suddenly aware she'd been eyeing him as if he were the dessert can. ' 1 should really go schmooze." "You know, sometimes it works better if you make your own luck," he told her as she pushed her chair back from the table. ' 'If you seek it out rather than waiting for it to come to you." Becca touched him then, just lightly, the tips of her fingers sliding down his cheek in the softest caress. "Haven't you noticed me trying?" She walked away, her heart pounding, before she could see his reaction. She'd taken the first step across those boundaries they'd set between them and the next move was Mish's. Would he stay or would he run? Becca knew everyone who was anyone in Santa Fe. She worked the room like a pro, shaking hands, remembering names, introducing Mish with a brief anecdote about the people he was meeting. 'This is James Sims. Don't ever put money on the game if you golf with him. He's good enough to go pro," and "Mish Parker, Frank and Althea Winters. Their granddaughter was just accepted at Yale University. Biochemistry major." It wasn't an act. She was really good with people. And they all liked her, too. Who wouldn't, with her warm, inclusive smile? She hadn't expected him to stick around after dinner. Mish had seen the surprise in her eyes as he'd approached her by the bar after he'd had a second cup of coffee— and let his pulse return to normal. He wasn't sure himself why he hadn't left. Her message had been all too clear as she'd told him the story of her friend's death. Life was too short. Cut to the chase. Take the plunge. Just do it.

And, in case he'd been completely dense, she'd driven the message home by touching him lightly, provocatively. Come home with me tonight. Mish wanted to. He wanted to give in. The temptation was so strong, it seemed to buzz and crackle around him. He knew he should run for the door. As he watched, Becca let herself be waltzed out onto the dance floor with a man in his eighties. She sparkled as she laughed with him, and since she was at a safe distance, Mish allowed himself the luxury of aching for her. He longed to lose himself in the sweetness of her body, the warmth of her mouth. It was more than sex, although it was certainly about sex, too—he couldn't pretend otherwise. He burned for her, but he also wanted to lie down with her in his arms, to fall asleep and dream not about the past, but of the future. A clear, bright future, unshadowed by mistakes and regrets and hidden doubts. Mish stood there watching Becca, not running anywhere. He couldn't run. He was completely glued in place. The song ended, and the old man led her back to him. And then, for the first time in what had seemed like hours, they were alone. The room was clearing out, the party almost over. "The band's getting ready to pack up," she said, attempting to refasten one of the clips in her hair. They still hadn't shared a dance. It was probably just as well. "Where are you staying?" he asked, not touching her for the nine-thousandth time that night. He had to find the strength to stay away from her. She deserved someone better than him. "I'm down the street at the old Santa Fe Inn. They've just restored it—it's beautiful." She smiled. "Don't worry, I won't ask if you want to come see it." She held out her hand for him to shake. ' Thank you for a lovely evening." Mish gazed at her hand in disbelief. Did she honestly think he would briskly shake her hand and let her walk out into the night, wearing a dress that would draw the attention of every human male within a ten mile radius? "I'll walk you to your car," he told her. "I'm parked over at the inn." Damn. "Then I'll walk you to the inn." Walking her to her hotel would be a mistake. He knew that for a fact before the words even left his mouth. "You really don't have to," she said as if she could read his mind. "I won't come inside," he told her. Told himself. "Well," Becca said as she headed toward the door, "I won't force you to, so you don't have to look so tense." Mish rolled his head slightly. "I'm not tense." Becca just smiled at him. The night air was cooler now, and she took a deep breath as they stepped out onto the street. A group of men had just come out of a bar named Ricky's across the street, and were heading back toward the center of town. There were four of them, and as Mish watched, they noticed Becca. First two, then three and four. Heads turned, body language changed. Their stares weren't disrespectful, just very, very interested. And he resisted the urge to put his arm—or at least his jacket—around her shoulders. She took another deep breath, and her dress clung to her in a way that was hard to ignore. And now he was staring, too. "It's a beautiful night." She hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms. "I love it when it cools off like this." "Are you warm enough? I can give you my jacket..." Becca smiled at him. "Considering we're about twelve more steps from the inn, and considering it's probably all of seventy degrees, I think I'll survive without danger of frostbite, thanks." Mish could see the sign out in front of the inn. The place was, literally, just a few dozen yards away. In just a few moments, Becca would go inside and he'd be alone. "Why did Justin Whitlow want you to come to this party tonight?" he asked, hoping maybe she'd linger, praying that she wouldn't. "I mean, was the point just to keep his name on the tip of everyone's tongue, or was there something else you were trying to do?" She gazed up toward the moon. "Whitlow's actually trying to arrange a fund-raising event for the opera at the Lazy Eight. He gets to be the big generous benefactor that way, because he'd donate the facility. Except, of course, people would have to stay over. And then there would be the publicity he'd get for hosting the event. Not to mention the bonus of showing off the ranch to all those Santa Fe Opera supporters who have money to burn."

"Money to burn." She turned to glance at him, amusement in her eyes, a small smile playing about the corners of her lips. ' 'Yeah. Amazing concept, isn't it? But nearly everyone I introduced you to tonight has more money than they know what to do with." Mish touched her. For the second time that evening, he couldn't help himself. He just stopped short and took her arm. "There's your answer, Becca." She didn't know what on earth he was talking about. But she didn't pull away. Her skin was so soft beneath his fingers, he was momentarily distracted, temporarily thrown. She was standing close enough to kiss, and the way she was looking up at him—eyes wide, lips slightly parted— he nearly gave in to the temptation to cover her mouth with his own. But he didn't kiss her, though he didn't release her, either. "You just spent four hours tightening your relationship with dozens of men and women who have—in your words—'money to burn.' Come on, Bee, don't you get it? These people like you. If you went to them with a plan to buy a spread and turn it into a vacation ranch, you could very well find yourself all the financial backing you'd need right here in Santa Fe." She was wary, keeping her natural enthusiasm buried, at least for the moment. "I'd need to work it all out— down to the last detail—before I started asking anyone for money. I'd have to find a piece of property..." She shook her head. "God, I don't have time to go driving halfway across the state to—" "Use the Internet," Mish interrupted. "The computer back at the Lazy Eight office has Internet access, doesn't it?" "Actually, it doesn't," Becca told him. "But I just got access on my laptop. I'm trying to create a website for the Lazy Eight. In my spare time." She laughed. "I hear myself say that, and I sound completely insane. What spare time?" He finally let go of her, and took a step back. When she laughed, he found her irresistible, but kissing her now would only complicate things beyond belief. "When we get back to the ranch tomorrow, we can use your laptop to search for properties listed for sale." "My laptop's upstairs in my hotel room," Becca told him. Upstairs. In her room. Mish didn't say anything, didn't move. He just looked at her, imagining the hushed quiet of this four-star hotel's rooms, imagining one that smelled faintly of her unique brand of shampoo, imagining dim lights, a king-size bed, Becca turning her back to him, his fingers finding the tiny zipper pull at the back of her dress and... "I've only been on-line a few times," she continued. "Is it really possible to do that kind of a property search?" Mish nodded. "Yeah, I think so. We'd just need to use a search engine. Plug in the information we're looking for and..." She was looking at him curiously. "Where did you learn about the Internet?" Um. Good question. It was just one of those things he knew, like the waist size of his jeans. He shrugged. "I don't know. I just...picked it up here and there, I guess." "Would you mind coming up and..." She broke off. "I'm sorry. This can wait for tomorrow." She looked chagrined. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." "If you like," Mish said, "I can come up for a few minutes—help you get signed on and started." But then he would leave. "This isn't just a ploy to get you up to my room," she told him earnestly. Mish laughed. "I know." He—and she—would be safe as long as he didn't kiss her. And he wasn't going to kiss her. "I won't stay long."

Chapter 8 “Okay," Mish said, "here we go. This looks more like the kind of place you're looking for." Becca inched her chair even closer to the computer screen. She'd long since kicked off her shoes, and she curled her feet and legs underneath her long skirt. Mish had thrown his jacket onto the bed at least forty-five minutes ago, and had loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. It was amazing. He worked the keyboard and mouse of her computer the way Becca handled horses. It was as if the computer were a part of him, a permanent attachment. She had to laugh. Her new ranch hand was a secret computer nerd. "Look," he said, doing something with the mouse and making new pictures flash on the screen. "This one looks really great. The price seems right. It doesn't have a whole lot of acreage, but it borders a state park, so—” "It's in California," Becca realized as she leaned even closer. "Down near San Diego." "It's beautiful down there," Mish told her, doing something with the mouse and the computer to mark the site so that she could find it again. "God, but California...?" Becca shook her head. "Everyone I know is here in New Mexico. I don't know anyone who lives in California." "I live in California," he said. His hands suddenly stilled on the keyboard and he looked up at her. "I'm from California." He laughed. What was he telling her? That he wanted her to move to California to be near him? It didn't make sense. He didn't even want to kiss her. Why would he want her to live near him? "San Diego," he told her. "I lived there when I was a kid. We had a beach house. It was..." He laughed again. "I actually remember this. The ocean's so beautiful and..." He was gazing at her, but he quickly looked away, returning his attention to the computer screen as if he'd just realized how close together they were sitting. "I should go," he said quietly. "I've already stayed too long." "You know, I think that was the first time I've ever heard you volunteer information about yourself," Becca mused. He shrugged, forced a smile. "I don't have a whole lot to tell." He rubbed his forehead as if he suddenly had a headache. "I've been trying to guess," she said, resting her chin in her hand. "What exactly did you do, Mish? Something you're still paying penance for? Is that why you turned down Ted Alden's check? You don't drink—at least not heavily. I've never seen you drink more than a single beer. Tonight you only had soda even though there was an open bar. And you've made no attempt at all to replace your stolen driver's license. I don't know a single man who wouldn't have put a priority on getting his license back. Unless he didn't have one. Unless it had been revoked. Maybe for D.U.I. Am I getting warm?" Mish sighed. "Becca—" She touched him. She put her hand on the taut muscle of his suntanned forearm, wanting to touch him despite the fact that he'd pushed her away every other time she'd reached out for him. "It doesn't matter to me," she told him quietly. "Wherever you've been, whatever you've done, it's irrelevant. Whatever mistakes you've made, they're in the past. I like who you are right now, Mish. I don't care where you went to college, or if you dropped out of high school, or got left back in second grade. I'd love to know those things about you, sure, but only if you want to share them with me. If not, that's okay, too." She slid her hand down to his, and Mish turned his arm over so that their fingers could interlock. He stared down at their two hands, knowing the inevitable. He and Becca had been barreling toward this moment from the instant he'd agreed to attend the fund-raising dinner with her. Despite everything he'd told himself, he'd known it from the start. He was here, in Becca's room, because he couldn't stay away. "I don't know many men—or women—who would've jumped into that river after that boy. It was dangerous as hell, and you didn't even hesitate." "I'm a strong swimmer." "You're a good man." He levelly met her gaze. "If I were a good man, I'd say good-night right now and leave." "I said you were good. I didn't say you were a saint." She was close enough to kiss, and he knew, unless he did or said something soon, that she was going to kiss him. "I can't give you what you deserve," he whispered. And then he kissed her, because he couldn't wait for her to kiss him, not one second longer.

Her lips were as sweet as he remembered, her mouth eager, hungry. She melted against him, her arms slipping up around his neck, pulling him closer. He'd meant to kiss her softly, sweetly. Instead he almost inhaled her, his hands sliding against the smooth fabric of her dress, against the soft warmth of her body beneath. Her bed was three steps away. All he had to do was lift her up and... He pulled free, breathing hard. "Becca..." Her brown eyes held a clear echo of that powerful kiss's molten heat. "Stay with me tonight." "Just tonight?" His voice sounded husky to his own ears. "Is that really what you want—a one-night stand?” "I'm looking for a lover—and a friend—who'll stick around only until it's time to leave," she admitted. "But it's impossible to know when that time will be, especially when a relationship is just starting. Still, I would hope it wouldn't be after only one night." "So you want a...relationship." Becca laughed at that. "You say it as if it has a capital R. As if it's something enormous and terrifying." He couldn't joke about it. "Isn't it?" "No! I hate to break it to you," she said, "but we've already got a relationship. We've had one from the mo ment you walked onto the Lazy Eight and asked for Becca Keyes." She shifted impatiently in his arms, tightening her grip on him, moving closer when he would have set her aside. "All I want is to change the parameters of that relationship to include long stretches of time that we can spend naked together. But that time's not infinite. Frankly, I don't believe in forever." She held his gaze as if she were trying to convince him of the truth she spoke by letting him see into her soul. "Honest, I'm not looking for true love, Mish. I promise you, when the time comes, I'll let you walk away." Her eyes were gentle then as she pushed his hair back from his face. "You don't have to worry about hurting me." She kissed him. Softly, then harder and deeper, and he kissed her back until the room spun, until he couldn't breathe, until he thought his heart might explode in his chest. He should make a break for the door and not stop running until he hit the other side of town. Because he could taste forever in her kiss. Despite everything she'd said, it was back there. A hint of promise that made him want... Made him want... It couldn't be... Was the bittersweet longing that he could practically taste his own? He nearly laughed aloud. Wouldn't that be the ultimate in irony? Here was this fabulous woman giving him everything he could possibly want from a lover—including the serenity of knowing she had no expectations—and he was the fool who was falling hard. Becca broke their kiss and pulled back to gaze search-ingly into his eyes. She shook her head at all the doubt and confusion he knew was swimming there. "How can you possibly kiss me that way and still resist this?" she asked. She laughed in disbelief. "Maybe you are a saint." He wasn't in love with her. He was infatuated, sure. He was wildly attracted, without a doubt. But love...? He barely knew her. No, this was about sex, about chemistry, about attraction. It had to be. So why was he resisting? "There's a lot I can't tell you, Bee," Mish confessed, torn between wanting to open up about his inability to remember his past, and that intense conviction deep in his gut that he shouldn't breathe a word about it to anyone. "About myself, I mean, but...I do know I'm no saint." "Then stay," she whispered. "Please." Her gaze dropped to his lips, and for a fraction of a second, time hung. Anticipation surrounded Mish breathlessly, heart-poundingly. She'd told him she didn't need to know more about him than she already knew. She'd told him she wasn't looking for more than a short-term lover. She'd given him permission to keep his secrets to himself, guilt-free. And then she leaned forward and kissed him again. And it was all over. Even back when he'd first walked into the inn, there had probably only been a six-percent chance that he would walk back out of this hotel before dawn. But that chance just dropped to zero. His willpower had been completely shattered. He wasn't going anywhere. Except maybe to heaven. He pulled her hard against him, filling his hands with her softness, sliding his palms along the bare skin of her arms and back, breathing in the familiar, sweet scent of her hair as he kissed her again and again and again—deep, ravenous, soul-reaching kisses that shook him to his very

core. He felt her hands at his throat, unfastening his tie, pulling it free, then worrying the buttons of his shirt. She seemed determined to get his clothes off him, and as far as brilliant ideas went, he was right there with her, one-hundred-percent. He found the zipper at the back of her dress and unfastened it, then pulled back to yank his unbuttoned shirt free from his arms. She gasped as her hands touched his Ace bandage. 4'Oh, no, I forgot all about... I didn't hurt you, did I?" He had to laugh. "You're killing me," he told her, "but not the way you mean. I'm fine." "Honest?" This was one thing he could be honest about. "Yes." "And you'll tell me if it hurts?" He laughed again. "It hurts, but—" "Not the way you mean," she finished with him, laughing, too. Her smile grew slightly wicked, and he watched, spellbound, as she rose to her feet and pushed the thin straps from her shoulders. Her dress fell off her in a sheet, pooling at her feet, leaving her naked save for a pair of shimmering silk panties. She was beyond beautiful, and he reached for her, needing to touch the smoothness of her skin, the soft fullness of her perfect breasts, needing to hold her close, to feel her naked against him. She touched him, too, with her hands, with her mouth, slowly running her fingers up his arms, across his shoulders, down the muscles of his bare chest, gently across his bruised side, driving him half-mad from the sensation. How could something that felt so right be so wrong? And it was wrong. Despite all that she'd told him, he knew it was wrong to make love to her without telling her the truth, without admitting that he didn't know what that truth was. Who was he? He honestly didn't know. Becca thought he was a good man. He strongly suspected otherwise. Mish had reason to believe he'd done terrible things in his past, and here he was, right on schedule—giving in to temptation again. Except when Becca kissed him, it didn't feel wrong. When Becca kissed him, when she touched him, it felt right in a way he'd never experienced right before. And dammit, he wanted more. He pulled her down with him onto the bed, kissing her, touching her as she cradled him between her legs. He could feel her heat as she pressed herself up against his arousal, and the sensation was dizzying and so perfect, he wanted to weep. He felt her reach between them, felt her unfasten his belt, his pants, and then she was touching him, her fingers against his skin. It felt impossibly, paralyzingly, mind-blowingly good. This woman wasn't looking for forever. She expected this fire they were fanning to life between them to burn hot and white, and then burn out. She had no misconceptions where this love affair was concerned, and she wouldn't be hurt when he left. She wasn't in love with him—at least not really. She didn't believe in true love. Becca tugged at his pants, and he rolled off her to help her push them down his legs. Together they pulled off his boots, took off her panties. And then, finally, they were both naked. Mish pulled her on top of him, kissing her, desperate to be inside her, surrounded by her slick heat. He could feel her against him. All he had to do was shift his hips and... But she moved when he moved, lifting herself away from him. "Whoa," she said, laughing. "Wait a sec— safe sex, birth control! I've got condoms in my bag. Don't move, okay?" Mish was staggered. He couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to. A condom—he'd completely forgotten about using one. He'd been more than ready to make love to Becca, despite being totally without protection. If she hadn't stopped him... She pulled a foil-wrapped package from her purse, and came back to the bed, tearing it open. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse as he pushed himself up on his elbows. "It's been a while for me, and I wasn't thinking." "I hope you don't mind wearing this," she told him, kneeling beside him. "Because I'm afraid it's non-negotiable." "No." He pulled her toward him, unable to keep from touching all that smooth, soft skin. "I never mind being forced to do something intelligent. I seriously don't know how I could have—” She smiled at him, amusement dancing in her eyes— she was so beautiful. "Considering I was trying to drive you to distraction, I can't really complain when it worked." "Distraction, huh?" Her thighs were smooth against him, her breasts so soft in his hands. He bent to kiss her, to draw her into his mouth. She

moaned, and just like that the pulsating fire was back, heat flickering white-hot through his veins. "I'm just glad you had a condom," he murmured. She handed it to him. "I always keep them on hand," she breathed, "in case Brad Pitt comes to town." Mish lifted his head, and Becca laughed. ' 'Just checking to see if you were still paying attention," she told him. "If you want to know the truth, I bought a box because despite all my promises to be good, despite all the times you told me no, I still had designs on you." She'd spoken the words lightly, but he touched her face gently, his eyes almost soft beneath the heat of his desire. "I didn't tell you no because I didn't want you. You do know that, Becca, don't you?" She knew it now and she was glad—so glad—that she hadn't given up. She kissed him, tasting his hunger for her, feeling his need in the way that he held her, the weight of his desire. Becca reached between them—he was taking too long—and helped him cover himself. She straddled him then, rolling him over onto his back as she kissed him, his arousal sinfully hard against her stomach. He explored her body with his hands and mouth as if he were a starving man at a banquet, as if he would never be able to get enough of her. It was an incredible turn-on—the way he looked at her as if she were the sexiest woman he'd ever seen, the way he touched her as if she were some kind of goddess or angel or... ; 'Becca," he breathed, and she loved the way her name sounded in the midnight velvet of his voice. He reached between them to touch her intimately, lightly first, then harder. "Please, may I—" She would have agreed to anything, promised him everything else. "Yes." He lifted her up then, turning them both over so that he was on top of her, his weight between her legs. She raised her hips to meet him and, oh, the look in his eyes was nearly as incredible as the sensation of him, thrust hard and deep, inside of her. He held her gaze as he began to move, and the connection between them was so profound, her heart was completely in her throat. How could this be? This was supposed to be.. .well, if not casual, then at least ordinary. She hadn't anticipated feeling as if her entire soul were exposed to the elements. She hadn't dreamt that this man's kisses might resurrect all of her long-buried hopes of happily-ever-after. That was crazy. This was sex. It was great sex, but it was only sex. But as Becca looked into the eyes of this man who was making such wonderful, exquisite love to her, she saw possibilities that made her breath catch in her throat. She saw her future stretching out before her, and for the first time since forever, her journey was not a solitary one. She laughed aloud. They were crazy, these thoughts that were invading her. But when Mish smiled, too—his eyes crinkling at the edges with his pleasure and joy—she knew she was in trouble. Big trouble. He somehow knew just how to move to please her most—long, slow strokes that stole the air from her lungs, that left her dying for more. And when her release ripped through her, it tore her open, scorching her very soul. She closed her eyes and clung to him, feeling him explode as well. And when he lowered his head and kissed her, she closed her eyes and let him claim her mouth as thoroughly as he'd just claimed her heart.

Chapter 9 Mish could smell the fear. It hung, sharp and unmistakable, in the small room. He'd been trapped there for hours with the others. There were twenty-four of them—mostly women and young girls. Some had been weeping continuously. When one of them left off, another started in. He was numb. The man in the religious robes lay on the floor where he'd fallen, half of his head blown away, his hands outstretched, wide and reaching, surprised by his own death. He'd died trying to negotiate the release of the women and children. But the terrorists would not negotiate. They all knew that now. And so Mish waited. He sat with his back against the far wall, and he waited, trying not to shake. He looked at the walls, at the ceiling—anywhere but at that pool of darkening blood on the floor. But then the door opened, and everything moved too fast. A black man, an American, scrambled up from the hostages—launching himself at the men with guns. Shots were fired as Mish lunged to his feet. The American staggered back, but not before wrenching an assault weapon from one of the terrorist's arms. More gunshots. The American went down hard, the weapon skittering across the floor. Toward Mish. He didn't think. He reacted, picking it up, his finger squeezing the trigger before he'd even got it aimed. The force pushed the barrel up as he fired, and he fought to push it down, sweeping the entrance to the room, spraying the terrorists with bullets, splattering the back wall and doorway with their blood and brains. Someone was screaming, the voice raw and guttural with rage, but barely loud enough to be heard over the deafening machine-gun fire. But then it was over. The men on the floor before him were undeniably dead. He'd killed them. He stopped shooting and realized that the voice— and the rage—were his own. The American was bleeding badly, but he grabbed another assault weapon and kicked the door shut. 4'Good job," he told Mish through the blood that bubbled on his lips. "Way to send them straight to hell, Mish." Mish stared at the bodies, stared at what he'd done. He'd killed them. God help him, he'd pointed the weapon, and taken the lives of three human beings. He may have sent them straight to hell, but what had he done to his own soul? And he turned, because over on the other side of the room, the dead man in the robe was pushing himself up and off of the floor. The half of his face that was left was frowning, and he raised his hand, pointing accusingly at Mish. "Thou shalt not kill," he intoned. "Thou shalt not kill." He took a step toward Mish, and then another step. And Mish realized with a jolt of shock that the man wore a liturgical collar, streaked bright red with blood. And what was left of the dead man's face might as well have been his own. Mish sat up in bed, his heart pounding, gasping for air. Someone stirred in the bed beside him. Becca. It was Becca. She sat up, too, hesitantly touching his back. "Mish, are you all right?" The hotel room came into focus, dimly lit by the first light of dawn that streaked in through the tops of the heavy window curtains. Mish fought to control his ragged breathing, fought to bring his pulse back down to normal. "Nightmare," he managed to say. "A bad one, huh? Want to talk about it?" He pushed his sweat-soaked hair back from his face with hands that were still shaking. "No," he said. "Thanks." She put her arms around him and lightly kissed his shoulder, and he turned toward her, grabbing her and holding her far more tightly than he had a right to, kissing her far more proprietarily than he should have. But he desperately needed grounding, desperately needed her. "Mmm." She smiled up at him in the slowly growing light as she ran her fingers through his hair. She didn't seem to mind the dampness. "I'm sorry you had a nightmare, but I'm not sorry you woke me up, especially when you kiss me like that." She was naked. They both were. And as Mish gazed into her eyes, detailed memories of the power and passion of last night came crashing back, full force. He had made love to this woman, and she to him, in a way that had been beyond description, beyond comparison.

And she deserved to know the truth about who he was—or who he wasn't. He'd stared at the ceiling for a good portion of the night, struggling with wanting to tell her of his missing past, and this overpowering sense of knowing—this absolute conviction—that he would not be allowed to tell her anything about himself, even if he knew. She kissed him, pulling him back with her against the pillows, intertwining their legs. "I've got a few days off coming to me," she murmured. "What do you say we order a steady supply of room service, tell them to hold all my calls, and just stay here until Tuesday morning?" Mish wanted to do it. He wanted to hold the world at bay for two days straight. And why couldn't he? As far as he was aware, he was the only one searching for himself. And who could know? Maybe he'd find himself here in the safety and warmth of Becca's eyes. And if not, maybe he'd have figured out a way by then to tell her who he feared he was. "'Til Tuesday sounds great," he whispered between kisses. In truth, it sounded about a lifetime too short, but that wasn't something he'd ever dare admit, either to her or to himself. He kissed her longer, deeper, willing himself to stop thinking, to just be. With Becca's eager help, that wasn't hard to do. The call from Joe Cat came in just after dawn. Lucky had only been asleep for about twenty minutes, but he snapped instantly awake—especially after he heard the Captain's familiar New Yawk accent. "More of Shaw's funny money turned up," Joe Cat said without ceremony. "This time in a men's clothing store in Albuquerque. Two bills." Lucky turned on the light next to the motel-room bed. "We'll go check it out, but I'm not going to leave that bag in the bus station locker without a baby-sitter. I got a gut about this one, Cat. Mitch Shaw has had that bag for a long time. If he's alive, he's coming back for it. I've buddied up the surveillance—Bobby and Wes are watching the station right now." He started pulling on his pants. "But I could head north in about five minutes." "No, stay in Wyatt City," the captain commanded. "Crash and Blue are already on their way to Albuquerque." He gave a disparaging laugh. "I'd be with 'em, but the admiral's allegedly flying in today. I need to be on hand to give him a sit-rep. I just thought it'd be smart for you to know Shaw's still fairly local. In state, at least." Lucky kicked his pants back off and settled back on the bed, phone tucked under his chin. "Unless he's dead and someone else is spending his money." "Yeah, I think we've got to consider that possibility," the captain said seriously. "But what if he's not dead?" Lucky asked. "Is there a chance he's trying to send some kind of message to us by circulating those bills?" Surely Mitch knew which of the bills he carried were fake and which weren't. "That's what I keep coming back to," Joe Cat said. "What if Mitch Shaw located the...missing material?" Even though it was a secured line, he was careful not to use the word plutonium. "What if he's in deep with the people who have control over that material, and can't check in? Using the money might be his way of flagging us down, getting backup into the area." "Except we spoke to a guy named Jarell at the homeless shelter," Lucky reported. "He remembers seeing Mitch. He was brought in late at night, barely conscious, apparently falling-down drunk, with the fight kicked out of him. Jarell only saw him that one night, said he left before breakfast, said as far as he could tell, Mitch was alone. He also said Mitch left a jacket behind, but Jarell wouldn't give it to us—he wouldn't even let us look at it." "Get it," the captain said. "Yeah," Lucky told him. "I'm working on that. But that church has something going on 24/7. There's always someone there, so we're going to have to get creative. But don't get your hopes up, Skipper. Even after we do get it, chances are that jacket's not going to tell us jack." Joe Cat sighed. "I don't know this guy Shaw at all. Is he a heavy drinker? Is he into drugs at all? Is it possible he's gone on some kind of binge?" "I've never seen him have more than a single beer," Lucky said. "Which could fit into the pattern of a problem drinker," the captain pointed out. "He keeps it under control, until suddenly he can't anymore. And then it's not one beer, it's a dozen, and he's off and running." "Jarell said he was so skunked, he couldn't even remember his own name." Lucky shook his head. That was hard to imagine. Quiet Mitchell Shaw completely out of control. "There's a question I haven't been able to stop thinking, Luke. Do you think he might've turned—you know, embraced the dark side of the force?" Lucky closed his eyes. "I don't know, Obi-Wan," he said. 'The admiral's not going to like this, but I don't think we can rule out that possibility at this point." The phone rang.

Becca opened her eyes and found that she'd fallen asleep draped half on top of Mish. It should have been uncomfortable to sleep like that, her leg thrown across his thighs, her head resting on his shoulder, but it wasn't. She fit against him perfectly. His eyes were open, and he gave her the sexiest, sleepiest good-morning smile as she reached across him for the telephone. She couldn't resist and she stopped to kiss him, hoping that whoever was calling would just give up and go away. But they were persistent and the phone kept ringing. "I knew I should have told the desk to hold my calls," she complained with an exaggerated sigh as she picked up the phone. '"Lo?" she said into the receiver, pulling the cord back with her, settling into the warmth of Mish's arms. She could feel his arousal, heavy against her thigh, feel his fingers trailing lightly, deliciously down her back from her shoulder to her rear end and back again. 4'Becca? This is Hazel. I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Becca sighed, but even the thought that her assistant wouldn't have called unless there was a real problem at the Lazy Eight wasn't enough to detract from the pleasure of Mish's touch. "It's nearly eight, and I thought you'd be up," Hazel continued apologetically. "I'd offer to call back later, but this really can't wait." "What's the problem?" Becca had to work to keep her voice even and controlled as Mish lowered his head to her breast. He kissed her lightly at first, then slowly drew her nipple into his mouth. She bit back an exclamation, and he lifted his head, smiling at her like the devil incarnate. Like an outrageously handsome devil incarnate. "We seem to have something of a mystery on our hands," Hazel told her. Mish lowered his head and kissed his way down her stomach, stopping to explore her belly button with his tongue. 'Oh, God," Becca said. "Hazel, are you sure I can't call you back in just a few minutes—an hour tops—I promise?" Mish kissed the inside of her thigh, and she closed her eyes. "Please?" "Becca, it's about that Casey Parker. That Mish character. Did you know that he's gone? He cleared out of cabin 12 the day before yesterday, and I've seen neither hide nor hair of him since." Becca laughed. Hazel's big mystery was no mystery. Becca knew exactly where Casey Parker was—and exactly what he was doing. And, oh, she liked what he was doing, but she pulled back from him, shaking her head, widening her eyes. No way could she talk on the phone while he did that. He grinned at her and her laughter bubbled over again. “Hazel, I'm sorry. I thought I mentioned it to you. Mish had some business to take care of in Albuquerque. He should be back at the ranch on Tuesday." "Well, it's going to be interesting when he returns," Hazel said, ' 'especially if the man who was just here at the office decides to come back, too. Because then we'll have two Casey Parkers on our hands." Becca could see the promise of paradise in Mish's eyes. He was behaving himself, lying down at the end of the bed, lightly stroking her foot. But despite his distance, he was obviously distracting her, because Hazel's words just didn't make any damn sense. "I'm sorry. What did you say?" "Two," Hazel repeated. "Casey Parkers. Pretty bizarre mystery, huh? A second Casey Parker just showed up at the Lazy Eight, claiming you'd hired him on as a ranch hand. He was looking for a package that was supposedly waiting for him here at the office. He was pretty bent out of shape when I told him we'd filled our quota of Casey Parkers for the month and I'd given that package to the first one. I even had to call Rafe McKinnon down to the office to flex his muscles." Becca sat up, her full attention on Hazel's words. "Is he still there?" she asked. "Call the sheriff and—" "He's gone. He drove off in a wild hurry after he found out there'd been a Casey Parker here before him. I don't know what's going on." "He's an imposter." Even as she said the words, Becca knew they made no sense. Why would someone show up at the ranch pretending to be Casey Parker? "Someone's an imposter," Hazel said. "And that's why this phone call couldn't wait. Becca, I know there was something brewing between you and this Mish. Promise me you'll be careful if you see him again today?" "Hazel—" "Because Casey Parker Number Two had picture ID. He had a driver's license," Hazel told her. "He was a big guy with a gray beard and a beer belly, and it was definitely his picture on that license." And Mish had had no ID at all. He was sitting on the end of the bed, watching her. He'd been listening to her end of the conversation. He knew she'd been talking about him and all sense of wicked play had disappeared.

"Are you sure?" Becca whispered. She pulled the sheet up so that it covered her, and Mish looked away tiredly, almost guiltily—as if he somehow knew exactly what Hazel was telling her. "Honey, I used to work in the sheriffs office over in Chimayo. This license looked legit. It wasn't tampered with in any way that I could see. They have those fancy hologram thingies on 'em, you know, to keep people from messing with 'em." Hazel sighed. "You were planning to see him again, weren't you? That Mish? I am sorry about this." "Thanks for calling," Becca managed to choke out before she hung up the phone. Mish didn't look at her. He just sat on the bed, staring down at their clothes, still strewn on the floor where they'd left them last night. "So. You want to tell me who you really are?" She'd meant to sound tough, but her voice shook slightly and ruined her delivery. "Seeing as how you're not Casey Parker?" He looked up at her then, his eyes filled with regret and... shame? Becca let herself get good and mad, fighting the tears that were on the verge of exploding from her eyes. Damn right he should feel shame! "Maybe I should get dressed," he said, reaching for his clothes. Becca scrambled out of the bed, pulling the sheet with her, and grabbed his pants away from him. "Oh, no, you don't. You're not going to leave before you at least give me some kind of explanation." With shaking hands, Mish pulled on his shorts. Had he really thought he could have this woman without giving her anything of himself in return? Had he really thought he could hide here with her, safely cocooned from the real world, from the truth? But the real world had reached out and somehow she now knew more about him than he did. How and what didn't matter. He should have known it would happen. He should have protected her from this. And he would have, if only he'd stayed away from her. He should have been strong enough to resist the magnetic attraction he felt for her, that dizzying pull of longing. Instead, he'd given in to what he wanted, what he needed. And he'd hurt her. Badly. Selfish. He was a selfish son of a bitch. And in one brief moment, all of the magic of the night was gone, as if it had never existed, never been real. They'd shared something wonderful, something he'd longed to hold on to, something fragile and perfect that now lay crushed and broken at his feet. And he'd done that as surely as if he'd stomped on it with both heels of his boots. "The real Casey Parker showed up at the ranch," Becca said, her voice thick with betrayal. "You had to have known that was bound to happen." "I didn't," he said loudly, more forcefully than he'd intended. He stood up, pushing his hair back from his face, feeling as if he might be terribly, violently sick. Lord God, he'd been so selfish. "You didn't?" Her voice rose, too. "Dammit, I know you're smarter than that. You had to know Casey would show up sooner or later." He wasn't Casey Parker. He'd suspected that for a while. The name had seemed so unfamiliar. But still, he'd hoped. God, he'd hoped. But hope wasn't enough. Not anymore. So now what? Although his back was to her, he could see her reflection in the big mirror that hung above the dresser. She was gazing at him with such hurt, such accusation in her eyes. He still couldn't tell her the truth. He wasn't supposed to tell anyone why he was in New Mexico—he couldn't remember why, but he knew that he wasn't supposed to talk about it with a strength that was overpowering. Still, to walk away, leaving her to think that he'd purposely deceived her... He couldn't do that, either. How could he? He stood there, stomach churning, sick to his soul, head bowed and shaking, unable to stay, unable to leave. "You know," she said, her voice shaking, too, "if you'd come to the ranch and introduced yourself to me, if you'd been honest about who you were, I would have hired you. I don't understand why you had to lie." What could he tell her? "Maybe I should just go. I can't tell you what you want to know." Disbelief colored her voice. "You can't tell me your name?" He glanced up and saw that she was crying. She tried to hide it by brusquely, almost savagely, wiping her tears away as she still clutched the sheet around her. "Call me old-fashioned," Becca said sharply, "but I at least like to know the name of the men I've had sex with." His name. Mish looked up, and came face-to-face with himself in that mirror.

He was still a stranger to his own eyes. Hard and lean and dangerous, with his morning stubble thick and dark on his angular face, his hair wild, messed from sleep, his eyes bitter, soulless, he looked to be the kind of man who would lie his way into a woman's bed and leave her with little regard for her feelings in the morning. He stared into those eyes, praying for a glimmer of memory, a whisper of a name. Some small fragment of truth that he could give her... Mish. Mission Man. "Just tell me your name," Becca whispered. He stared harder, fists tight, teeth clenched, hating himself, hating the stranger staring tauntingly back at him, no longer praying to God but demanding the answers he sought. Who the hell was he? Mission Man. An echo of Jarell's voice whispered the nickname, and his anger and frustration erupted. "I don't know my damn name!" He exploded, spinning and hitting his reflection with his fist. The mirror cracked, cutting his image in two. He hit it again, harder, and it shattered, the glass slicing his hand. Becca backed away, shocked by his outburst, staring at this suddenly wild-eyed stranger whose blood dripped from his fingertips onto the carpeting. "I don't know who the hell I am!" he shouted hoarsely. "I woke up nearly two weeks ago in a homeless shelter with five thousand dollars, a handgun in my boot, directions to the Lazy Eight with your name on it, and no memory of anything important—including my own name! You say I'm not Casey Parker? Well, guess what? This is news to me, too!" Becca clutched her sheet around her, watching him, ready to run if he suddenly came toward her. Could what he'd just said possibly be true? Did he have some kind of amnesia? It sounded so amazing. And yet... He was standing there, shaking like a wounded animal, his eyes filled with tears, unable to meet her gaze. ' 'Just give me my pants, and I'll go." "Where?" she asked quietly, her heart in her throat. She had been furiously angry with him, but if what he was saying was even remotely true... He looked up at her. He didn't understand. "Where will you go?" He shook his head. He was so upset he couldn't even answer her. One of his tears escaped, and he wiped it away with a shaking hand. This couldn't be an act, it couldn't be. He was as upset by this as she was. More. She didn't know much about mental illnesses, but it was possible this man she'd given a piece of her heart to last night was sick in ways she couldn't even imagine. If so, then he needed help. And if not... He'd had a gash on his head when he'd first arrived at the ranch. It was mostly healed now, but what if the blow he'd received had taken away his memory? She tried to imagine what that might be like, how terrifying and awful and strange. How completely alone he must feel.... Either way, she had to get him to a doctor. She had to convince him to go with her to the hospital. "If you don't have anywhere to go, then it doesn't make sense for you to leave," she told him, keeping her voice low, as if she were gentling a frightened horse. The first thing she had to do was calm him down. Then she had to find out if he still had that gun he'd mentioned. Guns and high emotions never mixed well. She stepped closer, holding out her own hand to him. "Come into the bathroom. Let me look at your hand. It's bleeding." Mish looked down, as if noticing his injured hand for the first time. He looked at the mirror, looked at her. "I'm so sorry, Becca." "Come on," she said. "Let's make sure you don't need stitches. And then we can talk and try to figure this out." "I should just go. I'll leave money to pay for the mirror—" "No," Becca said. "I want you to stay." He started to argue, but she interrupted. "Stay," she said again. "I think you owe me at least that much." Mish nodded. For a potentially crazy person, his gaze was remarkably steady now. "Becca, do you believe me?"

Becca turned away as she led him into the bathroom. rtl'm still working on that."

Chapter 10 Becca had put clothes on. Jeans and a T-shirt. She sat across from Mish, her legs curled underneath her as she gazed at him. Mish, too, had pulled on his pants. Like her, his feet were bare. The shirt he'd worn last night, the one she'd helped peel off of him, hung open as he gazed down at his bandaged hand and tried his best to answer her questions. He'd told her about waking up at the homeless shelter, of the old man who'd named him Mission Man, of the way "Mish" had somehow seemed both wrong and right. He'd told her of his confusion and shock at seeing his unfamiliar face in the mirror. He'd tried to put into words what it felt like to remember nothing but trivial details of his past. And he'd apologized again for deceiving her. She cleared her throat. "Before—you said you had a gun." He glanced up at her and tried not to think about the way she'd looked, lying back, naked, on her bed. It was crazy. They'd made love twice, last night and early this morning, and he was still dying for her touch. He still wanted more. Like that was ever going to happen again. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. A small handgun. Twenty-two caliber. It was in my boot with the cash and that fax that had the directions to the ranch." "Where's the gun now?" "Back at the Lazy Eight. In my private lockup in the bunkhouse. I wasn't comfortable... I didn't think it was appropriate—or even legal—to carry it around." Becca nodded, trying very hard not to look relieved. Mish couldn't keep from smiling crookedly. "Makes you nervous, huh?" he asked. "The thought of me walking around with a weapon?" She answered honestly, glancing involuntarily at the shards of broken mirror that still littered the dresser. "I'm sorry, but, yeah." "You don't have to apologize. If our roles were reversed—" "If our roles were reversed, / would have already checked myself into a hospital." Mish shifted back in his chair. "I can't do that." "Of course you can." She leaned forward. "Mish, I'll go with you. I'll stay with you. The doctors will—" "Call the police," he finished for her. "They'll have to. Bee, I was shot. They'd need to report it." He hesitated. Lord, why not just tell her? He'd already revealed too much. "The truth is, I'm probably someone you wouldn't want to know. I've had these dreams..." Telling her about them in detail would be too much. The awfiil images already haunted the hell out of him—no need to haunt her as well. "They're...violent. Really violent." "That doesn't mean anything. I've had violent dreams and—" "No, this is stuff—at least some of it—I know I've seen. I've also dreamed of..." He couldn't look at her. "Prison. I've done hard time, Bee. I can't believe I would dream about it in that kind of detail if I hadn't." She was silent. "I think if I dig back and uncover my past, I'm going to find out that I'm not a very good person," he told her quietly. "So let's go back to the ranch. Maybe if I'm lucky Casey Parker'11 be there. I can give him that package that came for him, and ask him what his fax was doing in my boot— maybe find some answers. Then I'll take my things and clear out. And you'll be done with me for good." Becca pulled her knees in close to her chest, encircling them with her arms. "Or," he said, "if you'd rather, I'll leave now, find another ride back. I can arrange to be gone before you return on Tuesday." He could walk out that door in a matter of minutes, and Becca would never see him again. And this was supposed to be something she'd want? She felt her eyes fill with tears, and she blinked them furiously back. She stood up, unable to sit still another moment longer, wishing this room were bigger, knowing that even if it were the size of a stadium, she would be drawn toward him. "Why didn't you tell me any of this last night?" she asked, forcing herself away from him, moving over toward the window. "We talked for hours at that party. I can think of ten different times that you would've had a perfect segue to this subject." She turned to face him. '"Funny you should mention your childhood in New York, Becca, because you know, since a week ago Monday, I can't remember anything about mine. In fact, I couldn't even remember my name until I came to the ranch and you called me Casey Parker...'" His eyes looked suspiciously red, too. "Would you have believed me?" "I don't know. I might've, yeah. I believe you now, don't I?" "I don't know. Do you?"

She let out a burst of air that was nearly a laugh. ' 'No. Yes. I don't know. I think, amnesia? But then I think, it sounds so crazy, it's got to be true." She couldn't figure out why he would make up this outlandish story. It wasn't to gain sympathy points to get into her bed. He'd already been there. The truth was, she did believe him. She trusted him on a level that went beyond logic. Despite his conviction that he'd been to prison, despite his belief that he was some kind of criminal, Becca trusted him with every fiber of her being. And maybe that was just because of sex. Maybe it was just her hormones blocking all common sense. If love was blind, then lust surely was like being in a sensory deprivation tank. But when she looked into Mish's eyes, she believed him, whether she wanted to or not. Maybe he was a con man, maybe he was seriously mentally ill, maybe she was going to get badly burned. But she was damned if she wasn't going to see this through to the end, find the facts that would either prove her wrong and label her a fool, or provide the missing pieces in Mish's past. Either way, she'd come out further ahead than she would by walking away right now. Or letting him walk away. Becca turned back to the window, feeling a sense of calm at her decision, feeling the pressure of her impending tears lessen. "I'll call Hazel, tell her to page me if Casey Parker shows up at the ranch again. I'll have her offer him some kind of financial bonus if he'll stick around until we show up." "He left the ranch?" She looked up at the perfect blue sky, wondering at the sudden note of interest that rang in his voice. ' 'Hazel said he got out of there pronto. Apparently he was ticked off by the fact that another Casey Parker had been there first." She turned to face him, certain she looked like hell, but grateful that at least she wasn't crying. "I think we should take a drive down to Wyatt City. Check out this shelter, try to talk to the men who brought you in." Mish looked as emotionally exhausted as she felt. "We?" "Yeah," Becca said. She crossed her arms so he knew she meant business. "Unless you lied and last night really was just a one-night stand." He shook his head in disbelief. "Becca, didn't you hear anything I said? I'm probably one of the bad guys. I need you to stay away from me." "Maybe," she said. "But what about what / need?" Wyatt City was as dusty and run-down as Mish remembered it. Except he only remembered it from the time he walked out of the Fkst Church Shelter to the time he left on the Greyhound to Santa Fe. It was one of those towns with a Main Street that hadn't had a face-lift since most of the buildings went up back in the late fifties, early sixties. It was crumbling. A true work in progress, as far as ghost towns went. The old movie theater was boarded up, as was the Woolworth's. Both looked as if they'd gone out of business a decade or two ago, and the space hadn't been rented out since then. A liquor store was doing a thriving business, as was an adult-video rental place, and a bar. "Have you considered the possibility that you lived here?" Becca spoke for the first time in what seemed like hours. She took a right turn on Chiselm Street, where a row of post World War II adobe-style houses had been turned into offices. A palm reader. A chiropractor/masseuse. A tax attorney. A tattoo parlor. ' 'You might have an apartment somewhere in town. Or a room. Or..." "Yeah," he said. "I guess it is a possibility." He didn't want to tell her about his hunch, his sense that he'd come to Wyatt City for a reason. A reason that he didn't know, but couldn't talk about just the same. "Oh, no!" She pulled to the side of the road and hit the brakes a little too hard. She looked at him, her eyes wide. "You could have a wife. You could be married." "I'm not," he told her. "I don't know how I know that, but—" "You can't know it," she told him. "Mish, the only things we absolutely know about you are that you've never learned to ride a horse, you were here in Wyatt City for some reason two weeks ago, and that you aren't Casey Parker." "If I am married..." He shook his head. "No, I know I'm not. I'm always alone. I live alone. And lately I work alone. I don't know how I know that, because I don't even know what it is I do." But he could guess. The list of possibilities was nice and short. Burglar. Thief. Con artist. Assassin. “'But if that's not enough for you,” he continued,' 'then last night..." He squinted as he looked out of the truck's windshield at the setting sun glinting off the still hot street. "I don't know, I guess you probably could tell— it's been a long time for me. Since I was with a woman." He glanced at her, embarrassed to admit it. "Since I even wanted to be with a woman." She laughed, a giddy burst as she tipped her head forward to rest on her folded arms on the steering wheel. 'That's very flattering, Mr. I-know-damnwell-I'm-a-sex-god-but-I'll-pretend-to-be-humble, but the fact is, you can't know you're not married if you've got amnesia." "No, there are some things I do just know. I know it sounds unbelievable, that I could know what size jeans I wear, but not even recognize my own face in a mirror. It doesn't make any sense, but Becca, I'm telling you, I know."

She was peeking out from beneath her arm, and he held her gaze. "And I'm not pretending anything," he added softly. "It had been a while for me. I wanted to make love to you all night long, but somehow the night got away from me." Lord, what was he doing? She was wary of him, wanting to keep her distance. So why was he saying things like that, things that would draw her back into his arms? Because he wanted her in his arms. And he had absolutely no willpower where this woman was concerned. He knew the best place for Becca to be was dozens—hundreds—of miles away from him, yet he couldn't stop himself from wanting to hold her. She lifted her head, still watching him. He could see the heat of her attraction for him in her eyes, doing battle with her wariness. He could see paradise lingering there as well, just a kiss and a heartbeat away. He turned away. "The church is in this neighborhood, not too far from the bus station." Becca hesitated, but he didn't look over at her again, and finally she put her truck in gear. "Jarell? He's a popular man these days," the woman who worked in the church office said with a chuckle. She pulled a file folder from a rickety old cabinet, and flipped through the pages. "He's a volunteer, so I can't guarantee his hours won't change, but let's see..." She frowned. "No, he's not working at the shelter this evening—actually, not until Wednesday night." "Isn't there any way we could get in touch with him tonight?" Mish asked. The woman shook her head, smiling apologetically at both Mish and Becca. "I'm sorry, we can't give out personal information about our volunteers. But there's a good chance he'll be in the kitchen tomorrow afternoon. There's a church dinner tomorrow night, and no one can make meat loaf like Jarell. At least not meat loaf for two hundred." Tomorrow afternoon. Becca looked everywhere but at Mish. If they had to wait until tomorrow afternoon to talk to Jarell, that meant they'd have to spend the night here in Wyatt City. She stood quietly aside as he thanked the woman, then followed him out of the church and into the hot evening air. They walked in silence until they got to Becca's truck, parked just down the street from the bus station. Mish turned to face her. "When we left Santa Fe this morning, I didn't think quite as far as tonight. I'm...sorry. I'll pay for the motel rooms." Rooms. Plural. Did he really want to stay in separate rooms tonight? Was it possible that, unlike her, he hadn't spent the entire day bombarded by vivid memories of sen sations from the night before? Could it be that, unlike her, he wasn't dying for the chance for them to kiss again? All day long, all she wanted was to take him in her arms and kiss him. Becca closed her eyes. Please, God, let him be right. Have him not be married... "We should go have dinner and—" "Does it make sense," Becca interrupted him, trying to sound matter-of-fact, when in truth her heart was pounding, "to pay for two when we're probably going to end up in one? Rooms," she added, probably unnecessarily. His eyes looked luminous in the early evening light. "Do you really want that? Even knowing...who I am?" She reached for his hand. "You say that as if you're convinced you're some kind of monster. Why? Because you were carrying a gun and you don't believe in banks? For all we know, your license to carry that gun was in your wallet, which was stolen. Yeah, the bullet wound on your head is a little harder to explain away, but it is possible that you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, isn't it?" "Becca—" "So, okay, you dreamed of prison. I've rented movies enough times to be able to have pretty vivid dreams of prison, too. Dreams are dreams, Mish. They're not the same thing as memories. I sometimes dream that my teeth are falling out. It happens to be a common stress dream, with no basis in reality, fortunately." She took a deep breath. "So, yes, I really want us to get a room. A room. A room with a shower, a pizza and a cold six-pack of beer. Let's lock ourselves in and forget about all this for a few hours. You know, for someone with amnesia, you're not very good at forgetting things." Mish smiled, and her heart leapt. But then his smile faded. "What if it turns out that I'm someone terrible? What if I'm an assassin? A hit man?" Becca had to laugh. "Only a man would what-if himself into the middle of a Clint Eastwood film. And that guy over there? See him? The one climbing into that van with the tinted windows?" She pointed down the street. As they watched, a man with short brown hair and a barbed-wire tattoo encircling his upper arm, carrying a cardboard tray with three large coffees, climbed into the back of the van. Another man, this one a movie-star-handsome blond, climbed out. The blond looked as if he could make a fortune on the rodeo circuit from just his smile, but he wore sneakers on his feet instead of cowboy boots, and a baggy pair of cargo shorts instead of jeans. His shirt hung open, revealing a chest of Baywatch quality. He made half circles with his head, as if relieving the kinks in his neck as he made his way across the street to the Terminal Bar. It was named after its proximity to the bus station, no doubt, rather than its dire medical condition.

"They're not just waiting for the bus from Las Vegas, for the shorter guy's wife Ernestina to return from a visit to her sister, Inez, who's a dancer at Caesar's. No, they're probably sitting there, staking out the bus station on the off chance you'll show up. Right?" Mish looked at the man heading into the bar. His eyes narrowed, and he looked closer. "Mish." Becca pulled his chin so that he faced her. She kissed him lightly on the mouth to get his attention completely. "What if you're not a hit man? What if you're the UPS man? Or what if you sell washers and dryers at Sears? Or maybe you're extra-adventurous and you specialize in overnight fresh fish deliveries to towns like Las Cruces and Santa Fe?" He smiled at that, and she unlocked the door to her truck. ' 'If you want, we can drive around for a little while. See if anything sparks a memory." Mish nodded, glancing at the van sitting in front of the bus station. "Yeah," he said. "I'd like to do that." Becca climbed into the truck and started the engine, switching on the air-conditioning right away. God, it was hot. Mish swung himself in the passenger's side, picked her beatup cowboy hat up off the seat between them, and put it on his head, tugging the brim low over his eyes. And as they drove past the van, he slouched way down in his seat. "Today I am a very fountain of information," Wes said as Lucky swung himself back into the van after making a quick pit stop at the Terminal Bar. "The captain called when I was taking a nap. I don't know how he does it, but somehow he always knows when I'm sleeping." "That's why he's the captain and you're not," Bobby pointed out. ' 'He knows when you are sleeping. He knows when you're awake..." "What did he say?" Lucky asked. "Did he talk to Admiral Robinson?" "He knows if you've been bad or good—no, wait," Bobby said. "That's Santa Claus, not Joe Cat." He smiled. "I always get them confused." "Yeah," Wes said, "they're both so jolly. Well, Santa's jolly. Joe's not. In fact, he's getting pretty fed up and put out by the way the top brass are jerking him around. I don't know how many days running this is that first they tell him, yes, Robinson's on his way, only to call him later and say, no, he's been detained again." "Any word from Albuquerque?" Lucky asked. "Crash and Blue reported in. No sign of Mitch," Wes told him. "But he was there. At least the shop owner described someone who looks just like him, down to his pretty green eyes." "That's good," Bobby said. "That's great. He's alive." "Yeah, but the mystery thickens," Wes reported. "He spent nearly four hundred dollars. Bought himself a nice suit, a coupla shirts, some underwear. Total came to three and change, yet our boy used two of the counterfeit bills with two that were unmarked. What's up with that? And why's he buying a suit?" "A few days ago, I wished I'd brought a suit with us from California," Bobby said. "Because I—" "Had a date with the supermodel," Wes finished for him. "Yeah, rub it in." "Okay, so maybe there's a woman involved," Lucky said. "We need to make sure we look at everyone passing by. Mitch could be with a woman." "Or maybe he was just getting himself a disguise. If/ wanted to disguise myself," Wes pointed out, "first thing I'd do is buy myself a suit. Make myself look like a business geek. No one would ever recognize me." Lucky stared out the tinted window at the bus station. Mitchell Shaw was out there. Somewhere. Lucky had had a gut feeling that he'd come back for his "bag of tricks." But maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he and his new suit were long gone, the missing plutonium with him. Maybe the somewhere that Mitch was, was on the other side of the world. "Did the captain give Us any orders?" Lucky asked. "Sit tight," Wes said. "Just sit tight." "Stop," Mish said. "Bee, stop here!" Becca slammed on the brakes. The lengthening twilight was casting odd shadows in an alleyway that was probably poorly lit at best, even at high noon. Mish climbed down out of the truck and went between two buildings, one brick, one wood. The pavement—what little was left—was pitted and cracked. The scent of rotting garbage filled the air. It was familiar, as was the latticework of the fire escapes that decorated the outside of the brick building. Mish closed his eyes to see the image of those iron stairs and landings lit by a stormy night sky that flashed with lightning and... Yes, he had been here before.

He knew without looking that a few steps farther in, behind the dumpster, was a basement door—once painted a bright red, long since faded by the heat—that stood ajar. "Mish?" Becca had parked the truck and now followed him. It was getting darker by the minute, and he moved cautiously past the Dumpster, with its sound of rats scurrying away. He moved closer and... A basement door. Ajar. Faded red. "I've been here." He was certain now. He turned to Becca. "I remember..." What? What did he remember? He closed his eyes. Thunder and lightning. His clothes soaked almost instantly after the downpour started. He'd been following... Following... Lord, he couldn't remember who he'd been following or why he'd been here. "I had my weapon drawn." Somehow he knew that. He'd gone down the steps to the basement door, and he'd hidden deep in the shadows, his handgun held ready. Nothing had moved. Nothing. The storm raged for many long minutes, and still he stood frozen, waiting, watching. But the man he had followed and was waiting for to return—and it was a man—had vanished. Finally, Mish had crept out. Up those concrete stairs and into the puddles of the alleyway. Something had made him turn. Some instinct, or perhaps a sound he'd managed to hear beneath the pounding of the rain. But he'd turned, and lightning flashed, and he saw the face of the man he was after for the briefest split second— before the muzzle flash from the man's handgun exploded his night vision, before the bullet from that weapon knocked him over and out. He focused everything he had in him on that scrap of memory, on that split-second exposure of a face. Forty-five to fifty years old, heavy set, graying beard, thinning hair. Small nose in an otherwise puffy face. He'd been up above Mish, on the roof. Mish scanned the roof, scanned the windows of the brick building. He longed for the feel of a weapon in his hands—not that wimpy little .22 he'd found in his boot and left back at the ranch, but a real weapon. A Heckler & Koch MP-5 room broom. Or even an MP-4. Something with a real bite, something that would fit comfortably in his arms. Then it hit him—he was actually standing here, wishing he had an assault weapon. An assault weapon. Who the hell was he? "Mish, are you okay?" Nothing moved along the roof-line now, and Mish could see, even with the rapidly falling shadows, that it had been sheer luck that had enabled the bearded man to get the jump on him. It was also equally sheer luck he hadn't killed Mish. Or maybe it wasn't luck. Maybe it was just ineptitude. Or amateurishness. But if the bearded man had been a real shooter, he would've made damn sure he'd finished Mish off before he'd left the scene. The scuff of a boot against the pavement made him spin around in a defensive crouch and... Becca. Her eyes were wide as she gazed at him, as he quickly straightened up. "What do you remember?" she asked quietly. "I wasn't here making a delivery for UPS, that's for damn sure."

Chapter 11 “At lease," Mish said. His steak was as untouched as her grilled-chicken Caesar salad. Why had they bothered to come to this restaurant anyway, if neither of them intended to eat? Becca thought wistfully of that pizza and beer she'd hoped to share with him, preferably while naked on a motel-room bed. "You want me just to leave you here," she repeated. "To go back to the Lazy Eight tonight. Just...that's it? Good luck? So long? You're on your own? Thanks, but I'm no longer needed?" It had been too many hours since Mish had gotten close to a razor, and with all that stubble on his face, he looked positively dangerous. Except for his eyes. Mish's eyes gave him away. And his eyes told her he wanted her to stay. But he leaned forward now, to convince her otherwise. "It's not as simple as what I do and don't need, Bee. For all I know, this guy—the man with the beard—is still somewhere around here. In town. Nearby. I don't know. But I do know that if I'm his target, I don't want you anywhere near me." Becca sighed and gave up even toying with her salad. "So we're back in that Clint Eastwood movie, huh?" "He shot me," Mish said flatly. "He looked at me, he aimed, and he discharged his weapon. And..." It was her turn to lean across the table. "And what?" He lowered his voice, looking away from her, the muscles in his jaw clenching. When he looked at her again, his eyes were bleak. "And if I had had the chance, I would've aimed and fired my weapon at him." "Now, is this an actual memory we're talking about, or is this another of those things you just somehow know?" "I'm sure you're very funny, but I don't happen to find any of this humorous," he said tightly. She reached for his hand. "I don't mean to be such a smartass, I just..." She exhaled noisily. "Mish, I don't want to get in my truck and just leave you here. / still haven't given up on the UPS-man scenario." He squeezed her hand slightly before he let her go, his eyes dark with regret. "I would have shot him, Bee," he said quietly. "And yes, that's a solid memory." Odd, that part seemed to have been edited out of the version he'd first told her, after they'd left the alley and gotten back in her truck. Becca tapped her fingers on the table. "What else do you remember from that night?" "I was carrying my .45—I don't know what happened to it. It must've been stolen with my wallet. The .22 in my boot was just a backup, but...I remember wishing I hadanMP-5." "MP-5?" "Heckler & Koch MP-5," he told her grimly. "It's a German-made assault weapon. A machine gun. It's called a room broom, because you use it at a relatively short range to clear a room." "Clear a room?" She was starting to sound like a parrot. Mish nodded. "Yeah, it means just what it sounds like." He gripped his water glass tightly as he brought it to his mouth and took a sip. "I have this recurring dream where I'm in a room," he told her. "Locked in with these other people. The door bursts open, and these men come in carrying assault weapons. There's a struggle, and one of the weapons—it's an Uzi. God, how do I know the names of these things?" He took a deep breath and when he spoke again, his voice was matter-of-fact. "In the struggle, an Uzi is kicked toward me, and I pick it up, and I use it to clear the room of the men with the weapons. One sweep with my finger on the trigger, and I kill them all. That's what it means to clear a room." Becca shook her head, refusing to believe that could have happened—at least not as emotionlessly as he made it sound. "Mish, I know you're trying to prove that you're a terrible person, but you should hear some of my dreams. There's this one where I'm in a furniture store and—" "I recognized the men in that van today," Mish told her. That...van? She didn't say the words aloud, but she was certain they echoed on her face. "The one with the tinted windows. Parked by the bus station?" he clarified. "I don't know where I know them from—both the shorter man with the tattoo and the man with the light-colored hair—but I definitely know them from somewhere."

Becca didn't understand. "Why didn't you say something to them? Approach them, find out who they are? Maybe find out who you are?" "They were definitely running some kind of surveillance," Mish told her. "And I know you were joking this afternoon, but it's possible they are looking for me." "Surveillance?" Becca was incredulous. "How could you know "what they were doing in that van? You couldn't see inside. I'm sorry, Mish, but—" "I didn't have to see inside. I knew there were three men, even though I didn't see more than two—because Tattoo brought three cups of coffee with him. Three large cups, which I took to mean they were planning to stay awhile. Blondie shook his muscles out when he got out of the van—they'd obviously already been there for some time. So long, in fact, he was in a rush to get into the bar and use the head." "Use the...? What's a head?" "Men's room," he said. "Lav. It's called a head on a ship." He rolled his eyes. "Great. Now I'm a sailor." Becca laughed. She couldn't help herself. Mish smiled, too, but it faded far too quickly. ' 'Becca, go home." She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, clearly going nowhere. "What if you don't remember anything else?" she asked. "What if the rest of the details of who you were don't ever come back to you?" Mish shook his head. "I haven't really thought in terms of a worst-case scenario." "Maybe," she said softly, "not remembering wouldn't necessarily be the worst-case scenario." He gazed at her for a moment, clearly understanding what she was getting at. He'd thought it himself, many times. If he never pushed to find out the truth, if he just let go of whatever he'd done or been in the past, if he started over, from scratch... "It would be kind of like being born all over again," Becca continued. ' 'It could be a blessing. If you honestly think you did such terrible things..." "You make it sound so tempting," he whispered. "But I'm here. I can't leave Wyatt City without at least talking to Jarell." "Ah," she said. "There you go. Now you know exactly how / feel." She met his gaze staunchly as he searched her eyes. After several long moments, he nodded. "All right. I'll get us two rooms for tonight." He was determined to keep his distance. Becca nodded, too. She'd let him win that battle. For now. Mish flipped through the TV channels twice more, but it was just like playing a game of solitaire that had run its course. Nothing new or interesting had magically appeared. An infomercial on selling real estate. A late-night talk show with some actress who had a body like a POW-camp survivor—emaciated and bony and completely unappealing, compared to Becca's soft curves. Compared to Becca's lush breasts and soft thighs and... Mish changed the channel, shifting uncomfortably on the bed, refusing to think about Becca, naked in his arms. The movie channel was showing a romantic comedy about a man who, after only one glimpse of a beautiful young woman, knew that she was his destiny. From what Mish could tell from the few minutes he'd watched ear Her, the hero was determined to win the girl's heart by any means, including outright deceit. He lied about his name, his identity, his profession, his past. Mish watched for a few more minutes before turning off the set in utter disgust. He knew how the movie would end. True love would triumph and the girl would forgive the hero. But real life didn't work that way. Real life was filled with unmendable hurt, with unforgivable wrongs, with irreparable damage. And most people didn't get a second chance at anything. He lay back on the bed, aching with an awful emptiness, staring up at the plastered ceiling, knowing full well that he was one of the lucky ones. He'd been given a second chance—a chance to detach himself from all of the wrongs he'd ever done. A chance to start fresh, to live clean, to do right. So what was he doing? He was lying here, nearly jumping out of his skin, desperate to cross the motel courtyard and knock on the door to room 214. Becca's room. She'd wanted to spend the night with him again. She'd told him so. But he'd turned her down, obsessed with the idea of protecting her from himself.

He'd checked them into their rooms, said good-night, and then he'd taken a long, cold shower. He'd shaved, too, although for what reason, he had no clue. He was here for the night. Alone. And Becca was in her room. Alone. Way on the other side of the motel complex. But now he lay here—alone—unable to think about anything but the softness of Becca's lips, the perfect fit of his body to hers, the sparkle of her eyes, the satisfied smile that curled her lips after he...after they... Oh, Lord. He had to stay away from her. He had to. Mish stood up, unable to keep from pacing. He was unable to stop himself from pacing right over to the TV where his room key sat, pocketing the key and pacing right out the door. Room 214 was on the other side of the swimming pool, up on the second floor. He found the room without even counting windows—he already knew where it was. Behind the heavy draperies, he could see the glow of her light still on. She was awake. Okay, he'd go over and knock on the door, ask her if she wanted to meet at the Waffle House for breakfast in the morning. Mish crossed the courtyard, went up the stairs. He could hear the sound of a radio playing from inside room 214, heard Becca singing along. She had a sweet voice, low and musical. He stood, leaning his head against her door, listening-to her sing, and he knew without a doubt that he hadn't come here to talk about breakfast. He'd come to stay until breakfast. He couldn't do it. Try as he might, he couldn't stay away from her. Try as he might, he wasn't worthy of this second chance he'd miraculously been given. Because here he was, yet again, right on schedule, giving in to temptation, choosing to do wrong instead of right. He didn't know his name, but he knew with a gut-clenching certainty that before this was through, he was going to hurt this woman. How hard could it be not to knock on her door? All he had to do was put his hands in his pockets or behind his back. And then he had to turn away, not think about the fact that she would probably greet him with a kiss, pull him into her room, surround him with the sweet scent of her freshly washed hair, the paralyzing softness of her smooth, clean skin. She would fall back on her bed with him, wrap herself around him and... Mish couldn't turn away. And he couldn't keep his hands behind his back. He lifted one, about to rap loudly right next to the sign that said 214, but he never got the chance. The door opened. And Becca stood there, wearing cutoff jeans and a halter top that showed off a pair of smooth, bare shoulders that looked too damned good even when covered by a perspiration-stained T-shirt. She was carrying an open pint of ice cream, a plastic spoon stuck in the top. "Mish! You startled me!" She was surprised to see him. And pleased. Very pleased. "Yeah," he said, jamming his hands into his pockets and taking a step back from the door far too late. "Hi. Sorry. I realized we never talked about the morning. I didn't want to wake you up too early if you wanted to sleep in and..." And she knew exactly why he was standing there, knew it had nothing to do with making plans for the morning. Mish could see her awareness in her smile, in the warmth of her eyes. "I was just coming down to your room," she told him. She held out the ice cream. "I thought maybe you might want to share this with me. It's so hot tonight, and..." And she'd intended to come to his room and share more than ice cream. He knew that, too. And she knew he knew... "They were all out of cones," she said, "but I figured we could just spread it on ourselves. Take turns licking each other clean...?" Mish laughed. He couldn't help himself. "So," Becca said, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she tried not to smile. "Are you coming in, or what?" He was coming in. She knew it and he knew it. Mish lost himself in her eyes. "Why can't I stay away from you?" he whispered. "Why would you want to?" she countered just as softly. And as she reached for his hand and tugged him gently into her room, closing and locking the door behind them, Mish couldn't remember why he'd even considered staying away. She set the ice cream down on top of the motel television and he drew her into his arms. As she melted against him, he slowly lowered his mouth to hers and then, if he hadn't had amnesia already, he would have contracted a full-blown case of it right then as he lost himself completely in the sheer sweetness of her kiss. As Mish kissed her, Becca tugged him toward the bed, afraid that he might come to his senses and walk out the door. She knew he was afraid of hurting her. She knew he wouldn't quite believe her even if she told him again that she wasn't looking for more than a low-maintenance, high-

passion, short-term love affair. At this point, she wouldn't quite believe herself. Last night had been incredible, even with the secrets that had hung between them. Tonight promised to be even more amazing. Except tonight, she was the one with the secrets. Mish's fingers were gentle as he worked to loosen the knots in her halter. His eyes were as warm as his hands as he pulled her top free. And as he drew in a sharp breath at the sight of her bare breasts, he made her feel like the most beautiful, most sexy woman in the world. He touched her gently with his mouth and his hands, taking his time to look at her, to really take her in. Becca tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, trying to pull it up, and he yanked it over his head. And then she was touching him, too, sliding her palms across his gorgeous tanned muscles, kissing him just as lightly, taking her time to look at him as well. The bruise on his side was starting to fade. His muscles were amazingly well-defined, as if he had stepped out of an anatomy textbook. Or a J. Crew catalog. Anns, shoulders, pecs, he was sheer perfection right down to the six-pack of muscles that made up his abdomen. But his eyes were as soft as his body was hard. And it was his eyes that held her captive. All night long, he'd told her this afternoon. He'd wanted to make love to her all night long. He lowered his head and lightly touched the tip of her breast with his tongue as he found and slowly unfastened . the top button of her shorts. All night long... Becca pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him just as slowly, languidly, leisurely drinking him in. It was as if the entire world had gone into slow motion, and with that, all of her senses had heightened. She could hear the sound of their quiet breathing, the sound of her zipper being pulled down, tantalizingly slowly. She could feel the slightly callused roughness of his fingers against her skin. The delicious chill of the conditioned air against the tongue-wetted tips of her breasts. The satin-oversteel silkiness of his back beneath her hands. The baby-smoothness of his cheeks against her face... He'd shaved for her. He'd come to her reluctantly after trying for hours to keep his distance. And yet, he'd recognized the futility of his resistance enough to shave before coming to her room. It was silly, really. That he'd shaved was no big deal. It was simple consideration. A small sign of kindness, of caring, yet it brought all of her emotions bubbling to the surface. He cared. She knew without a doubt that he desired her, but to know that he cared... Becca was in too deep. She was in serious trouble, if the fact that this man had shaved for her was enough to bring tears of joy to her eyes. But she couldn't stop what she was feeling. It was far too late. She was falling in love with this man without a name. She was completely enthralled with the gentle warmth of his eyes, with the way he truly listened whenever she spoke, with the fact that despite the absolute goodness that seemed to shine from within him, he was not an angel. Despite his good intentions, he was drawn to her as completely and powerfully as she was drawn to him. And try as he might, as much as he wanted otherwise, he hadn't been able to stay away. He drew her shorts and her panties slowly down her legs, and she took close to forever to help him rid himself of his jeans. Then, skin against skin, she touched him, breathed him, kissed him, completely on fire, yet preferring this slow, intense burn to a white-hot flash of flame that would end far too soon. No, she didn't want this to end. She had no idea what tomorrow would bring, and more than half hoped this Jarell from the homeless shelter would provide no answers to Mish's many questions. His talk of machine guns had made her uneasy. Those were the weapons used by the survivalists who lived in military-style compounds in the mountains. They were all-or-nothing organizations and Becca had no desire to join one—no matter how desperately she loved this man. Oh, yes, she loved him desperately. How could she have let that happen? When she first asked him to have dinner, she'd imagined she'd love him just a little. A safe amount. Enough to justify giving in to this intense physical attraction, but not so much that she would feel this shortness of breath, this lack of control. She'd wanted a brief entanglement with a handsome stranger. True, she'd wanted more than shallow sex, but she'd wanted nowhere near this Grand Canyon of emotional attachment. But it was okay. It was going to be okay, because there was no way in hell Mish was going to fall in love with her. Becca could deal with a one-sided love affair. What she couldn't handle was hoping against hope that she had, in fact, at long last, found true love. Because despite how much she hoped, true love didn't exist. And she and Mish would part, just later rather than sooner. And crushed hope was far worse than no hope at all.

Mish pulled back from their endless kiss, their languorous embrace, and as she gazed into his eyes, her heart twisted in her chest. "I want you," she whispered, knowing he would misunderstand, but needing to say it, say something, all the same. He kissed her again, then reached across her for the condoms she'd left on the nightstand. She closed her eyes, pressing herself against him, feeling the hard length of his heat parting her, dangerously close to penetration. She was more than ready for him, in every possible way. It had to be biological—some kind of nesting instinct that was kicking in as her thirtieth birthday approached. He pulled away from her to cover himself, and she resisted the urge to cling to him. She knew he would be back in a matter of moments. Still, she would use this as practice for the real thing, for when they would part for good. He held her gaze as he came back to her, as he joined her in one slow, perfect thrust. It was too good, too perfect, and Becca pulled him to her and kissed him, afraid of what he might see if he looked too close. She shut her eyes and loved him. All night long.

Chapter 12 ' 'Mr. Haymore?" "Only folks call me Mr. Haymore be bill collectors and magazine salesmen." The tall African-American man stood at one of the sinks in the church kitchen. His back was to Mish and Becca, but he didn't turn around. He kept right on washing stalks of celery as he spoke. "If you're here on that sort of business, you might as well just walk right back out the door. You'll have to catch me some other time. But if you're here for something friendlier, call me Jarell, wash your hands and roll up your sleeves. I could use some help chopping this celery. Got two hundred forty people to feed tonight, and time's wasting." Mish moved to the next sink over and started washing his hands. "Jarell. I spent the night at the shelter here two weeks ago. Do you remember me by any chance?" Jarell's face broke into an enormous smile. "Well, I'll be! If it isn't Mission Man! Mish! You are looking good, my man! Out of uniform, but still doggone good! Staying clean, I'll wager." He held out a big wet hand for Mish to shake, then pulled him in for an embrace. "Glory be, it is a good day!" "Out of uniform...?" The words had a strangely familiar ring to them. "Yeah, you're here for your jacket, aren't you? I'm afraid it's pretty badly stained, though, and..." Jarell caught sight of Becca as he released Mish. "Hey, who's this?" "Becca Keyes," Mish told him. "A...friend of mine." She met his eyes briefly in acknowledgement of his hesitation, and he felt a wave of heat as a vivid memory of the night before flashed through him as clear as day. He could see Becca shattering as she sat astride him, head thrown back, breasts taut with desire as he, too, exploded in perfect slow motion. Friend, yes, but friend wasn't a big enough word for what she was to him. Except lover didn't quite cover the intensity of their relationship, either. Jarell wiped his hands on a towel before enveloping Becca in a welcoming hug. "Did I leave...a jacket here?" Mish asked. "I knew you'd be back for it." Jarell picked up a knife and set to work chopping celery. "You were pretty out of it the morning you left. You were wearing it when you came in, along with a shirt, but they were both soaking wet so Max and I took 'em off you so as you wouldn't catch a chill. I apologize for not reminding you of that in the morning, although, like I said, I'm pretty sure the jacket's ruined." He set down the knife and wiped his hands again as he headed toward the office door. "I'll get that for you." "Thank you," Mish said. His jacket. And a shirt. He had no idea what they would look like, but maybe—just maybe—they would trigger more memories. Becca touched his hand. "Don't expect too much," she said softly. He forced a smile. "I never do." "Here you go," Jarell said, coming back into the room, carrying a plastic grocery bag. "If you get it cleaned, it'll keep you warm at least. Not that you're needing to stay warm with this heat wave we've been having." Mish took the bag from Jarell, glancing inside. The jacket was black. From what he could tell, a plain suit jacket. Nothing special, nothing strange. He felt a rush of disappointment. Still, maybe Jarell could provide some other information. Becca had picked up a knife and started chopping celery,, earning one of Jarell's million-dollar smiles. Mish was afraid he'd cut off a finger if he tried to help, afraid his hands were actually shaking. Please, Lord, let him either find some answers or the peace to live with never knowing the truth.... " "I was wondering," Mish said, "if that one night was the only time I stayed at the shelter, or..." He cleared his throat, "I know this sounds awful, but I was wondering if I spent the night here any time before that." Jarell blew out a stream of air as he began cutting celery again. "Whew, it was a bad one, huh? Mish, I can't tell you how often I've seen it happen. A good man gives in to the temptation, takes a drink and ends up on a binge, God knows where." He laughed ruefully. "Then he spends the rest of his life unable to reclaim those days of blackout, always wondering just where he was and what kind of trouble he got into while he was gone." He sighed again. "As far as I was aware, the first time you used a bed at the First Church shelter was the only time. The night you were brought in was my fifth night on in a row. Rico's brother got arrested down in Natchez, and I was covering for him, working more nights than usual. So unless you were drinking hard for more than a week, and sleeping somewhere else, which of course is entirely possible..." His eyes were dark with sympathy. "How many days of blackout you trying to recall?" Becca was watching him, and Mish glanced at her only briefly. He liked Jarell, but the truth made him uncomfortably vulnerable. He didn't want to tell anyone about his amnesia. "Too many," he answered vaguely. "Hmm." Jarell frowned down at his celery. "Is it good news or bad news if I tell you a couple of men were in here a few days ago, flashing your picture around, looking for you?"

Damn. "One of them have barbed wire tattooed around his biceps?" Mish asked, managing to sound matter-of-fact. "Other one blond, dresses like he comes from California?" "Barbed-wire tattoo, yes," Jarell said. Becca exclaimed softly, and Mish looked up to see her nursing her finger where she'd nicked it with the knife. "But his friend was Native American. Big man. Dark hair. Quiet. Reminded me of Chief from Cuckoo's Nest." Jarell gestured with his head toward the sink. "Run it under cold water," he advised Becca. He glanced back at Mish. "They also wanted to know if you'd been here more than just one night. They seemed friendly enough..." "But...?" "But dangerous," Jarell admitted. "It was just a hunch, a gut feeling, but they were the kind of guys you'd want to make sure were playing on your team. Whether the game's softball or something else, you wouldn't want 'em to be part of the opposition." He paused. "You want to leave a message in case they come back?" "No," Mish said. "Thanks, but I know where to find them." "You want me to tell 'em you've been here if they come back, asking, or...?" The old man's eyes were knowing. He'd done his share of hard, harsh living. Mish shook his head. "I'd appreciate if it you could forget to mention we were here, but I wouldn't want to ask you to lie." Jarell smiled. "Wouldn't have to lie. I'd just have to start spouting scripture. I'm sure you know what would happen then. They'd be done with their questions soon enough." Mish laughed. "I'd appreciate it." "No problem, my man." Mish glanced inside the bag again. He wanted to examine the jacket and shirt more closely, but not here. Somewhere more private. Like maybe back in Becca's motel room. Maybe after they'd pulled the curtains and spent an hour or two naked.... He was staring at her. And she was gazing back at him, trepidation in her eyes. She hadn't truly believed him when he'd told her about recognizing the men in the van. But she did now. And now she was realizing that—what had she called it?—this Clint Eastwood thing wasn't a movie, but was, in fact, Mish's real life. Mish pulled his gaze away from her, and forced a smile in Jarell's direction, holding out his hand again. "Thank you so much. For everything." Jarell slapped him five. "You're welcome so much. I'm glad I could be of help." Mish opened the door to the parking lot and stepped back, waiting for Becca to go first. "Just remember," Jarell called after them. "One day at a time, Father. Just one day at a time." "Father?" Becca said. Had Jarell just called Mish Father? Outside the church kitchen, the early-afternoon sun seemed brain-searingly bright. Mish was scanning the surrounding neighborhood, as if searching for any sign of the tattooed man or his friends from the surveillance van. God, could those men really be looking for Mish? Mish shook his head, obviously distracted. "He's full of weird nicknames." She unlocked the passenger side door to her truck, then crossed around the front. "Why did he call you Mission Man?" Mish reached across the cab to unlock her door. "I don't know." He glanced down at the bag he was holding before he went back to scanning the world outside the truck's windshield. "Do you mind if we go back to the room?" "So we can pull the curtains and hide?" she wondered aloud as she started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. "Mish, maybe you should just walk up to these guys, find out who they are and why they're looking for you." He was silent, unwilling to give her a long list of reasons why approaching these men could be a terrible mistake. It was possible they had been sent to fix the bearded man's botched job. Maybe they would grab him, pull him into the van, drive him someplace isolated and pop him— plug two bullets into the back of his head. It was also possible that before they did that, they'd take him somewhere isolated and ask him questions he couldn't possibly answer, no matter the pain they inflicted upon him. And wouldn't that be fun? But the thought that they might get their hands on Becca and threaten her safety to get him to talk made his blood run cold. "Or maybe," Becca said, "we should just get our things, check out of the motel, and go back to the Lazy Eight. You can work for me as long as you want to—as long as you need to. If you want, I could teach you how to care for the horses. I could teach you to ride. I could—" She broke off, as if suddenly aware of how desperate she sounded. "I like you, and care about you," she tried to explain. "You know that. I haven't exactly tried to hide that from you. All I'm saying is that if you do want to put whatever this is behind you, I'm here to do whatever I can to help."

Mish felt a rush of emotion that pressed behind his eyes and made his chest feel constricted. I'm here... He didn't have to be alone in this—he wasn 't alone. Yet at the same time, he felt this odd mixture of disappointment and relief because she hadn't told him that she loved him. The disappointment didn't make sense—he was already terrified of hurting her, terrified of getting her inextricably involved in any of this, of putting her into physical danger. And heaven help them both if she decided that she loved him.... “Thanks," he told her. "I just... I want to look at this jacket and shirt before I decide what my next move is going to be." "I don't suppose there's a name tag sewn inside the jacket?" Becca laughed. "Probably not. It's probably been a few years since your mother sent you to summer camp." Mish couldn't manage more than a wan smile. "Look, Bee, I know you need to get back to the ranch—” "I can call Hazel, find out what the guest load is like, find out if I can take a few more days. Last I knew, the week was only lightly booked, so unless we've had a party check in at short notice, I won't need to get back right away." She pulled into the motel lot and parked near her room, turning to look at him almost challengingly. "Unless you still want me to leave." Mish got out of the truck, unwilling to sit there on display, where anyone could see them. "I don't want you caught in the crossfire. If someone's gunning for me—" "Then let's both leave Wyatt City." Becca had to run to catch up with him. "Right now." He unlocked the door, and they stepped into the room. It was welcomingly cool and soothingly dark after the harsh brightness of the afternoon heat. They'd left a Do-Not-Disturb sign on the door, and the bedcovers were still rumpled from the night before, the colorful wrappers from the condoms they'd used still scattered on the floor. Mish locked the door behind them, aware that they'd also locked the door the night before, aware that he wanted her again, just as badly as he'd wanted her last night. More so. And she knew it, too. She kissed him lightly, brushing both her lips and body against him in a message that was impossible to miss. And in case he did miss it, she said, "Why don't we wait to leave until tonight? We can take our time, take a nap—maybe catch a few hours of sleep." Mish caught her, pulling her tightly against him, kissing her hard, letting her feel what she did to him. "Sleep?" Becca smiled, glad he was no longer trying to ignore the attraction that sparked and ignited between them with little more than eye contact. "I did say maybe. But...first things first." She pulled away from him, picking up the plastic grocery bag from where it had slipped out of his hands and taking it to the little table by the window. "Oh, this is what I smell." She pulled the jacket out, held it up. It was stiff, encrusted with mud, stained and spotted. And it smelled bad. "Wow, if you smelled even slightly like this when you woke up in the shelter, I've got your nickname figured out. Jarell wasn't calling you Mission Man, he was calling you Emission Man." She handed the jacket to Mish, who winced. "Whoa, man! I'm sorry—I can take this outside if you want." "I can handle it. I work with horses," she reminded him as she pulled the shirt out of the bag. "You know, I was kidding about the name tags sewn in, but sometimes cleaners stencil part or even all of a customer's name onto the tail of a shirt." Yet there was nothing there. The white shirt itself was unsalvageable, permanently stained dark brown in places from blood. Mish's blood. He'd been shot and left for dead, bleeding in an alley. The thought made her a little light-headed. "Check the pockets of the jacket," she told him, trying to sound as if searching articles of clothing for any identifying marks was something she did every day. "I didn't check the pockets." "Empty," he reported. "But..." Something in his voice made her turn toward him. "I think there's something sewn into the lining. Here at the hem." He held it out to her, and sure enough, there was some thing hard in there. Something small, but something that didn't bend. "I have a Swiss army knife in my bag," she told him, but he'd already torn the lining open. It was a key. An oversized key that might unlock a hotel room or a locker, with the number imprinted right on it: 101. Mish tore the lining completely out of the jacket, but there was nothing else hidden there. No notes, no messages, no nothing. As Becca watched, Mish hefted the key in his hand, "How much do you want to bet this key fits one of the lockers at the bus station?" He sounded

so grim, considering they'd just found a major clue. "But that's great," Becca said. "Isn't it?" He didn't say anything, and she realized, bus station. The men in the van had been parked outside of the bus station. Was it possible they knew Mish had something— a suitcase, a duffel bag—stashed in one of the lockers7 Obviously, from the look on his face, Mish thought it was He picked up the plastic bag, ready to stuff the ripped jacket and shirt back in, but Becca could tell from the way he was holding the bag that there was something else still inside. He pulled it out. Like the shirt, at one time it had been white and... Mish stared at it. Becca stared at it, too, reaching behind her for the bed. She had to sit down. “Is that.. .yours?” she asked inanely. Of course it was his. He'd been wearing it. It was stained with his blood. She'd never seen one up close before, but there was no doubt in her mind as to what it was. A liturgical collar. Some kind of clip-on version. The kind that a priest would wear. A priest. With any other man, Becca might have laughed at the absurdity of the joke, but with Mish, it just was possible. And it all suddenly made sense. His quiet watchfulness. His compassion, his gentleness. His ability to listen. Jarell had known, and had called him Father. Mish looked stunned. "No," he said with conviction. But then he added a whole lot less certainly, "I don't think..." He sat down next to her. On the bed. On the bed where they'd made love last night and again this morning and—oh, God, what had they done? "Well," Becca said shakily, "I guess you were right about not having a wife." She laughed, but it was borderline hysterical and tears filled her eyes. She closed them tightly, forcing herself not to lose it. However upsetting this was for her, it had to be ten times worse for Mish. "Let's go to the bus station, find out if this key does fit one of the lockers. Okay? Let's go right now, see what's in there." She didn't know what else they would find. God, what had she done? "It doesn't make sense," Mish said, as if he hadn't even heard her. "If I'm a..." He took a deep breath. ' 'I'm not. I know I'm not. Because why would I have a gun in my boot? How could I know so much about weapons and ordnance and... What about all this money I'm carrying? No. I'm not. I'm—" "If you are a...priest..." She had trouble saying it, too. "I'm the one responsible for making you break your vows. I seduced you. This isn't your fault, it's mine." Try as she might to be tough, she couldn't fight her tears. They escaped and she dissolved. "Oh, Mish, I'm so sorry." "Hey." Mish put his arms around her, pulling her close as she cried. "Shhh. Bee. This is going to be okay. I promise. Even if I am a..." He took a deep breath and let it out in a burst. "Look, what we've shared was amazing. It wasn't wrong. It was special and perfect and... It was a gift, Becca— something most people don't ever get to experience. And no matter what I find out about myself, I'm not going to regret it. I refuse to regret it. Not ever." She lifted her head and gazed up at him, her face wet, And Mish's stomach twisted. Lord help him, he hated that he'd made her cry. "Do you remember anything about—" He cut her off. "Bee, it's blank. I swear. If I remembered anything at all about any of this, about anything, I would've told you by now." He laughed ruefully. "I can't even remember the last time I went to church." "You tried to stay away from me. On some level you must've known." Fresh tears flooded her eyes. "And I just wouldn't let up. I wouldn't take no for an answer." "It's okay," he said desperately. "Please, don't cry, This is going to be okay." "How can it be okay?" she asked quietly, "when I'm still dying to kiss you?" Mish couldn't answer. All words deserted him. But he knew that—as much as he wanted to—covering her trembling mouth with his would not be an appropriate response in this situation. But for several long seconds, as he gazed down into her eyes, he teetered on the edge. Becca yanked herself away from him, out of his arms and halfway across the room. "I'm in love with you, dammit," she told him fiercely, turning to face him, to glare at him. "How is that going to be okay?" Mish watched the van from the roof of Jerry's Tire Center through a pair of binoculars he'd picked up at Target, the last remaining department store

in the dying town. The van was still parked near the bus station. And inside the bus station, through the window, Mish could see a row of beat-up lockers. Locker number 101 was down near the floor, four from the right end, about two and a half feet high and a foot and a half wide. The men in the van—Tattoo, California and the Native American man—had an unobstructed view of it. Coincidence? Maybe. But Mish wasn't going to take that chance. He had to get what was inside of that locker without getting caught. But how? Create a diversion simply by walking by and letting the surveillance team get a clear view of his face? Lead them on a chase while Becca went into the bus station with the key and... No. What if there were more of 'em? What if someone else was watching locker 101, too? Mish wouldn't risk putting Becca into that kind of potential danger. No way. Uh-uh. No thanks. She loved him. Mish couldn't remember the last time he'd felt both hot and cold simultaneously, the way he'd felt when Becca had let that little bomb drop. He couldn't remember ever both wanting and not wanting something—someone— quite so badly. He had to get whatever was inside that locker. Now, more than ever, he had to find out the truth about himself. He was going to have to evade the surveillance team in the van on his own. And he knew just how to do it. Funny, he knew all sorts of breaking-and-entering tricks. He knew how to move silently, knew how to evade capture and escape detection. But try as he might, he couldn't remember any but the simplest of prayers. He was no priest. But he just might be the devil.

Chapter 13 Lucky sat in the van, drinking what seemed like his fourteenth cup of coffee in the past four hours, working hard to stay alert. That was the hardest part of standing watch or doing surveillance. Staying not only awake but attentive. He ran disaster scenarios—it was called war-gaming. He planned, down to the exact detail, what he would do should Lt. Mitchell Shaw suddenly appear, walking down the street. He planned what he'd do if Mitch just instantly appeared at locker 101. He planned for Mitch to come exploding down from the low-hung, sound-deadening ceiling tiles, for him to grab his bag from the locker and be yanked by a rope back up to the bus station roof. And he planned for his next phone call from Joe Cat. Lucky had arranged today's schedule so that Bobby would come and relieve him in enough time for him to dash back to the motel and be ready and waiting for the captain's phone call. With luck, Admiral Robinson would have arrived in California, and this entire mess would be cleared up with some simple explanation. Mitchell Shaw was following Gray Group procedures for going deep undercover—procedures that the admiral had failed to tell the captain about before he left. The possibilities were limitless. And then he and Bobby and Wes could get the hell out of this dust bowl, and get back to the ocean. After this, they all deserved a silver-bullet assignment. Something that involved a lot of scuba diving in a location that looked a lot like Tahiti with crowds of beautiful women... "Movement inside," Wes droned. "Heading directly for our locker." The approaching woman had the shuffling, painfully slow walk of someone who carried seventy-five unnecessary pounds on legs that were getting too old to support that much excess weight. She was wearing a blue dress that hung down almost all the way to the floor from a rear end the size of a VW Bug. She wore ankle socks with a little lace trim and a beat-up pair of running shoes. She had a baseball cap on her head, straggly dark hair coming out the back, and she wore enough makeup to win first-runner-up in the Tammy Faye look-alike contest. She carried a black plastic trash bag—the ultimate in high-fashion luggage. As Lucky watched, she did a U-turn away from the lockers and he felt himself relax. She went to the Greyhound counter instead and bought a ticket, taking her money from a bejeweled change purse and counting it out painstakingly slowly. Ticket in hand, she struggled her way to the hard plastic chairs near the pay phones and wedged her enormous rear end into one of the seats. There was no one else around. The next bus—the 4:48 daily to Albuquerque—wouldn't be ready to board for another twenty-five minutes. Lucky swore aloud. "I actually know the daily bus schedule," he said when Wes looked up. "I do, too." Wes grimaced. "Guess we could always get a job here in the event of more military cutbacks." "Oh, sure," Lucky said. "I'm already looking forward to coming back to Wyatt City—but only after I'm dead, thanks. How can people live without an ocean?" In the bus station, the woman with the trash bag pushed herself up and out of her seat. "Got me," Wes said. "Speaking of the ocean, mind if I hop out and take a leak?” The woman headed toward the lockers, directly toward number 101, and parked herself right in front of them. Her derriere was so incredibly grande, Lucky couldn't see what the hell she was doing there. He swore again. "Wait," he told Wes. "I've got to get a closer look." "At her? I'm sorry, I'm sure she's a very nice lady, but she's not exactly Mitch Shaw's type. I mean, we're supposed to keep our eyes out for someone he'd buy a new suit for. Someone he'd possibly sell out his country for and—" "Wait here, because she's blocking our view," Lucky ordered, already out of the van. "I'll be right back." He headed toward the doors to the bus station, feeling every muscle in his body screaming from lack of exercise. He walked past the lockers, past the heavy woman, into the middle of the room, then spun in a full circle, as if he'd come in and was now searching for someone. Of course there was no one around. Even the ticket-counter clerk had disappeared into the back. Lucky moved toward the woman. "Excuse me, ma'am. Have you seen a woman with a baby?" He gave her his best sheepish grin. "I was supposed to pick 'em up an hour ago, and time just kind of got away from me." Everything was cool. He could see as he got closer that the old woman was taking what looked like dirty laundry and a collection of old magazines from her Hefty bag and storing it in locker number 99. It was down low, right next to 101—which was still tightly shut and locked. The woman looked at him and shook her head. Blue eye shadow. Who the hell had ever invented blue eye shadow? Lucky didn't mind it so much when it was applied sparingly, but this woman's

eyelids were nearly neon. And the fact that her face was powdered an almost solid pink sure as hell didn't help. And hey, she smelled as if she hadn't bathed in about four months. Imagine winning the bad-luck lottery and riding in a bus all the way to Albuquerque next to that magic. Lucky took a step back. "No, sorry. Haven't seen anyone." She sounded as if she'd smoked three packs of Marlboros a day for most of her seventy years. "That's okay," Lucky said, backing away. "That's... fine. Thanks anyway." He pushed his way out the door, taking a deep lungful of the hot air reflecting off the sidewalk. It didn't smell too fresh either, but it was a definite improvement over what had last invaded his nostrils. He climbed into the van and turned the air-conditioning up to maximum. "You can go on, hit the head," he told Wes. "She's just a bag lady." "I coulda told you that." Grumbling, Wes left through the back door. Through the windshield, through the bus station window, Lucky watched the aromatic woman close the locker, carefully pocket the key and shuffle toward the ladies' room. And once again, nothing in the bus station moved. Wes came back in one-point-four minutes, carrying several cans of cold soda, bless him. The stinky bag lady didn't emerge from the ladies' room for another twenty-three minutes. When she finally did, she was still carrying her plastic trash bag. She worked her way back to the lockers and planted herself in front of locker 99 again. She worked her magic, fussing with the trash bag for many long minutes. Finally, when the 4:48 was starting to board, she moved away from the lockers, shuffling with her plastic bag toward the bus, leaving locker 99 empty and open behind her. It could probably use a good airing out. As Lucky watched, the woman went out the big glass back door and disappeared around the side of the waiting bus. He could see the bus shake slightly, and he could imagine her hauling herself up, one step at a time, trash bag clutched in her hands. It was still early. There would be about ten or fifteen minutes before two or three people would make the last-minute dash for the bus. Lucky settled back in his seat. "So. Figured out what you're getting Ellen for a wedding gift yet?" Wes asked, clearly bored out of his mind. "Yeah," Lucky said grimly. "I'm getting her an ap pointment with a psychologist because anyone who gets married at her age is obviously insane." "Ah," Wes said. And wisely, he fell into silence. Twelve minutes passed, each one endlessly long and desperately boring. Lucky watched the lockers, watched the bus station, forcing himself to stay awake, to stay in battle-ready mode, war-gaming all the scenarios all over again. Of course, if he were Mitch, he'd wait until dark to show up. If he were Mitch... There they came. A station wagon filled with young women. Three were going to Albuquerque, two were staying behind. Lucky watched as they bought tickets in a flurry of movement and chaos and big hair. Hugs. Kisses. Waving, the three travelers disappeared around the side of the bus, climbed on and... It was only a matter of seconds before they came back into the station. Lucky was too far away to read their lips, but their expressions and gestures as they spoke to their friends were obvious. They didn't like the way the 4:48 smelled. Back to the desk, back to the clerk. Pointing toward the bus, talking, talking. The ticket clerk shook his head, shrugged, pointed to the bus driver, a handsome young Mexican-American man who smiled at the women. And just like that, the mood changed from indignant to a little less uptight. Everyone flirted a little bit. The women explained about the smell— complete with the gestures, but with smiles, too, this time—and the driver nodded, flexed his pecs, straightened his shoulders and disappeared around the side of the bus. The women hovered, fixing their big hair, adjusting their bras beneath their shirts, moistening their lips, waiting for their hero's return. One minute turned into two into three...and then he was back, holding what looked to be a torn suit jacket between one thumb and forefinger, and... A black plastic trash bag...?

"Oh, damn," Lucky said, scrambling out of the van. He ran into the bus station, ran past the women and the driver, out the side door and around the waiting bus. The door was open, and he launched himself up and into it and... The bus was empty. It was absolutely empty. He searched it, rushing all the way to the back, but the foul-smelling woman in the big blue dress wasn't on the damn thing. He swore again, taking the stairs off the bus in a single jump, heading back into the station. The driver had set the plastic garbage bag next to the overflowing trash can, and Lucky grabbed it, opened it and... A giant blue dress. Little lacy ankle socks. A baseball cap. Old magazines, and a fine collection of rags. And—all the way at the bottom—the key to locker number 101. Wes had come inside, and he watched as Lucky grimly took the key and opened the locker. Empty. Mitch's so-called "bag of tricks" was gone. "Son of a bitch!" Lucky swore. "Son of a bitch!" The foul-smelling woman had been Mitch Shaw. There was no point looking for him. A man who'd been trained in covert ops like Mitch would be long gone. Or hidden so completely even Lucky and Wes wouldn't find him. Wes followed Lucky back to the van, climbed in silently. "He looked right at me," Lucky fumed, as he started the engine. "He had to have recognized me. I mean, he knows me, we've sat in meetings together. What the hell is going on?" "We have to call the captain," Wes said quietly. "I don't know, Lieutenant, but maybe we've got to stop thinking about Mitch as one of us, and start thinking of him as the enemy. If he has sold out..." Lucky nodded. This wasn't going to be easy. Damn, telling Joe Cat that he'd let Shaw get past him wasn't going to be easy, either. "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm going to recommend to the captain that it might be time to get FInCOM involved." Becca drove north along state roads as the sun sat low in the sky. Mish sat in silence next to her, the leather bag he'd found in the bus station locker at his feet. He hadn't said more than twenty words to her since she'd dropped her little bomb back in the motel room. And two of those words had been an apology. Becca shook her head. She'd told him that she loved him, and his response had been I'm sorry. Still, she supposed that was a good thing. She didn't know what she would have done if he'd told her he loved her, too. It was too terrifying to consider. The truth was, she didn't want him to love her, too. Even if he'd been just a normal ranch hand, just a regular guy, even if he hadn't come to her with amnesia and a bullet wound—yes, even a priest's collar—she wouldn't want him to love her, too. Love was too risky. It was too uncertain. When she planned for her future, she didn't want to leave that great big unknown black hole of uncertainty gaping out in front of her, the one with the caption under it that read: What If He Stopped Loving Her? Mish was sorry that she loved him, and she was sorry, too. But at least she knew what her future held in store for her. She knew that sooner or later —and probably sooner, from the way things were going—Mish would leave. And she would miss him. She already missed him. From the moment she'd seen that collar, their relationship had changed drastically, and she missed feeling free to touch him, to take his hand, to look into his eyes and dream about the night to come. But there was no way she would do that now, not without knowing for sure who he was, what he was. Their journey together had come to an end, and soon— possibly in hours—they would part. And she would feel like hell for a few weeks or months, until the day when she woke up and found she could think about him without aching. Then she would find she could wonder fleetingly where he was, and smile at the way he'd briefly touched her heart and her life. But before that could happen, before she let him walk away, Becca wanted to know the truth. She wanted to know who he really was. She wanted to know what was inside of that bag. Back in the motel room, Mish had beat a quick retreat after his apology, telling her that he was heading to the bus station. He intended to find out if the key they'd found in his jacket actually opened a locker there. How he was going to do that without the men in the van noticing him, he didn't say. He'd simply told her to meet him in two hours in the parking lot of the closest thing to an upscale bar Wyatt City had, over on the north side of town.

And then he'd left, taking his shirt, his jacket and that unmistakable, unforgettable collar along with him. Becca glanced at him, glanced down at the bag at his feet. Supple, tanned leather covered a harder surface. It wasn't a gym bag as she'd first thought. It was some kind of hard case. And it looked as if he'd had it and used it for a long time. "Is there a reason you haven't opened that?" He turned to look at her. "I'm afraid of what I'll find inside," he told her quietly. Becca nodded, forcing her eyes back onto the road. "I am, too." There was a pull-off up ahead—an old abandoned gas station, the garage boarded up. She slowed and pulled into the dusty, potholed driveway, the truck bouncing until she stopped and put the engine into park. She didn't turn off the engine. They both needed the air conditioner running. She took a deep breath. "Mish, what happened between you and me... We're the only ones who know about it. No one else ever has to..." She could tell from his eyes that Mish knew what she was doing. She was giving him permission to turn his back on her, to deny that their relationship had grown beyond the physical—or at least that it had for her. "If we both agree it never happened," she continued, "then—" "But it did happen," he interrupted her. "Bee, I know you think otherwise, but I'm not a priest. The collar was just a disguise. I'm...good at disguises. I know how to change the way I look so completely and...I wish I were a priest. Because then at least I'd have more options right now. I'd have the hope of someday having you in my life. I could make a career change." He tried to smile. "Take you up on your offer to teach me how to care for horses." Was he saying...? "You'd want that?" "I want you" he said simply. Becca's heart nearly stopped. She'd said those exact words to him, and she'd meant... "But it won't be easy to walk away from who and what I think I am," he told her. "It might be flat-out impossible. And I won't put you in danger. I don't really know who the hell I am, but there are people looking for me, Bee. Dangerous people. And I want to be far away from you when they finally catch up with me." She didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do. He'd spoken of "someday," implied they could have a future. Becca turned away, suddenly wanting that future so desperately, her stomach hurt. Oh, that was bad. That was very bad. She couldn't have this man. And even if she could, she'd never wanted her happiness to depend on any one person. And yet here he was, saying that he would give up everything, if only he could, just to be with her. "I know what's inside this case," Mish told her quietly. "I haven't opened it, but I still somehow know. I knew when I first saw it. It's got a combination lock, but that's not a problem because I know the combination, too." He swung it up between them on the bench seat. "There's a change of clothes inside," he continued. "Jeans and a T-shirt. Two clean pairs of socks. A pair of boots and extra laces." He spun and set the combination, and the lock popped open. "My H&K MP-5 assault weapon." Mish opened the lid. Sure enough, the leather covered some kind of metal. This was no lightweight suitcase. This was heavy-duty. As Becca watched, he reached inside and took out something that was wrapped in dark fabric. "And an overcoat so I can carry it concealed." The dark fabric was, indeed, some kind of lightweight raincoat. And inside it was... An extremely deadly-looking submachine gun. 4'Oh, my God," Becca breathed. "I'm not a priest," he said. "I wore that collar as part of a disguise. Are we clear about that?" She nodded. "Good." He smiled tightly. "No way am I going to have you spend the rest of your life thinking what we shared was any less than perfect." Mish set the weapon down on the floor at his feet. He pulled a tightly rolled pair of jeans out of the case, along with another, smaller gun in a leather shoulder holster. Clips of ammunition—enough to outfit a small army. Boots, as he'd said. Rolled-up socks. A vest of some sort. A medical kit. A passport. No, not one passport—seven. Mish had seven passports. As Becca silently watched, he flipped through them. His picture was on them all, but each of the seven names was decidedly different. Becca had to ask. "Do any of those names—"

"No. They don't sound familiar. Not even the one with the Albuquerque address." Mish loaded everything back into the case. "I knew," he said quietly, "but I was hoping I was wrong." Becca shook her head. ' 'The guns don't prove anything. I mean, maybe you're a...a..." "A thief instead of a killer?" he suggested. "A gun collector." Mish laughed, examining the machine gun before wrapping it in the raincoat again. "This weapon's sanitized— all serial numbers and other identifying marks have been filed clean. Same goes for the handgun. And I bet if we look at the .22 I left back at the ranch, we'll find the same thing." He closed the case, spun the combination lock. "Apparently I collect illegal weapons, which is, of course, illegal in itself." He set the case back down on the floor. "I want you to drop me at the next town and go back to the ranch." Woodenly, Becca put the truck into gear. First he was a ranch hand who didn't know a damn thing about horses, then he was a hero who saved a young boy's life. Then he was a man without a past, without the faintest clue who he'd been and where he'd come from. Then he'd been a priest. She'd been so positive he was a priest. But no. He was, in truth, some kind of master of disguises, someone who needed seven passports and seven names and three deadly guns. And two extra pairs of clean socks. The socks gave him away. Mish wanted her to believe he was some kind of a monster, and maybe he had, in fact, done some terrible things in his past, but he was, first and foremost, a man. A man she had only ever seen act gently and kindly. She held tightly to the steering wheel. "You're going to Albuquerque to check out the address on that passport." She knew him well enough by now to know he couldn't let that go, even though it was probably just another false lead. "Yeah. And no, I don't want you to drive me there." He knew her pretty well by now, too. "You can drop me at Clines Corners, but that's as far as I'll let you take me." Clines Corners was on Route 40, right where 285 cut up toward Santa Fe. He'd be able to get a ride to Albuquerque from there, no problem. Becca glanced at the clock on the dash. They were at least three hours from Clines Corners. She had a solid three hours to convince herself that the best thing she could do for both of them would be to say goodbye and let him go. She knew it was the right thing to do. So why did it feel so wrong?

Chapter 14 The door opened, and the American leapt. The assault weapon skittered across the floor, and Mish didn't think. He just picked it up and fired. A spray of bullets, a spray of blood. So much blood. "Good job," the American told him through the blood that bubbled on his own lips. Mish stared at the bodies, stared at what he'd done. And on the floor, his father's hands started to twitch. Mish backed away, but he couldn't get far enough. He would never get far enough away. Thou shall not kill. The American's voice was tight with pain. "Way to send them straight to hell, Mitch." Mitch. He awoke with a start, drenched with sweat despite the truck's powerful air conditioner. The sun had set, their headlights the only light for what had to be miles around. Becca's face looked ghostly in the dim glow from the dash. "You okay?" He was still breathing hard, his hands shaking as he took his can of soda from the cup holder and took a sip. "Mitch," he managed to get out. "My name. I had a dream..." "Oh, my God! Mitch," she tried saying it aloud. Laughed. "Mitch. Of course. No wonder Mish sounded so familiar to you." She turned toward him eagerly. "What else do you remember?" Did he remember more than that one awful day? He tried to think back to the alleyway, to the man with the beard. But there was nothing there. No connection. He couldn't even grab hold of his last name. It was out there, but just beyond his grasp. He shook his head. "I dreamed about... About my...father. He was shot. Killed." "Oh, God," Becca breathed. "Are you sure it wasn't just a dream? Sometimes—" "I don't know, Bee, it seems so real. I've dreamed about it a lot, although I didn't realize until now that he was my father. And it always happens the same way, as if it's a memory. I mean, yeah, some of it gets weird, like I know my father's dead, but then he stands up and it's pretty grisly..." He took another sip of his soda, trying to banish that image from his head. "I think it's more than a dream. I think some of it happened." Becca glanced at him again. "Were you... Did you actually see him—his body—after he died?" "I think I was there when he was killed." "God, Mitch." "I was fifteen." Mitch watched the lines on the road, brightly illuminated by the headlights but quickly fading into nothing as the truck moved forward into the night. How old was he now? Thirty-five was the number that came to him first. It seemed to fit. Twenty years since he'd first picked up a weapon and pulled the trigger and... "Can you...tell me about it?" Becca's voice was so soft, so uncertain. And ended a human life. Mitch looked at her sitting there behind the steering wheel. She tried so hard to be tough and strong, when in truth the past few weeks had been devastatingly difficult for her. But her resilience shone through. She looked tired, yes, but gloriously undefeated, and Mitch knew without a doubt that she wasn't going to take Route 285 to Santa Fe and to the Lazy Eight when they hit Clines Corners. No, she was going to stick with him. She was going to take him all the way, wherever he needed to go, and maybe even then some. But it was only a matter of time before the gang in the surveillance van outside the Wyatt City bus station discovered that locker 101 had been emptied out beneath their noses. And it was only a matter of time before the search for him intensified. And while Mitch still didn't know what he'd done to spark a manhunt, he did know one thing without a doubt. He was not going to put Becca into any danger. Even if that meant disappearing into thin air the next time they stopped for gasoline. Even if it meant leaving her without an explanation, without

even saying goodbye. He didn't want to do that. He didn't want to leave her wondering. He'd given her so little as it was. Can you tell me about it, she'd asked. And he knew that this was really all he had to give her. This small piece of his past that he remembered, this awfulness, this terrible thing that—he suspected—had helped shape him into the person he was today. "Yeah," he said. "I'd like to tell you. But it's pretty intense, so if you want me to stop..." "I'll let you know," she told him, and he knew that was the last he'd ever hear of that. "I was fifteen," he said again. "I don't remember exactly where we were, but we were overseas, I think somewhere in the Middle East. My father was a minister and he'd recently won this position as part of a multidenom-inational peacekeeping group. It was a really big deal— he was so proud." It was strange. Telling her about it was helping him to remember. He could recall the open airport where he and his parents had first arrived. He could remember the scent of exotic foods cooking, the swirl of colors and people. He remembered his disappointment when the hotel they were brought to was a tall, modern building rather than something ancient and mysterious. "We'd been there for about two weeks, when my father took me to lunch at the downtown McDonald's. We were both dying for a Big Mac. I remember we'd ordered burgers from the hotel room service, but they were strange. My dad thought maybe they were cut with horse meat. And I remember my mother rolling her eyes, taking a bite and telling us it was just the local spices. But my father had the afternoon off, so the two of us took a bus from the hotel down to the market. He was...very charismatic. I remember he had everyone on the bus singing the McDonald's theme song. And most of the busload of people followed us into the restaurant, too. Some American businessmen. A group of tourists—mothers and teenaged girls from France, I think." He could remember the menu hanging above the counter, the words both in English and something undecipherable. "I didn't see them come in," he continued. “There was this loud noise—that was the first I knew of any trouble. The sound of weapons being fired. My father pulled me down, but it was over before it even began. Terrorists killed the security guards at the doors. They'd taken control of the McDonald's—the symbol for all things American. And we were their hostages." The truck moved onward through the night. A sign appeared out of the blackness. Clines Corners, twenty miles. Becca was silent, just letting him tell the story at his own speed. "They took us into the back, out a doorway into the main part of the building. The guards there were dead, too. It was obvious this had been planned, that this attack hadn't been just a spur-of-the-moment event. They led us into a storage room that had been cleared out. There were no windows and only that one door—like I said, they planned it well. Some of the women and children were crying, and the terrorists seemed on the edge, too, shouting for everyone to be silent, and my father stepped forward. "He tried to calm everyone down, started talking about the women and kids, trying to convince the terrorists' leader that they should let them go. And I remember..." Is that your dad, kid? "There was a man standing behind me. A black man. An American. He must've been in the McDonald's when we arrived—I didn't remember seeing him on the bus." Tell your dad to back off. The American's eyes and voice had held an urgency. "He told me to tell my father that these terrorists wouldn't negotiate, that they didn't respect his cross or his collar, that the fact that he was American put him in extra danger." Tell him. Now. Dad. "So I stepped toward my father, tried to take his arm and pull him back into the crowd." His father had turned just a little, the sweat glistening on his brow. Stay back with the others, Mitch. "He wouldn't listen to me." Mitch could remember his own fear. His sense of panic as he saw the intense concern in the American's face, saw the horror in his dark brown eyes. And he knew even before he turned back that his father was as good as dead. "It happened so fast. The terrorist lifted his side arm and fired. Two bullets. Right into my father's head. One second he was standing there, and the next..." He'd crumpled to the ground, lifeless. "It was so unreal," Mitch said, his voice tight with anguish. "It didn't seem possible that he was really dead. I mean, how could he be dead? He was so alive. But there was blood. I didn't know it at the time, but we'd been sprayed with it. All I could see was this pool of red on the floor, beneath him. I wanted to go to him, to help him, to stop the bleeding, but the American pulled me back, into the crowd. He put his hand over my mouth." God, kid, I'm sorry. The American's voice had been nearly as rough as his hands.

Let me help him! Mitch had struggled. "And he told me my father was dead." Don't do this, the American had hissed. "He told me if I made too much noise, they'd kill me, too." / don't care! Mitch hadn't gotten the words out from behind the man's huge hand, but he knew the message had been understood. "He told me to think about my mother, think about how she was going to feel losing both her husband and her son on the same day." Stop being so damned selfish, boy, and you calm yourself down. "He told me I couldn't help my father now." "Oh, Mitch, I can't believe you had to live through that." Becca's eyes glimmered with sympathy. "They locked us into that room," he told her, "and I sat on the floor, trying not to cry, trying not to look at my father. They just left his body there. One of the women had draped her scarf over his head and face, but..." But that pool of blood had remained. "The American was making a circuit of the room, trying to convince the others that we had to fight back, and that the moment to strike was as soon as the terrorists returned, as soon as they unlocked the door. He told us he knew about this group of zealots. He knew of their leader, knew that they weren't going to let any of us go free." The American told them that when the terrorists returned, the killing would start. "He said that he was going to fight. But no one else seemed up to it. Everyone was afraid. I was afraid, too." But Mitch had looked at his father, at this man who had been so good, so strong, so caring. He'd been killed as if he were little more than a bug to be stepped on. And Mitch had looked up at the American. I'll fight, he'd said. I'll help. "Thou shalt not kill," Mitch told Becca. "If there was one thing my father believed more than anything, it was in nonviolence. Guns and weapons and war had no place in his world. But I wasn't in his world anymore. And I wanted to kill the men who had taken him from me." The American sat down next to him. Okay. Let's kill them, Mitch. You channel that rage, kid. Make it work for you. "The American man asked me if I'd ever fired an automatic weapon." Mitch laughed. "In my house? I hadn't even seen one up close, let alone held one." The force of the discharge pulls the muzzle up, the American had told him. You've got to work to keep it down. And aim for the center of the body. Don't go for the head. It's amazing how often the enemy pops back onto their feet after a shot to the head with something as lightweight as a nine millimeter. And we don't want that, you copy? "He gave me a crash course in handling an assault weapon, and I pointed out that a lot of good it was going to do us to talk about firing one, since we didn't have one to fire." Mitch shook his head. "But he told me he had a plan." "He told me about something called PV—point of vulnerability, and AV—area of vulnerability. He explained that there was always a point in which an attacking force was temporarily at their weakest. He told me when the terrorists came back, their PV would be when they first came into the room. And that's when we were going to hit them—when they were close together, coming through the door, when it was hardest for them to maneuver." Mitch had looked at the American through the haze of anger and grief that seemed to rise like a mist from his father's prone body. "It seemed absurd. Out of a roomful of people, virtually sentenced to death, the only ones willing to fight back were this one older man and me. A kid who planned to major in philosophy and religion in college. I didn't know for sure, but up to that point, I had been pretty certain I would follow in my father's foot steps. I had this faith in God, and it seemed it was only a matter of time before I received the call and..." He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. "I received a call that day, that's for sure. My father and his words and his faith couldn't save us—he couldn't even save himself. But with a weapon like those machine guns... Yeah, I received a completely different kind of call." Becca reached across the bench seat and found his hand. He held onto her tightly, seeing the lights from the truck stop up ahead, and knowing it was just a matter of minutes now before he had to walk away from her for good. "The American—I wish I could remember his name!— he was ready for them, and when the terrorists opened the door, he launched himself at them. It was a suicide play. He knew he was going to be shot. But he'd hoped to grab one of their guns and throw it toward me, and somehow he did. And when that weapon came sliding across that tile floor toward me, I didn't hesitate. And I left my father's world for good, Bee. I picked it up, and I fired. I leaned on the trigger, like the American had told me. I pulled the muzzle down, and I swept it across those bastards, all jammed together in that doorway, and I sent 'em straight to hell."

A spray of bullets. A spray of blood. So much blood. Blood... "I killed all three of them. And with the hostages armed on the inside, we held off the terrorists until the marines stormed the building. The American died on the way to the hospital. He and my father were the only casualties among the hostages." "I don't know," Becca's voice was quiet in the darkness. "I might be tempted to call you a casualty, too." "Yeah," Mitch said just as quietly. "In a way, I guess I died that day, too." He pointed to the exit that was approaching. ' 'We could use some gas— and a cup of coffee would be something of a blessing right about now." He could feel her eyes as she glanced over at him, and he carefully kept his gaze on the road in front of them. In silence, she took the exit, braking at the Stop sign at the end of the long ramp. The truck stop was brightly lit, and she pulled into the parking lot, into a slot by the restaurant door. She still had his hand, and when he would have turned away to open the door and climb out, she tugged him toward her. She pulled him into her arms, wrapping him in her sweetness and warmth. "Thank you so much for telling me," she whispered, and she kissed him. Mitch lost himself in the softness of her lips. That she would want to kiss him after all he'd just told her was amazing to him. And he knew more than ever that she wouldn't willingly go back to the Lazy Eight without him. So he held her tightly and, without her knowing it, kissed her goodbye as gently as he could. "I met Mitch Shaw at his father's funeral." Admiral Jake Robinson sat at the head of the table in the Gray Group's makeshift temporary headquarters at Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque. After calling Captain Catalanotto, Lucky and his team had been ordered to Holloman AFB, pronto, where a special transport had been waiting to whisk them up to Kirtland. It was the power of the Admiralcy in action. When they landed, they were escorted posthaste from the trans port to this office, where they were joined by the captain, and Blue McCoy and Crash Hawken, the two SEALs from Alpha Squad who'd been sent to look for Mitch in Albuquerque. "The vice president of the United States was at the funeral, too," the admiral told them. "And he shook the kid's hand and told him he was very sorry for his loss, told him there was going to be a ceremony in Washington, and the president of the United States was going to present Mitch with a special version of the Medal of Honor. ' 'And Mitch looked him right in the eye and told him thanks, but no thanks. He didn't deserve it. His father did, though. His father had died believing in the power of good over evil. The way Mitch saw it, the Reverend Randall Shaw had died sticking to his belief that nonviolence was the only option. Mitch, however, believed that by killing those terrorists, he'd given in and used evil to fight evil. He didn't want a medal for that. "I introduced myself to him," Jake told them. "I wasn't an admiral at the time, but I'd been heavily decorated from my time in Vietnam. Still it was obvious that he wasn't interested in talking to me—until I told him I was a friend of Senior Chief Fred Baxter, the man who'd died helping Mitch save those hostages' lives. After I told him that, he took a walk with me, and I had the chance to tell him that Freddie was a Navy SEAL, told him a little bit about what that meant. And I told him that Fred was getting a medal, too. Posthumously. And Fred deserved that medal, absolutely, without a doubt. Because Fred Baxter, like me, like most SEALs, believed in something just as absolutely as Mitch's father believed in nonviolence. Fred believed in the power of gray." Jake looked around his room. "You guys know this. In our world there's no such thing as black and white. There's no clear line between right and wrong, especially when the outcome affects millions of lives. And so we operate in that narrow band of gray. Mitch was fifteen when he first stepped into that world. "I don't know what he's doing right now," the admiral continued. "I don't know what the hell he's up to, but I can tell you with complete confidence, gentlemen, that he has not sold out, that he remains faithful to both God and country. He's worked closely with me since the conception of the Gray Group—in fact, he gave it its name. I trust him as I trust myself. There will be an explanation for his behavior, I guarantee it. I know you're not going to like this, but I suggest we sit tight, give him space to operate, and wait for him to contact us." Lucky looked at Joe Cat, waiting for the captain to make an alternative suggestion. When he was noticeably silent, Lucky cleared his throat. "Admiral. Sir. Aren't we, um, forgetting about that plutonium floating around out there, about to fall into the wrong hands?" Jake stood up. "Gray Group operatives have infiltrated an arms dealer's organization—the very one that will be attempting to broker the deal. The client's a political faction in an Eastern European country and we've been keeping tabs on them as well. The exchange was supposed to take place yesterday, but the seller cancelled at the last minute—which leads me to believe that the seller no longer has possession of the plutonium, and that Mitch Shaw does. But a new meeting's been set up for tomorrow. In Santa Fe. Which means that sometime before tonight and tomorrow, Mitch could well be calling in for some help. And gentlemen..." He looked around the table, meeting each of the SEALs' eyes.. "When he needs us, we'll be ready."

Becca knew what Mitch was doing. She knew, without a doubt, that he was kissing her goodbye. If she let him get out of the truck, he was as good as gone. She held him tightly, knowing that if she didn't speak now, she'd regret it for the rest of her life. “Don't go." Her voice shook. He didn't try to pretend he didn't know what she meant. 4'I have to, Bee." She was glad he didn't pull back, glad he couldn't see the tears in her eyes as she did the one thing she swore she'd never do—beg a man to stay. "We can start over. Go away together. We can hide. There's got to be a million places two people can lose themselves in this country. No one will ever find you, we'll be careful and—" "Spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders? That's no way to live." Becca closed her eyes, feeling her tears escape. "Please..." "I can't. Not knowing who's after me, or why... It would drive me crazy. Bee, I have to find out who I am." He pulled away from her gently, opening the glove compartment and taking a folded piece of paper out. ' 'I wrote this letter," he told her. "It's to Ted Alden. I've explained the situation as best as I could, and I've asked him to invest the money he wanted to give me in your ranch— the one I know you're going to buy someday. However he wants to set it up is fine. I want you to send this to him along with that check he wrote, okay?" "No," she said. She wouldn't take it from him, so he put it back in the glove box. "No, it's not okay!" He opened the door and stepped out into the night. "I love you." It was what she'd both dreaded and hoped to hear. Becca squinted at him through both the glare from the overhead light and her tears. "Then how can you leave?" He lifted his case up and out of the truck, his face in the shadows. "How could I stay?" He closed the door, and Becca scrambled out of the driver's side, wiping furiously at her tears. "Mitch!" But the parking lot was empty. He was already gone.

Chapter 15 Mitch couldn't sleep. He'd toyed with the idea of not getting a motel room because he knew he'd never get his eyes shut tonight. The Albuquerque address on the passport hadn't been real. Oh, it was a residential neighborhood, but—surprise, surprise—the house number didn't exist. And even though Mitch had walked around in the darkness for close to two hours, he hadn't felt even the faintest flash of familiarity from anything. He'd walked back to the part of town that was lit by cheap motels, late-night bars and all-night coffee shops. He'd gotten his coffee to go, and paid the extra money for the motel room. Not because he wanted to sleep. Because he wanted to look through his suitcase again. See if there was anything he'd missed. So now he sat on the sagging double bed, surrounded by the contents of his leather case. His...bag of tricks? Grab your bag of tricks, Lieutenant... Lieutenant? He'd set the weapons aside, but now he picked up the MP-5. His "room broom." It fit comfortably, easily in his hands. His father would have been shocked. He put it down, and unrolled his jeans. He hadn't had a chance to go through the pockets and... He nearly missed it. It was a small photograph in the back pocket. The torn corner of a picture—just the head and shoulders of a man. The face was shockingly familiar. Shaggy hair, full beard, florid features... Casey Parker. The name came to him in a flash of certainty that chilled him to the bone. Casey Parker was the man who had shot Mitch in that Wyatt City alley. He was also the man who had come to the Lazy Eight ranch, looking for the package that was supposed to be waiting for him there—the package Mitch had taken in his stead. He still had the key that had been in that envelope. He was carrying it in his pocket. Mitch took it out and looked at it again. It was, without a doubt, the kind of key a bank issued with a safe-deposit box. What was in that box, Mitch could only guess. Money, maybe. Or the take from some robbery. Jewelry. Something valuable. Something that had started all this. Something Parker had already tried to kill Mitch over. And it was only a matter of time before Parker returned to the Lazy Eight, looking for this key. He wouldn't find it, but he would find Becca. All alone. Unsuspecting. Virtually defenseless. Mitch threw his things back into his leather case and jammed his feet into his boots. He had to get to the Lazy Eight. Before it was too late. Becca opened the ranch office early, just as the sun was coming up. The sky was heavy with clouds. A storm was brewing. Most likely it would rain hard and heavy starting sometime within the next few minutes and clear up before lunch. She wished she could say the same about her own dark disposition. She'd spent a restless night, tossing and turning in her bed, and she'd been exhausted when her alarm had gone off. But it was better to get up and get to work instead of hiding out by sleeping in. Besides, this way she'd be good and tired when tonight rolled around. And maybe she'd fall straight into a dreamless sleep without even thinking once about Mitch. Hah. Fat chance. But she had to stop thinking about him. It was entirely likely she would never see him again, so she'd better learn to stop thinking about him. She knew she could do it. And once she learned not to think about Mitch, well, then she'd be on her way to learning to live without him. She could do anything, if she put her mind to it.

And right now she'd stop thinking about Mitch by focusing on all the work she had to do to catch up around here. The storm clouds were so dark, Becca had to turn on the light over her desk just to see. She sat down, uncertain of where to start, and knowing without a doubt that such a dilemma wasn't worth crying over. Yet here she was, on the verge of tears. Again. Damn Mitch. And double damn herself for being so stupid as to fall in love with him. Work had piled up in her in-basket over the days she'd been gone. Her E-mail alone was enough to occupy her for most of the morning. She'd start with that. She scrubbed at her eyes and blew her nose soundly. She was determined to work in the office only until ten. If she could get enough done now, she'd give Belinda the morning off and take the guests on the morning trail ride herself, provided the weather complied. She could use some quality time with Silver and... The office door squealed as it opened, and she closed her eyes, desperately hoping that whatever problem was walking into the office at 5:06 a.m. could be dealt with quickly and efficiently and... "Becca, thank God." Mitch? She turned around so quickly, she nearly fell out of her chair. It was. Mitch had come back. As she stood up, he dropped his case on the floor and moved toward her, coming right up and over the counter that separated them. And then she was in his arms. "Are you all right?" he asked, pulling slightly back to look down into her eyes. He touched her face, her hair. "Please tell me you're all right." She nodded. Yes. Now she was very, very all right. "Thank you," she said, kissing his neck, his ear. "Thank you, thank you for coming back." He caught her mouth with his, and the fire that raged to life between them ignited instantly. And as the entire world seemed to swirl and shift around them, as Becca melted against him, she wondered how she could even have thought she could learn to live without him. And in that instant, she knew the awful truth. She'd found her true love. And he loved her, too. Given the opportunity, Mitch would stay forever. Please, please, give them the opportunity... He pulled away from her far sooner than she would have liked. "Becca, I remembered something." She could tell just from looking at him that it wasn't something good. "It was Casey Parker who shot me. I still don't remember why, but he meant to kill me. And I've got to believe that he'll be coming back here. He's going to want his key." And Becca knew. Mitch hadn't come back to the Lazy Eight because he wanted to. He'd come because he'd had to. If he'd thought she was safe, she would never have seen him again. But he had come back. And she had to make the most of this opportunity to convince him to stay. Mitch released her, and she let him go, watching as he picked up the phone on Hazel's desk. "What's the sheriff s number?" "It's right there," she told him. "On that list. Mitch, we've got to talk." He found it and punched in the buttons. "What are you doing?" she asked, realizing that he was dialing the sheriffs number. He was listening to the phone ring, and he met her gaze only briefly. "Calling the sheriff." "Obviously. Mitch—" "Yeah, hi," Mitch said into the telephone. "I'm calling from the Lazy Eight Ranch. We've got a major problem here, and I was hoping the sheriff could come out as soon as possible...?" He wanted the sheriff to come out here? If the sheriff got involved, then Mitch would... "Well, let's start with attempted murder," Mitch said to whoever was on the other end of the phone. "Is that worth waking up the sheriff over?" Mitch would have to admit to having amnesia. He would be investigated. His fingerprints would probably be run through the computer and... And then they'd finally know who he was. But so would the sheriff.

"We'll be waiting for him in the ranch office," Mitch said, and hung up the phone. He turned to face Becca, answering her before she even asked. "I'm turning myself in." She shook her head, unable to say anything, unable even to speak. "I thought hard about it the entire way out here. It's the right thing to do," he told her. "I should've done this weeks ago. I still don't remember much of anything, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't have to take responsibility for the things that I've done." "You're jumping to conclusions here." She finally found her voice. "You may not have done anything wrong at all." "How about possession of illegal firearms?" he asked. "We'll start there. Somehow I doubt we'll end there, though." He went out into the main part of the office, walking around the counter this time. Becca followed. "You don't have to do this." "Yes, I do." He pulled open the screen door. "I'm going to get my .22 from the bunkhouse lockup, so I can turn it in with the weapons in my bag." The first crack of thunder rumbled in the distance, ominous and foreboding as Becca followed him outside into the eerie early morning light, and back toward the barn. The wind was starting to kick up, sending clouds of dust scooting across the dry yard. "This is really the only way I can start over," he told her. "Yes, it feels like I've been given a second chance, because I don't remember my past, but it's not real, Bee. If I really want a second chance, I've got to do it right. And that means facing up to whatever I've done, and paying the price. Lord knows I don't want to go back to prison, but if I have to, so be it. Because when I get out— if I get out—that's when I'll be able to make a fresh start." He smiled at her, that crooked half smile she'd come to know so well. "Besides, I'd face more than hard time to be sure that you were safe." Becca caught his arm. "That's why you're doing this, isn't it? Because you don't think I'll be safe from this Casey Parker if you don't." He gently pulled free. "It's also the right thing to do." Becca watched as he disappeared into the bunkhouse. "Dammit, Mitch!" She ran to catch up with him, following him inside, lowering her voice, aware that the other ranch hands would be rising soon. "You don't even know that Parker's going to come back here." "Becca, go back to the office." She rounded the corner that led to the common area and the ranch hands' private lockers, and stopped short. Mitch was standing absolutely still, staring down the muzzle of a very, very deadly-looking handgun. It was bigger than the one Dirty Harry used in her favorite Clint Eastwood movies, big enough to blow an extremely fatal hole in Mitch, should the man holding it pull the trigger. And the man holding it looked as if he'd enjoy doing just that. Big and beefy, he had at least five inches and seventy pounds on Mitch. But he was older, with a beard that was graying, and eyes that seemed almost lost in the fleshy folds of his face. Casey Parker. It had to be. "She's not part of this," Mitch said to the man. "She is now," he answered. Becca saw Mitch's gaze flicker toward the lockup where his handgun was stored, saw him reject the option of going for it, thank God. One gun was bad enough. "You know why I'm here," Parker said. "I guess you want the key." Mitch glanced at Becca. His eyes were filled with meaning, filled with a private message. Be ready to run. "Good guess," Parker said. And she knew exactly what Mitch was planning to do. Point of vulnerability. Just as the man he'd called "the American" had done, he was going to wait for Parker's PV and he was going to attack, giving Becca a chance to run to safety. And, like the American in his dream, it was likely that Mitch would be shot and killed. Becca shook her head, just a tiny shake, barely discernible. No. "Becca will have to go and get it," Mitch told the man. "I left it in the glove compartment of her truck." Parker laughed. "Maybe we should try this again." He swung his gun so that it pointed directly at Becca's chest. "Give me the key." Mitch nearly stopped breathing. He knew it didn't take much, just the gentle pressure from a finger, to end a human life. And as long as Parker had that gun aimed at Becca, it could happen. In half a heartbeat, she could go from living to dead. Thunder rolled, closer still. "My pocket," Mitch said through a throat tight with fear. "It's in my front pocket." "Get it. Move slowly." "Point the gun away from her first."

"Give me the key first," Parker countered. Mitch did, holding it out to Parker on the palm of his hand. If only he could get him to come close enough... But Parker laughed. "Toss it to me. Gently." "Point the gun away from her." Mitch knew it was futile. He knew Parker was going to keep that gun aimed at Becca until this was over. And how it was going to end, he didn't want to try to guess. The sheriff was due to arrive any minute, and he didn't even know if that would be a help or a hindrance. All he knew was that the next time Parker aimed that gun at him, he was going to rush him, take him down, take him out. Before the bastard had a chance to hurt Becca. "Toss it," Parker demanded. Mitch did. He watched the gun while Parker caught and examined the key, but although it swerved, it swerved only slightly. Becca had been silent all this time, but now she spoke up. "Mitch doesn't remember you. He doesn't remember anything from before he was shot. He doesn't even know his last name. If you just leave, we won't tell anyone or—" Parker laughed. "Oh, that's good. I suppose you'll give me your promise, too, huh? Well, for someone who doesn't remember, Mitch here has sure managed to screw me up big-time. No, we're going to go for a ride in your truck, Becca dear. Come over here." Thunder cracked nearly overhead. "Becca, don't move." Mitch knew that once Parker had Becca close enough to press the gun against her head, the man would never be vulnerable enough for Mitch to attack. "Becca, come here," Parker said again. "Now." He swung his gun toward Mitch, who knew this was it. It was now or never. But before he could launch himself at the gun, Becca dashed forward and got in the way. And now turned bleakly into never. "Out the door," Parker ordered Mitch, Becca tight against him, the gun tucked up under her arm, nearly completely concealed from anyone who might be outside in the yard. "Into the truck." It was starting to rain. Just a few big drops here and there from a heavy green sky that looked ready to open up. Lightning forked, making the air seem to crackle around them. Becca's truck was parked near the office. Mitch took his time walking toward it, staring down to the end of the long driveway, praying for a sign of the sheriffs headlights through the unnatural early-morning darkness. Nothing. "Get in the truck—you're going to drive," Parker told him. "Keep your hands on the steering wheel where I can see 'em at all times. Take 'em off, and I'll shoot her right here." Mitch got in and clung to that wheel. /'// shoot her right here. Instead of waiting to shoot her out in the middle of nowhere, where no one could see or hear. Parker pushed Becca into the middle of the bench seat and climbed in behind her, his gun never moving from her. If he squeezed the trigger, a bullet would go straight into her heart. "Start the truck," he ordered Mitch. The keys were hanging in the ignition, where Becca had left them. Ranch rules—in case someone needed to move the truck fast. "I'll have to take my hand off the steering wheel," Mitch said. He had to get Parker to point the gun at him instead of Becca. "Just one hand," Parker warned him. "Do it." Mitch could feel Becca's shoulder pressed against him, her leg against his thigh. He started the engine, flipped on the windshield wipers and headlights, put the truck into gear. "Head away from the buildings," Parker ordered. Mitch pulled off the driveway, pointing the truck toward Finger Rocks, toward the dry riverbed. If it wasn't flooding yet, it would be soon. And maybe... They drove in silence for quite some distance, the rain starting to fall harder now against the windshield. Mitch glanced up. He could see Becca's eyes in the rearview mirror. She knew where he was heading, knew how deadly the arroyo could be. "Don't get out of the truck," he told her.

Parker laughed at that. "You're in no position to be giving orders." Mitch glanced into the rearview again, and she nodded. Her lips moved. Love you. She thought she was going to die. But she wasn't. Not if he could help it. Not even if he had to die himself to keep her alive. "Stop Up here," Parker finally said. "This is far enough." Lightning flashed, and Finger Rocks loomed, still too far away. Mitch hadn't yet reached the edge of the dry riverbed. He could see up ahead that the water wasn't running. Yet. He just had to go a little farther... The rain was starting to fall even harder on the roof of the truck, tiny bits and pieces of hail bouncing off the hood. "I said, stop." Mitch took his time hitting the brakes, slowing to a stop. Any second now the sky was going to open up in a deluge so severe, visibility was going to drop to close to zero. In the meantime, he kept his hands on the steering wheel where Parker could see them. 4'Get out of the truck," Parker ordered. Mitch leaned forward to look at him across Becca. "I'm going to have to take my hands off the steering wheel." "One hand at a time," Parker said. "Move slowly. Open the door. And then step back from the truck—keep your hands where I can see them." Mitch knew what he 'd do if he were Parker. He'd make Mitch back far enough away so that when he pulled his gun from Becca's side, Mitch would be too far away to be able to attack. And he'd shoot Mitch from inside the truck, make sure he was dead before pulling Becca out, thus completely eliminating his point of vulnerability. "I love you," he told Becca, needing her to know. "Lovely," Parker said. "Move." Mitch moved very slowly as he put the truck into park, still praying that the rain would help him out. Please God... If ever he needed a little divine assistance, it was now. He opened the door and stepped out of the cab and moved back from the truck and... God was on his side. Lightning cracked, thunder roared, and the rain came down as if someone had turned on a giant faucet overhead. Mitch was instantly soaked. And nearly completely hidden by the deluge. He heard Parker swear as Mitch dropped to the ground, scrambling swiftly and silently beneath the body of the truck. "Where the hell did he go?" "I'm not getting out," Mitch heard Becca say, bless her. "You're just going to have to shoot me right here— and get the truck all gross and smeared with blood. And that'll go over really well with the state police when you're stopped for that rear taillight that's out." He heard Parker curse. "You're getting out of this truck if I have to pull you out by the hair!" Becca screamed as he did just that, but she knew that she was right—he wasn't going to shoot her in the truck. He needed it to get wherever he was going. Probably only as far as to his own vehicle, parked somewhere outside of the ranch's fences. Still, the last thing he wanted to do was get her blood on his clothes. And he was going to kill her. She had no doubt of that. The rain drummed on the roof, and the thunder cracking directly overhead was loud enough to wake the dead. "Where did he go?" Parker demanded. "Where did that son of a bitch disappear to?" He pulled his gun out from her side to get a better grip on her and yanked her out into the rain. This was it. It was Parker's point of vulnerability. His gun waved in the air as she fought him, and Becca knew Mitch would be ready and' waiting. And he was. He appeared with a flash of lightning, pulling Parker away from Becca, leaping on top of the man's gun as he wrestled him down into the arroyo. The gun went off, and Mitch jerked—oh, God, he was hit. But he'd somehow managed to grab the gun and fling it, hard, into the rocks and rubble that made up the dry riverbed. But it was dry no longer. The water was rising, and Becca peered through the rain as Mitch, despite being shot, splashed and wrestled with Parker. "Get away!" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. "Becca—take the truck and go!"

Chapter 16 Up on the riverbank, Becca stood still, frozen in the truck's headlights. Dammit, why didn't she take the truck and get herself to safety? Mitch fought Parker with a desperation, aware that his arm was bleeding, aware that the pain and the light-headedness he was already feeling from the shock were putting him at a disadvantage, aware that his opponent was trying to get to the place where they'd both last seen his gun bouncing off the rocks. Parker was relentless, hitting Mitch hard, again and again, in the spot where the bullet had nicked him. Nicked was an understatement, but Mitch was well aware it could have been far worse. A weapon like that, fired at close range, could blow a man's arm clear off. He'd been lucky. He'd be luckier still, if Becca would get in that truck and drive herself to safety. Instead, as he elbowed Parker hard in the face, he saw her begin to pick her way down the slope of the hill, toward them. Dammit! Lightning flashed, illuminating Parker's bared teeth as the man tried to grab Mitch's throat. And right then and there the world seemed to shift. And for the oddest fraction of a second, Mitch was back in that alleyway in Wyatt City, looking into Casey Parker's eyes an instant before he fired the bullet that was to wipe clean Mitch's memory. And in that oddest fraction of a second, everything, everything came rushing back. Stolen plutonium. An unlikely lead in New Mexico. Admiral Jake Robinson's covert Gray Group. He was not a criminal, not a hired killer on the run from the law! He was Lieutenant Mitchell Shaw of the U.S. Navy SEALs. There was no jail term in his future. There was only hope and sweet possibility. And Becca. With a burst of renewed energy, Mitch fought even harder. Becca couldn't find the gun. She'd seen it fall near this tumble of rocks, but in the pouring rain, it would have been hard to find her own feet. And that would've been without the water starting to rise. In just a few seconds it had gone from a slow trickle to ankle deep, the current tugging at her as it rose even higher. The rain began to let up as swiftly as it had started, but the gun was as good as gone, the water now up to her knees. She could see Mitch, still struggling with Casey Parker, his shirt stained bright red with his own blood. He was in serious danger of bleeding to death—that is, if he didn't drown first. Parker was tiring, but then so was Mitch. But at least Mitch was on top—or at least he was until a current of water tossed them, pushing them over and Mitch underneath. Oh, God! She could see Mitch struggling, fighting and splashing to get free, to get air. But Parker was so much bigger than he was. And Parker wasn't bleeding from a gunshot wound. Becca charged toward them, splashing and stumbling through the water, stopping only to pick up a rock large enough to do some damage when it connected with Casey Parker's head. But the water was still rising and before she reached them, she was knocked off balance. As she struggled to regain her footing, Parker was pulled under. With a swirl of bubbles, both men disappeared downstream. Becca crawled to the side of the now swiftly flowing river, bedraggled and gasping for air, barely getting out of the way of a chunk of wood being tossed along by the water. She remembered the rainbow-colored bruise Mitch had received from what he'd called a "glancing blow." As if Casey Parker and his gunshot wound weren't dangers enough, Becca knew that the river could kill Mitch, too. She struggled out of the water, and ran toward her truck, water squooshing from her boots. She started the engine with a roar, and drove, following the bend in the riverbed, shading her eyes against the rapidly lightening sky, praying as she searched for any sign of Mitch in the raging current. Underwater. It was the great equalizer in a fight that Mitch had been afraid he was starting to lose.

But underwater, the advantage spun once more in his direction. As a SEAL, he was at home beneath the water. And Parker—judging from his current floundering—could barely even swim. Mitch went with the force of the river, using it instead of fighting it. He could tell when Parker's air ran out. He could tell by the way the man was twitching that Mitch had to get him up to the surface, to air, quickly, or he'd die. It wasn't easy pulling the heavier man out of the current and onto the rocky shore. And the water was still rising, so he had to pull him—with only one good arm—even farther up, away from the running arroyo. Parker was breathing. But just barely. He was out cold, thank the Lord. Mitch wasn't sure he had another fight left in him. "Mitch!" He turned to see Becca running toward him. Sweet Becca. With her angel's eyes... "Thank God, thank God!" She scrambled down the hillside. "Where were you hit?" "Just my arm. Only a nick." Lord, he was cold. She was furious. "Only a...! Mitch, this is not only a nick!" He'd lost a lot of blood. That would explain the cold. "I'm all right," he told her. "Bee, I remembered. I'm a SEAL. A Navy SEAL. Parker has possession of stolen plutonium from a military lab. I've been working a covert op for months, trying to track it down. I'm one of the good guys." She took off her T-shirt, which confused him for a moment until he realized she was using it to tie around his upper arm in a tourniquet. "Can you make it to the truck?" she asked him, her voice sounding as if it were coming from a great distance. Maybe he had lost too much blood. Mitch pushed himself up, forcing himself not to succumb to the blackness that was giving him tunnel vision. "What about Parker?" Becca told him in a very unladylike way exactly what Parker could do with himself. ' 'The sheriff can come back for him." Mitch shook his head. "No. I've been after him for too long. Get the key from his pocket, Bee. At least let me tie him up." He could see from her eyes that she was scared for him. "Rope," he said. "Please. I've been after this guy for months. I can't risk losing him now." "And I can't risk losing you now," she told him hotly. "You're it for me, Mitch. It's you or no one. If you die—" "I'm not going to die." "Promise?" In his line of work, it wasn't good luck to make a promise like that. In his line of work, any kind of promise was hard to keep. But Mitch wanted to promise her everything he possibly could. "Marry me, Becca." He'd shocked her. She stood up. "I'm getting that rope." She vanished from the narrowing scope of his vision, and he floated—he wasn't sure how long, seconds probably—until she returned. As Mitch watched, she hog-tied Parker with knots that would've made any sailor envious, then searched through the man's pockets for the key. She held it up for Mitch to see when she'd found it, then stuffed it into her own jeans pocket. And then she was beside Mitch, hauling him up, nearly carrying him to the truck. His arm was starting to hurt, and the pain sent him spinning as she did everything short of throw him into the cab of the truck. He felt her fasten a seat belt around him. And then they were moving, bouncing, seemingly soaring across the rough land. His tunnel vision was getting worse, his world turning to shades of gray. "Stay with me, Mitch," Becca said, her voice tight. "Talk to me. Tell me what you remember. Do you remember everything? Childhood? First kiss? Senior prom? Where you spent last summer's vacation?" "I don't know," he said. "I think so, but..." "Tell me what a SEAL is."

"We're good in the water." Lord, it was such a struggle even to speak. ' 'We go away a lot. Away on missions all the time. Do things I could never tell you about. Leave again, too soon. Not sure—as your friend—I can recommend you marry me." She laughed at that. "Do you come back?" she asked. "Always," he told her. "For you, I'd come back not just from hell, but from heaven, too." "I'm going to hold you to that. Dammit, don't you close your eyes!" She was crying. He hadn't meant to make her cry. "Mitch, we're almost there. I'm going to have the sheriff call for a medical chopper to take you into Santa Fe." "Admiral Jake Robinson," Mitch managed to say. "Call him for me?" "Admiral Jake Robinson," she repeated. "He's—" “'Til find him," she promised. “Don't forget—" "Parker?" she finished for him. "I won't." "That I love you," he said. Her laughter sounded more like a sob. And there was shouting. Becca's voice, loud, calling for medical assistance. Hazel, shrill. The sheriff's deep bass. And Mitch gave in to the darkness. Becca raked her fingers through her hair as she hurried down the hospital corridor, trying to tame her curls. There had been no room for her in the medevac chopper, and she'd driven halfway to Santa Fe. She'd left the sheriff standing in the driveway with Casey Parker in custody, changed her sodden and bloodstained clothes, grabbed her cell phone and headed into the city. She'd connected with Mitch's Admiral Robinson on her first try. She'd actually called the Pentagon—it seemed like the best place to look for a U.S. Navy admiral. She'd been put on hold when she'd said she was trying to reach Robinson, put on hold again when she mentioned to the young but very efficient-sounding assistant who came on the line that she was calling on Mitch's behalf. And ten seconds later another man had picked up the phone. She'd spoken to him for close to a minute before she realized she was speaking to the admiral himself. She gave him the story in a nutshell—Mitch's gunshot wound to the head and the resulting amnesia. His search for his identity. Today's nearly fatal run-in with the real Casey Parker. She'd told him that Mitch had probably already arrived at the hospital in Santa Fe, that she was rushing over there now, via truck. She'd told him she was sorry, but she couldn't talk any longer, she had to call the hospital to make sure Mitch was all right, when he'd asked her the color of her truck and the route she was taking. He told her to watch the sky—he'd send an air force chopper to scoop her up ASAP. The chopper had landed right in the middle of the state road. She'd locked her truck and gotten to Santa Fe in minutes. The nurse in the E.R. hadn't given her any information on Mitch's condition over the phone and Becca was running by the time she reached his room and... She stopped short. The most gorgeous blond woman she'd ever seen was sitting on the edge of Mitch's bed and holding his hand. The most gorgeous blonde, nine-months-pregnant woman... Oh, God. She started to back away, trying to move silently, and ran into a very solid wall of a man. "Hey." He, too, was blond—although his hair was more sunstreaked—and nearly as gorgeous as the woman. He was one of the men who had been in the van outside the bus station in Wyatt City. "Are you Becca Keyes? Mitch's friend?" Mitch's friend. Becca nodded, unable to speak. It seemed that his marriage proposal had been a little hasty. Apparently he hadn't remembered everything. He held out his hand. "Lt. Luke O'Donlon, Alpha Squad. My friends call me Lucky. Although I may have to give the nickname back after the hell of the past few weeks, the fact that Zoe Robinson isn't hovering anxiously at my bedside, and the added injustice that I didn't manage to meet you first." He pushed her toward the door to Mitch's room.

"Come on. We're all under strict orders to bring you right in if we see you." "But—" Zoe Robinson? "Ms. Rebecca Keyes," the man named Lucky announced loudly as if he were a very proper English butler. "Thanks, Jeeves," Mitch said dryly. He was smiling at her from his hospital bed. He still looked pale, but his arm was bandaged and he had an IV tube hooked into his hand. And as Becca watched, the pregnant blonde moved gracefully from the bed, crossing the room to stand beside a uniformed man who couldn't be anyone other than Admiral Robinson. But then Becca didn't look at anyone but Mitch. She crossed to his bed. "Are you all right?" He held out his hand for her, and she took it. He tugged her down, and then he had his good arm around her. "I needed a transfusion," he told her. "And afterwards, I felt so much better—" "He tried to talk me into taking him back to your ranch," the Admiral interjected. "I'm Jake R—" "Introductions later," his wife interrupted. "Everybody out." Mitch's hand was in her hair, and she knew from his eyes that he was only waiting for the door to close before he kissed her. But she didn't want to wait. She kissed him and kissed him, sweetly at first, then harder, deeper, infused with the fire his kisses always sparked. When she pulled back, he was breathing hard. ' 'I have to stay here overnight," he told her as if that were a total tragedy. "I can wait," she told him. "I'm good at waiting." She wasn't talking about just one night, and he knew it. "There are things you need to know about me," Mitch said. "It wasn't fair of me to ask you to marry me before you know—" "I know what I need to know." She pushed his hair back from his face. "You love me and I love you. Everything else is inconsequential." Becca laughed. "I never thought I'd get married, but..." She shrugged. "That was before I met you and discovered maybe true love isn't a myth." He smiled at that, but his smile quickly dimmed. "I don't want to make you unhappy." He was so quietly serious, so intense. "Good," she said. "Because it would make me really unhappy not to marry you. You know when I walked in here and saw what's her name? Zoe? I thought she was your wife." He shook his head at that. "I told you, I knew I wasn't married." "Yeah, but you also told me that you were this terrible criminal, and you'd spent time in jail and—" "I did spend time in jail." He smiled at the look on her face. "It was part of a sting operation. I was trying to get close to the brother of a survivalist group leader. I was inside for nearly a month." His smile faded again. "See, these are the kinds of things that I do." "Think," she said, "what fun it would have been knowing that I was there, waiting for you when you got out." Mitch laughed. "I'm not sure fun is quite the right word." "Yes," she said, "it is." She kissed him to prove her point. "We can make this work," she murmured. "I know we can. I've got forever—how about you?" Mitch surrendered and kissed her. It was definitely worth a try. Because he loved her and she loved him. And like the lady said, everything else was inconsequential.

9 - Get Lucky (2000)

Prologue It was like being hit by a professional linebacker. The man barreled down the stairs and bulldozed right into Sydney, nearly knocking her onto her rear end. To add insult to injury, he mistook her for a man. "Sorry, bud," he tossed back over his shoulder as he kept going down the stairs. She heard the front door of the apartment building open and then slam shut. It was the perfect end to the evening. Girls' night out— plural—had turned into girl's night out—singular. Bette had left a message on Syd's answering machine announcing that she couldn't make it to the movies tonight. Something had come up. Something that was no doubt, six-footthree, broad-shouldered, wearing a cowboy hat and named Scott or Brad or Wayne. And Syd had received a call from Hilary on her cell phone as she was pulling into the multiplex parking lot. Her excuse for cancelling was a kid with a fever of one hundred and two. Turning around and going home would have been too depressing. So Syd had gone to the movie alone. And ended up even more depressed. The show had been interminably long and pointless, with buff young actors flexing their way across the screen. She'd alternately been bored by the story and embarrassed, both for the actors and for herself, for being fascinated by the sheer breathtaking perfection of their bodies. Men like that—or like the football player who'd nearly knocked her over—didn't date women like Sydney Jameson. It wasn't that she wasn't physically attractive, because she was. Or at least she could be when she bothered to do more than run a quick comb through her hair. Or when she bothered to dress in something other than the baggy shirts and loose-fitting, comfortable jeans that were her standard apparel—and that allowed the average Neanderthal rushing past her down the stairs to mistake her for a man. Of course, she comforted herself, the dimness of the -watt bulbs that the landlord, Mr. El Cheap-o Thompkins, had installed in the hallway light fixtures hadn't helped. Syd trudged up the stairs to the third floor. This old house had been converted to apartments in the late s. The top floor—formerly the attic—had been made into two units, both of which were far more spacious than anyone would have thought from looking at the outside of the building. She stopped on the landing. The door to her neighbor's apartment was ajar. Gina Sokoloski. Syd didn't know her next-door neighbor that well. They'd passed on the stairs now and then, signed for packages when the other wasn't home, had brief conversations about such thrilling topics as the best time of year for cantaloupe. Gina was young and shy—not yet twenty years old—and a student at the junior college. She was plain and quiet and rarely had visitors, which suited Syd just fine after living for eight months next door to the frat boys from hell. Gina's mother had come by once or twice—one of those tidy, quietly rich women who wore a giant diamond ring and drove a car that cost more than Syd could make in three very good years as a freelance journalist. The he-man who'd barrelled down the stairs wasn't what Syd would have expected a boyfriend of Gina's to look like. He was older than Gina by about ten years, too, but this could well be more proof that opposites did, indeed, attract. This old building made so many weird noises during the night. Still, she could've sworn she'd heard a distinctly human sound coming from Gina's apartment. Syd stepped closer to the open door and peeked in, but the apartment was completely dark. "Gina?" She listened harder. There it was again. A definite sob. No doubt the son of a bitch who'd nearly knocked her over had just broken up with Gina. Leave it to a man to be in such a hurry to be gone that he'd leave the door wide open. "Gina, your door's unlatched. Is everything okay in here?" Syd knocked more loudly as she pushed the door open even farther. The dim light from the hallway shone into the living room and... The place was trashed. Furniture knocked over, lamps broken, a bookshelf overturned. Dear God, the man hurrying down the stairs hadn't been Gina's boyfriend. He'd been a burglar. Or worse... Hair rising on the back of her neck, Syd dug through her purse for her cell phone. Please God, don't let Gina have been home. Please God, let that funny little sound be the ancient swamp cooler or the pipes or the wind wheezing through the vent in the crawl space between the ceiling and the eaves.... But then she heard it again. It was definitely a muffled whimper. Syd's fingers closed around her phone as she reached with her other hand for the light switch on the wall by the door. She flipped it on.

And there, huddled in the corner of her living room, her face bruised and bleeding, her clothing torn and bloody, was Gina. Syd locked the door behind her and dialed .

Chapter 1 All early-morning conversation in Captain Joe Catalanotto's outer office stopped dead as everyone turned to look at Lucky. It was a festival of raised eyebrows and opened mouths. The astonishment level wouldn't have been any higher if Lieutenant Luke "Lucky" O'Donlon of SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad had announced he was quitting the units to become a monk. All the guys were staring at him—Jones and Blue and Skelly. A flash of surprise had even crossed Crash Haw-ken's imperturbable face. Frisco was there, too, having come out of a meeting with Joe and Harvard, the team's senior chief. Lucky had caught them all off guard. It would've been funny—except he wasn't feeling much like laughing. "Look, it's no big deal," Lucky said with a shrug, wishing that simply saying the words would make it so, wishing he could feel as nonchalant as he sounded. No one said a word. Even recently promoted Chief Wes Skelly was uncharacteristically silent. But Lucky didn't need to be telepathic to know what his teammates were thinking. He'd lobbied loud and long for a chance to be included in Alpha Squad's current mission—a covert assignment for which Joe Cat himself didn't even know the details. He'd only been told to ready a five-man team to insert somewhere in Eastern Europe; to prepare to depart at a moment's notice, prepare to be gone for an undetermined amount of time. It was the kind of assignment guaranteed to get the heart pumping and adrenaline running, the kind of assignment Lucky lived for. And Lucky had been one of the chosen few. Just yesterday morning he'd done a victory dance when Joe Cat had told him to get his gear ready to go. Yet here he was, barely twenty-four hours later, requesting reassignment, asking the captain to count him out—and to call in some old favors to get him temporarily assigned to a not-so-spine-tingling post at the SEAL training base here in Cor-onado, effective ASAP. Lucky forced a smile. "It's not like you'll have trouble replacing me, Captain." He glanced at Jones and Skelly who were both practically salivating at the thought of doing just that. The captain gestured with his head toward his office, completely unfooled by Lucky's pretense at indifference. "You want to step inside and tell me what this is all about?" Lucky didn't need the privacy. "It's no big secret, Cat. My sister's getting married in a few weeks. If I leave on this assignment, there's a solid chance I won't be back in time." Wes Skelly couldn't keep his mouth shut a second longer. "I thought you were heading down to San Diego last night to read her the riot act." Lucky had intended to. He'd gone to visit Ellen and her alleged fiance, one geeky college professor by the name of Gregory Price, intending to lay down the law; intending to demand that his twenty-two-year-old baby sister wait at least another year before she take such a major step as marriage. He'd gone fully intending to be persuasive. She was impossibly young. How could she be ready to commit to one man—one who wore sweaters to work, at that— when she hadn't had a chance yet to truly live? But Ellen was Ellen, and Ellen had made up her mind. She was so certain, so unafraid. And as Lucky had watched her smile at the man she was determined to spend the rest of her life with, he'd marveled at the fact that they'd had the same mother. Of course, maybe it was the fact they had different fathers that made them such opposites when it came to commitment. Because, although Ellen was ready to get married at twenty-two, Lucky could imagine feeling too young to be tied down at age eighty-two. Still, he'd been the one to give in. It was Greg who had convinced him. It was the way he looked at Ellen, the way the man's love for Lucky's little sister shone in his eyes that had the SEAL giving them both his blessing—and his promise that he'd be at the wedding to give the bride away. Never mind the fact that he'd have to turn down what was shaping up to be the most exciting assignment of the year. "I'm the only family she's got," Lucky said quietly. "I've got to be there for her wedding, if I can. At least I've got to try." The Captain nodded. "Okay," he said. That was explanation enough for him. "Jones, ready your gear." Wes Skelly made a squawk of disappointment that was cut off by one sharp look from the senior chief. He turned away abruptly. Captain Catalanotto glanced at Frisco, who worked as a classroom instructor when he wasn't busy helping run the SEAL BUD/S training facility. "What do you think about using O'Donlon for your little project?" Alan "Frisco" Francisco had been Lucky's swim buddy. Years ago, they'd made it through BUD/S training together and had worked side by side on countless assignments— until Desert Storm. Lucky had been ready to ship out to the Middle East with the rest of Alpha Squad when he'd received word that his mother had died. He'd stayed behind and Frisco had gone—and gotten his leg nearly blown off during a rescue mission. Even though Frisco no longer came out into the field, the two men had stayed tight. In fact, Lucky was going to be the godfather later this year when Frisco and his wife Mia had their first baby. Frisco now nodded at the Captain. "Yeah," he said. "Definitely. O'Donlon's perfect for the assignment."

"What assignment?" Lucky asked. "If it's training an all-woman SEAL team, then, yes, thank you very much, I'm your man." There, see? He'd managed to make a joke. He was already starting to feel better. Maybe he wasn't going out into the real world with Alpha Squad, but he was going to get a chance to work with his best friend again. And—his natural optimism returning—he just knew there was a Victoria's Secret model in his immediate future. This was California, after all. And he wasn't nicknamed Lucky for nothing. But Frisco didn't laugh. In fact, he looked seriously grim as he tucked a copy of the morning paper beneath his arm. "Not even close. You're going to hate this." Lucky looked into the eyes of the man he knew better than a brother. And he didn't have to say a word. Frisco knew it didn't really matter what his buddy did over the next few weeks. Everything would pale beside the lost opportunity of the assignment he'd passed up. Frisco gestured for him to come outside. Lucky took one last look around Alpha Squad's office. Harvard was already handling the paperwork that would put him temporarily under Frisco's command. Joe Cat was deep in discussion with Wes Skelly, who still looked unhappy that he'd been passed over yet again. Blue McCoy, Alpha Squad's executive officer, was on the phone, his voice lowered—probably talking to Lucy. He had on that telltale frown of concern he wore so often these days when he spoke to his wife. She was a San Felipe police detective, involved with some big secret case that had the usually unflappable Blue on edge. Crash sat communing with his computer. Jones had left in a rush, but now he returned, his gear already organized. No doubt the dweeb had already packed last night, just in case, like a good little Boy Scout. Ever since the man had gotten married, he hurried home whenever he had the chance, instead of partying hard with Lucky and Bob and Wes. Jones's nickname was Cowboy, but his wild and woolly days of drinking and chasing women were long gone. Lucky had always considered the smooth-talking, good-looking Jones to be something of a rival both in love and war, but he was completely agreeable these days, walking around with a permanent smile on his face, as if he knew something Lucky didn't. Even when Lucky had won the spot on the current team—the spot he'd just given up—Jones had smiled and shaken his hand. The truth was, Lucky resented Cowboy Jones. By all rights, he should be miserable—a man like that—roped into marriage, tied down with a drooling kid in diapers. Yeah, he resented Cowboy, no doubt about it. Resented, and envied him his complete happiness. Frisco was waiting impatiently by the door, but Lucky took his time. "Stay cool, guys." He knew when Joe Cat got the order to go, the team would simply vanish. There would be no time spent on farewells. "God, I hate it when they leave without me," he said to Frisco as he followed his friend into the bright sunshine. "So, what's this about?" "You haven't seen today's paper, have you?" Frisco asked. Lucky shook his head. "No, why?" Frisco silently handed him the newspaper he'd been holding. The headline said it all—Serial Rapist Linked to Coro-nado SEALs? Lucky swore pungently. "Serial rapist? This is the first I've heard of this." "It's the first any of us have heard of this," Frisco said grimly. "But apparently there's been a series of rapes in Coronado and San Felipe over the past few weeks. And with the latest—it happened two nights ago—the police now believe there's some kind of connection linking the attacks. Or so they say." Lucky quickly skimmed the article. There were very few facts about the attacks—seven—or about the victims. The only mention of the women who'd been attacked was of the latest—an unnamed -year-old college student. In all cases, the rapist wore a feature-distorting pair of panty hose on his head, but he was described as a Caucasian man with a crew cut, with either brown or dark blond hair, approximately six feet tall, muscularly built and about thirty years of age. The article focused on ways in which women in both towns could ensure their safety. One of the tips recommended was to stay away—far away— from the U.S. Navy base. The article ended with the nebulous statement, "When asked about the rumored connection of the serial rapist to the Coronado naval base, and in particular to the teams of SEALs stationed there, the police spokesman replied, 'Our investigation will be thorough, and the military base is a good place to start.' "Known for their unconventional fighting techniques as well as their lack of discipline, the SEALs have had their presence felt in the towns of Coronado and San Felipe many times in the past, with late-night and early-morning explosions often startling the guests at the famed Hotel del Coronado. Lieutenant Commander Alan Francisco of the SEALs could not be reached for comment." Lucky swore again. "Way to make us look like the spawn of Satan. And let me guess just how hard—" he looked at the top of the article for the reporter's name "—this S. Jameson guy tried to reach you for comment."

"Oh, the reporter tried," Frisco countered as he began moving toward the jeep that would take him across the base to his office. Lucky could tell from the way he leaned on his cane that his knee was hurting today. "But I stayed hidden. I didn't want to say anything to alienate the police until I had the chance to talk to Admiral Forrest. And he agreed with my plan." "Which is...?" "There's a task force being formed to catch this son of a bitch," Frisco told him. "Both the Coronado and San Felipe police are part of it—as well as the state police, and a special unit from FInCOM. The admiral pulled some strings, and got us included. That's why I went to see Cat and Harvard. I need an officer I can count on to be part of this task force. Someone I can trust." Someone exactly like Lucky. He nodded. "When do I start?" "There's a meeting in the San Felipe police station at hours. Meet me in my office—we'll go down there together. Wear your whites and every ribbon you've got." Frisco climbed behind the wheel of the jeep, tossing his cane into the back. "There's more, too. I want you to hand pick a team, and I want you to catch this bastard. As quickly as possible. If the perp is a spec-warrior, we're going to need more than a task force to nail him." Lucky held on to the side of the jeep. "Do you really think this guy could be one of us?" Frisco shook his head. "I don't know. I hope to hell he's not." The rapist had attacked seven women—one of them a girl just a little bit younger than his sister. And Lucky knew that it didn't matter who this bastard was. It only mattered that they stop him before he struck again. "Whoever he is," he promised his best friend and commanding officer, "I'll find him. And after I do, he's going to be sorry he was born." Sydney was relieved to find she wasn't the only woman in the room. She was glad to see that Police Detective Lucy McCoy was part of the task force being set up this morning, its single goal: to catch the San Felipe Rapist. Out of the seven attacks, five had taken place in the lower-rent town of San Felipe. And although the two towns were high-school sports-team rivals, this was one case in which Coronado was more than happy to let San Felipe take the title. They'd gathered here at the San Felipe police station ready to work together to apprehend the rapist. Syd had first met Detective Lucy McCoy last Saturday night. The detective had arrived on the scene at Gina So-koloski's apartment clearly pulled out of bed, her face clean of makeup, her shirt buttoned wrong—and spitting mad that she hadn't been called sooner. Syd had been fiercely guarding Gina, who was fright-eningly glassy-eyed and silent after the trauma of her attack. The male detectives had tried to be gentle, but even gen tle couldn't cut it at a time like this. Can you tell us what happened, miss? Sheesh. As if Gina would be able to look up at these men and tell them how she'd turned to find a man in her living room, how he'd grabbed her before she could run, slapped his hand across her mouth before she could scream, and then... And then that Neanderthal who had nearly run Syd down on the stairs had raped this girl. Brutally. Violently. Syd would've bet good money that she had been a virgin, poor shy little thing. What an awful way to be introduced to sex. Syd had wrapped her arms tightly around the girl, and told the detectives in no uncertain terms that they had better get a woman down here, pronto. After what Gina had been through, she didn't need to suffer the embarrassment of having to talk about it with a man. But Gina had told Detective Lucy McCoy all of it, in a voice that was completely devoid of emotion—as if she were reporting facts that had happened to someone else, not herself. She'd tried to hide. She'd cowered in the corner, and he hit her. And hit her. And then he was on top of her, tearing her clothing and forcing himself between her legs. With his hands around her throat, she'd struggled even just to breathe, and he'd... Lucy had quietly explained about the rape kit, explained about the doctor's examination that Gina still had to endure, explained that as much as Gina wanted to, she couldn't take a shower. Not yet. Lucy had explained that the more Gina could tell her about the man who'd attacked her, the better their chances were of catching him. If there was anything more she could report about the words he'd spoken, any little detail she may have left out... Syd had described the man who nearly knocked her over on the stairs. The lighting was bad. She hadn't gotten a good look at him. In fact, she couldn't even be sure that he wasn't still wearing the nylon stocking over his face that Gina had described. But she could guess at his height— taller than she was, and his build—powerful—and she could say for a fact that he was a white male, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age, with very short, crew-cut hair. And he spoke in a low-pitched, accentless voice. Sorry, bud. It was weird and creepy to think that a man who'd brutalized Gina would have taken the time to apologize for bumping into Syd. It was also weird and creepy to think that if Syd had been home, she might have heard the noise of the struggle, heard Gina's muffled cries and might've been able to help.

Or, perhaps Syd might've been the victim herself. Before they'd headed over to the hospital, Gina had loosened her grip on the torn front of her shirt and showed Lucy and Syd a burn. The son of a bitch had branded the girl on her breast, in what looked like the shape of a bird. Lucy had stiffened, clearly recognizing the marking. She'd excused herself, and found the other detectives. And although she'd spoken in a lowered voice, Syd had moved to the door so she could hear. "It's our guy again," Lucy McCoy had grimly told the other detectives. "Gina's been burned with a Budweiser, too." Our guy again. When Syd asked if there had been other similar attacks, Lucy had bluntly told her that she wasn't at liberty to discuss that. Syd had gone to the hospital with the girl, staying with her until her mother arrived. But then, despite the fact that it was three o'clock in the morning, there were too many unanswered questions for Syd to go home and go to sleep. As a former investigative reporter, she knew a thing or two about finding answers to unanswered questions. A few well-placed phone calls connected her to Silva Fontaine, a woman on the late-night shift at the hospital's Rape Counseling Center. Silva had informed Syd that six women had come in in half as many weeks. Six women who hadn't been attacked by husbands or boyfriends or relatives or co-workers. Six women who had been attacked in their own homes by an unknown assailant. Same as Gina. A little research on the Internet had turned up the fact that a budweiser wasn't just a bottle of beer. U.S. Navy personnel who went through the rigorous Basic Underwater Demolition Training over at the SEAL facility in nearby Coronado were given a pin in the shape of a flying eagle carrying a trident and a stylized gun, upon their entrance into the SEAL units. This pin was nicknamed a budweiser. Every U.S. Navy SEAL had one. It represented the SEAL acronym of sea, air and land, the three environments in which the commando-like men expertly operated. In other words, they jumped out of planes, soaring through the air with specially designed parachutes as easily as they crawled through jungle, desert or city, as easily as they swam through the deep waters of the sea. They had a near-endless list of warrior qualifications— everything from hand-to-hand combat to high-tech computer warfare, underwater demolition to sniper-quality marksmanship. They could pilot planes or boats, operate tanks and land vehicles. Although it wasn't listed, they could also, no doubt, leap tall buildings with a single bound. Yeah, the list was impressive. It was kind of like looking at Superman's resume. But it was also alarming. Because this superhero had turned bad. For weeks, some psycho Navy SEAL had been stalking the women of San Felipe. Seven women had been brutally attacked, yet there had been no warnings issued, no news reports telling women to take caution. Syd had been furious. She'd spent the rest of the night writing. And in the morning, she'd gone to the police station, the freelance article she'd written for the San Felipe Journal in hand. She'd been shown into Chief Zale's office and negotiations had started. The San Felipe police didn't want any information about the attacks to be publicized. When Zale found out Syd was a freelance reporter, and that she'd been there at the crime scene for hours last night, he'd nearly had an aneurism. He was convinced that if this story broke, the rapist would go into deep hiding and they'd never apprehend him. The chief told Syd flatly that the police didn't know for certain if all seven of the attacks had been made by the same man—the branding of the victim with the bud-weiser pin had only been done to Gina and one other woman. Zale had demanded Syd hold all the detailed information about the recent attacks. Syd had countered with a request to write the exclusive story after the rapist was caught, to sit in with the task force being formed to apprehend the rapist—provided she could write a series of police-approved articles for the local papers, now warning women of the threat. Zale had had a cow. Syd had stood firm despite being blustered at for several hours, and eventually Zale had conceded. But, wow, had he been ticked off. Still, here she was. Sitting in with the task force. She recognized the police chief and several detectives from Coronado, as well as several representatives from the California State Police. And although no one introduced her, she caught the names of a trio of FInCOM Agents, as well. Huang, Sudenberg and Novak—she jotted their names in her notebook. It was funny to watch them interact. Coronado didn't think much of San Felipe, and vice versa. However, both groups preferred each other over the state troopers. The Finks simply remained aloof. Yet solidarity was formed— at least in part—when the U.S. Navy made the scene. "Sorry, I'm late." The man in the doorway was blind-ingly handsome—the blinding due in part to the bright white of his naval uniform and the dazzling rows of colorful ribbons on his chest. But only in part. His face was that of a movie star, with an elegantly thin nose that hinted of aristocracy, and

eyes that redefined the word blue. His hair was sunstreaked and stylishly long in front. Right now it was combed neatly back, but with one puff of wind, or even a brief blast of humidity, it would be dancing around his face, waving tendrils of spun gold. His skin was perfectly tanned—the better to show off the white flash of his teeth as he smiled. He was, without a doubt, the sheer perfection of a Ken doll come to life. Syd wasn't sure, but she thought the braids on his sleeves meant he was some sort of officer. The living Ken—with all of his U.S. Navy accessories— somehow managed to squeeze his extremely broad shoulders through the door. He stepped into the room. "Lieutenant Commander Francisco asked me to convey his regrets." His voice was a melodic baritone, slightly husky with just a trace of Southern California, dude. "There's been a serious training accident on the base, and he was unable to leave." San Felipe Detective Lucy McCoy leaned forward. "Is everyone all right?" "Hey, Lucy." He bestowed a brief but special smile upon the female detective. It didn't surprise Syd one bit that he should know the pretty brunette by name. "We got a SEAL candidate in a DDC—a deck decompression chamber. Frisco—Lieutenant Commander Francisco—had to fly out to the site with some of the doctors from the naval hospital. It was a routine dive, everything was done completely by the book—until one of the candidates started showing symptoms of the bends—while he was in the water. They still don't know what the hell went wrong. Bobby got him out and back on board, and popped him in the DDC, but from his description, it sounds like this guy's already had a CNS hit—a central nervous system hit," he translated. "You know, when a nitrogen bubble expands in the brain." He shook his head, his blue eyes somber, his pretty mouth grim. "Even if this man survives, he could be seriously brain damaged." U.S. Navy Ken sat down in the only unoccupied chair at the table, directly across from Sydney, as he glanced around the room. "I'm sure you all understand Lieutenant Commander Francisco's need to look into this situation im- mediately." Syd tried not to stare, but it was hard. At three feet away, she should have been able to see this man's imperfections—if not quite a wart, then maybe a chipped tooth. Some nose hair at least. But at three feet away, he was even more gorgeous. And he smelled good, too. Chief Zale gave him a baleful look. "And you are...?" Navy Ken half stood up again. "I'm sorry. Of course, I should have introduced myself." His smile was sheepish. Gosh darn it, it said, I plumb forgot that not everybody here knows who I am, wonderful though I may be. "Lieutenant Luke O'Donlon, of the U.S. Navy SEALs." Syd didn't have to be an expert at reading body language to know that everyone in the room—at least everyone male—hated the Navy. And if they hadn't before, they sure did now. The jealousy in the room was practically palpable. Lieutenant Luke O'Donlon gleamed. He shone. He was all white and gold and sunlight and sky-blue eyes. He was a god. The mighty king of all Ken dolls. And he knew it. His glance touched Syd only briefly as he looked around the room, taking inventory of the police and FInCOM personnel. But as Zale's assistant passed out manila files, Navy Ken's gaze settled back on Syd. He smiled, and it was such a perfect, slightly puzzled smile, Syd nearly laughed aloud. Any second now and he was going to ask her who she was. "Are you FInCOM?" he mouthed to her, taking the file that was passed to him and warmly nodding his thanks to the Coronado detective who was sitting beside him. Syd shook her head, no. "From the Coronado PD?" he asked silently. Zale had begun to speak, and Syd shook her head again, then pointedly turned her attention to the head of the table. The San Felipe police chief spoke at length about stepping up patrol cars in the areas where the rapes had taken place. He spoke of a team that would be working around the clock, attempting to find a pattern in the locations of the attacks, or among the seven victims. He talked about semen samples and DNA. He glared at Syd as he spoke of the need to keep the details of the crimes, of the rapist's MO—method of operation—from leaking to the public. He brought up the nasty little matter of the SEAL pin, heated by the flame from a cigarette lighter and used to burn a mark onto the bodies of the last two victims. Navy Ken cleared his throat and interrupted. "I'm sure it's occurred to you that if this guy were a SEAL, he'd have to be pretty stupid to advertise it this way. Isn't it much more likely that he's trying to make you believe he's a SEAL?" "Absolutely," Zale responded. "Which is why we implied that we thought he was a SEAL in the article that came out in this morning's paper. We want him to think he's winning, to become careless."

"So you don't think he's a SEAL," the SEAL tried to clarify. "Maybe," Syd volunteered, "he's a SEAL who wants to be caught." Navy Ken's eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at her, clearly thinking hard. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know just about everyone else here, but we haven't been introduced. Are you a police psychologist?" Zale didn't let Syd reply. "Ms. Jameson is going to be working very closely with you, Lieutenant." Ms. not Doctor. Syd saw that information register in the SEAL's eyes. But then she realized what Zale had said and sat back in her chair. "l am?" O'Donlon leaned forward. "Excuse me?" Zale looked a little too pleased with himself. "Lieutenant Commander Francisco put in an official request to have a SEAL team be part of this task force. Detective McCoy convinced me that it might be a good idea. If our man is or was a SEAL, you may have better luck finding him." "I assure you, luck won't be part of it, sir." Syd couldn't believe O'Donlon's audacity. The amazing part was that he spoke with such conviction. He actually believed himself. "That remains to be seen," Zale countered. "I've decided to give you permission to form this team, provided you keep Detective McCoy informed of your whereabouts and progress." "I can manage that." O'Donlon flashed another of his smiles at Lucy McCoy. "In fact, it'll be a pleasure." "Oh, ack." Syd didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until Navy Ken glanced at her in surprise. "And provided," Zale continued, "you agree to include Ms. Jameson in your team." The SEAL laughed. Yes, his teeth were perfect. "No," he said, "Chief. You don't understand. A SEAL team is a team of SEALs. Only SEALs. Ms. Jameson will—no offense, ma'am—only get in the way." "That's something you're just going to have to deal with," Zale told him a little too happily. He didn't like the Navy, and he didn't like Syd. This was his way of getting back at them both. "I'm in charge of this task force. You do it my way, or your men don't leave the naval base. There are other details to deal with, but Detective McCoy will review them with you." Syd's brain was moving at warp speed. Zale thought he was getting away with something here—by casting her off on to the SEALs. But this was the real story—the one that would be unfolding within the confines of the naval base as well as without. She'd done enough research on the SEAL units over the past forty-odd hours to know that these unconventional spec-warriors would be eager to stop the bad press and find the San Felipe Rapist on their own. She was curious to find out what would happen if the rapist did turn out to be one of them. Would they try to hide it? Would they try to deal with punishment on their own terms? The story she was going to write could be an in-depth look at one of America's elite military organizations. And it could well be exactly what she needed to get herself noticed, to get that magazine editor position, back in New York City, that she wanted so desperately. "I'm sorry." O'Donlon started an awful lot of his sentences with an apology. "But there's just no way a police social worker could keep up with—" "I'm not a social worker," Syd interrupted. "Ms. Jameson is one of our chief eyewitnesses," Zale said. "She's been face to face with our man." O'Donlon faltered. His face actually got pale, and he dropped all friendly, easygoing pretense. And as Syd gazed into his eyes, she got a glimpse of his horror and shock. "My God," he whispered. "I didn't...I'm sorry—I had no idea...." He was ashamed. And embarrassed. Honestly shaken. “I feel like I should apologize for all men, everywhere." Amazing. Navy Ken wasn't all plastic. He was at least part human. Go figure. Obviously, he thought she had been one of the rapist's victims. "No," she said quickly. "I mean, thanks, but I'm an eyewitness because my neighbor was attacked. I was coming up the stairs as the man who raped her was coming down. And I'm afraid I didn't even get that good a look at him." "God," O'Donlon said. "Thank God. When Chief Zale said...I thought..." He drew in a deep breath and let it out forcefully. "I'm sorry. I just can't imagine..." He recovered quickly, then leaned forward slightly, his face speculative. "So...you've actually seen this guy." Syd nodded. "Like I said, I didn't—" O'Donlon turned to Zale. "And you're giving her to me?"

Syd laughed in disbelief. "Excuse me, I would appreciate it if you could rephrase that...." Zale stood up. Meeting over. "Yeah. She's all yours."

Chapter 2 “Have you ever been hypnotized?" Lucky glanced over at the woman sitting beside him as he pulled his pickup truck onto the main drag that led to the naval base. She turned to give him a disbelieving look. She was good at that look. He wondered if it came naturally or if she'd worked to perfect it, practicing for hours in front of her bathroom mirror. The thought made him smile, which only made her glower even harder. She was pretty enough—if you went for women who hid every one of their curves beneath androgynous clothes, women who never let themselves smile. No, he mused, looking at her more closely as he stopped at a red light. He'd once dated a woman who'd never smiled. Jacqui Fontaine. She'd been a beautiful young woman who was so terrified of getting wrinkles she kept her face carefully devoid of all expression. In fact, she'd gotten angry with him for making her laugh. At first he'd thought she was joking, but she'd been serious. She'd asked him back to her apartment after they'd seen a movie, but "Cindy, wasn't it?" He knew damn well that her name was Sydney. But what kind of woman was named Sydney? If he was going to have to baby-sit the woman who could potentially ID the San Felipe Rapist, why couldn't she be named Crystal or Mellisande—and dress accordingly? "No," she said tightly, in a voice that was deceptively low and husky, unfairly sexy considering she clearly didn't want anyone looking at her to think even remotely about sex, "it wasn't. And no, I've never been hypnotized." "Great," he said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible as he parked in the lot near Frisco's office. His office now, too, at least temporarily. "Then we're going to have some fun. A real adventure. Uncharted territory. Boldly going, etcetera." Now Sydney was looking at him with something akin to horror in her eyes. "You can't be serious." Lucky took the keys out of the ignition and opened the truck's door. "Of course not. Not completely. Who'd ever want to be completely serious about anything?" He climbed out and looked back inside at her. "But the part I'm not completely serious about is whether it's going to be fun. In fact, I suspect it's going to be pretty low key. Probably dull. Unless while you're under, I can convince the hypnotist to make you quack like a duck." If she were a Crystal or a Mellisande, Lucky would've winked at her, but he knew, without a doubt, that winking at Sydney would result in her trying to melt him into unidentifiable goo with her death-ray glare. Most women liked to be winked at. Most women could be softened up with an appreciative look and a compliment. Most women responded to his "hey, baby" body language and subtle flirting with a little "hey, baby" body language and subtle flirting in return. With most women, he didn't have to wait long for an invitation to move from subtle flirting to flat-out seduction. Sydney, however, was not most women. "Thanks, but I don't want to be hypnotized," she told him as she climbed awkwardly down from the cab of his truck. "I've read that some people are less susceptible to hypnotism—that they just can't be hypnotized. I'm pretty sure I'm one of them." "How do you know," Lucky reasoned, "if you've never tried?" His best smile bounced right off her. "It's a waste of time," she said sternly. "Well, I'm afraid I don't think so." Lucky tried his apologetic smile as he led the way into the building, but that one didn't work either. "I guess you'll have an opportunity to prove me wrong." Sydney stood still. "Do you ever not get your way?" Lucky pretended to think about that for a moment. "No," he finally said. He smiled. "I always get my way, and I'm never completely serious. You keep that in mind, and we'll get along just fine." Sydney stood in the building's lobby watching as Lieutenant Luke O'Donlon greeted a lovely, dark-haired, very pregnant woman with a stunner from his vast repertoire of smiles. "Hey, gorgeous—what are you doing here?" He wrapped his arms around her and planted a kiss full on her lips. His wife. Had to be. It was funny, Syd wouldn't have believed this man capable of marriage. And it still didn't make sense. He didn't walk like a married man. He certainly didn't talk like a married man. Everything about him, from the way he sat as he drove his truck to the way he smiled at anything and everything even remotely female, screamed bachelor. Terminal bachelor. Yet as Syd watched, he crouched down and pressed his face against the woman's burgeoning belly. "Hello in there!"

Whoever she was, she was gorgeous. Long, straight, dark hair cascaded down her back. Her delicately featured face held a hint of the Far East. She rolled her beautiful, exotic eyes as she laughed. "This is why I don't come out here that often," she said to Syd over the top of O'Donlon's head as he pressed his ear to her stomach, listening now. "I'm Mia Francisco, by the way." Francisco. The Lieutenant Commander's wife. "He's singing that Shania Twain song," O'Donlon reported, looking past Syd and grinning. "The one Frisco says never leaves your CD player?'' Syd turned to see a teenaged girl standing behind her— all long legs and skinny arms, surrounded by an amazing cloud of curly red hair. The girl smiled, but it was decidedly half-hearted. "Ha, ha, Lucky," she said. "Very funny." "We heard about the diving accident," Mia explained as O'Donlon straightened up. "They weren't releasing any names, and we couldn't reach Alan, so Tasha talked me into driving out to make sure Thomas was okay." "Thomas?" "King," Mia said. "Former student of mine? You remember him, don't you? He's going through BUD/S training with this class." "Yeah." O'Donlon snapped his fingers. "Right. Black kid, serious attitude." "It wasn't Thomas," the red-haired girl—Tasha—informed him. "It was someone else who got hurt." "An ensign named Marc Riley. They've got him stabilized. He's in a lot of pain, but it's not as bad as they first thought." Mia smiled at Syd again, friendly but curious, taking in her shapeless linen jacket, her baggy khaki pants, her cloddish boots and the mannish blouse she wore buttoned all the way to her neck. Syd had no doubt that she looked extremely different from the usual sort of women who followed Lieutenant O'Donlon around. "I'm sorry," Mia continued. "We didn't mean to shanghai Lucky this way." Lucky. The girl had referred to O'Donlon by that name, too. It was too perfect. Syd tried her best not to smirk. "It's not a problem," she said. "I'm Syd Jameson." "We're working together on a special project," the man who was actually nicknamed Lucky interjected, as if he were afraid Mia might assume they were together socially. Yeah, as if. “Is that the same project Lucy McCoy kicked us out of Alan's office to talk to him about?" Mia asked. Lucky started to speak, then put his hands over Tasha's ears and swore. The girl giggled, and he winked at her before looking at Mia. "Lucy's already here?" "Tell Alan it's my fault you're late." "Yeah, great." Lucky laughed as he waved good-bye, leading Syd down one of the corridors. "I'll tell him I'm delayed because I stopped to flirt with his wife. That'll go over just swell." Syd had to run to keep up. She had no doubt that whatever excuse O'Donlon gave for being late, he would be instantly forgiven. Grown men didn't keep nicknames like Lucky well past adolescence for no reason. Lucky. Sheesh. Back in seventh grade, Syd had had a nickname. Stinky. She'd forgotten to wear deodorant one day. Just one day, and she was Stinky until the end of the school year. Speaking of stinky, she'd have dressed differently if she'd known she was going to be running a marathon today. Lieutenant Lucky O'Donlon was well out in front of her and showed no sign of slowing down. How big was this place, anyway? Not content to wait for an elevator, he led the way into a stairwell and headed up. Syd was already out of breath, but she pushed herself to keep up, afraid if she let him out of her sight, she'd lose him. She tried to keep her eyes glued to his broad back, but it was hard, particularly since his perfect rear end was directly in her line of sight.

Of course he had a perfect rear end—trim and tiny, about one one-hundredth the size of hers, and a perfect match for his narrow hips. She shouldn't have expected anything less from a man named Lucky. She followed his microbutt back out into the hallway and into an empty outer office and... Syd caught her breath as he knocked on a closed door. The SEAL wasn't even slightly winded, damn him, and here she was, all but bent over, hands on her knees, puffing and wheezing. "Smoker?" he asked, almost apologetically. Almost, but not quite. He was just a little too amused to be truly sorry. "No," she said. She was more out of shape than she'd realized. She'd always enjoyed running, but this spring and summer she hadn't quite managed to get started again. The door opened, and standing in the inner office was a man who could have been a mirror reflection of Lucky. His hair was a slightly different color, and his face was more craggy than pretty, but the widths of the two men's shoulders were close to exact. "I have a meeting with Admirals Forrest and Stone-gate," the man said in a way of greeting. "Lucy's already here. Hear her out, and do whatever you've got to do to catch this guy. Preferably before the end of this week." He looked from Lucky to Syd. His eyes were different from Lucky's and not just in color. He seemed capable of looking past the unruly hair that was falling into her own eyes, past the high neck of her shirt, past her near-permanent expression of slightly bored, slightly raised-eyebrow disbelief that she'd adopted after too many years of being given nicknames like Stinky. Whatever he saw when he looked at her made him smile. And it wasn't a condescending smile, or a "wow, you are such a freak" smile, either. It was warm and welcoming. He held out his hand. "I'm Alan Francisco." His grip was as pleasantly solid as his smile. "Welcome to Coronado. If there's anything you need while you're here, I'm sure Lieutenant O'Donlon will be more than happy to provide it for you." And just like that, he was gone. It wasn't until he was out the far door that Syd realized he'd moved stiffly, leaning heavily on a cane. With a jolt, she realized she was standing there gazing after Alan Francisco. Lucky had already gone into the lieutenant commander's office, and she followed, shutting the door behind her. Surprise, surprise—Lucky had his arms wrapped around Detective McCoy. As Syd watched, he gave her a hello kiss. "I didn't get to say hello properly before," he murmured. "You are looking too good for words, babe." Keeping his arm looped around her shoulders, he turned to Syd. "Lucy's husband, Blue, is XO of SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad." Lucy's husband. Syd blinked. Lucy had a husband, who was also a SEAL. And presumably the two men were ac- quaintances, if not friends. This guy was too much. "XO means executive officer," Lucy explained, giving Lucky a quick hug before slipping free from his grasp, reaching up to adjust the long brown hair that had slipped free from her ponytail holder. She really did have remark ably pretty eyes. "Blue's second in command of Alpha Squad." "Blue," Syd repeated. "His name's really Blue?" "It's a nickname," Lucy told her with a smile. "SEALs tend to get nicknames when they first go through BUD/S training. Let's see, we've got Cat, Cowboy, Frisco—" she ticked the names off on her fingers ''—Blue, Lucky, Har- vard, Crow, Fingers, Snakefoot, Wizard, Elmer, the Priest, Doc, Spaceman, Crash..." "So your husband works here on the Navy base," Syd clarified. "Some of the time," Lucy said. She glanced at Lucky and what that look meant, Syd couldn't begin to guess. "Alpha Squad went wheels up while we were downtown." Syd couldn't guess the meaning of Lucy's words, either. "Wheels up?" She was starting to sound like a parrot. "They've shipped out," Lucky explained. He leaned back casually, half sitting on Lieutenant Commander Francisco's desk. "The expression refers to a plane's wheels leaving the ground. Alpha Squad is outta town." Again, Lucy and Lucky seemed to be communicating with no words—only a long, meaningful look. Was it pos sible that this blue-eyed blond god was having an affair with the wife of a superior officer? Anything was possible, but that seemed a little too sordid. "What you've done," Lucy said quietly, breaking the silence, "is going to mean everything to Ellen. Looking back, you know it's going to be worth it."

"I could still be shipped out myself," he countered. "If something big came up, and I was needed, I wouldn't even be able to attend my own wedding." Syd cleared her throat. She didn't know what they were talking about, didn't want to know. She wasn't interested in Ellen—whoever she was—or what Lucky and Lucy McCoy did behind her husband's back. She just wanted to help catch the rapist, get her story and be off to New York. "I'm okay, you know," Lucky told the detective. "And I'll be even more okay if you'll meet me for dinner one of these nights." Lucy gave him a quick smile, glancing at Syd, obviously aware that the two of them weren't alone. "You've got my number," she said. She sat down at the conference table that was over by the window. "Right now, we need to go over some task-force rules, talk about your team." Lucky sat at the head of the table. "Great. Let's start with my rules. You let me form a team of SEALs, you don't hammer me with a lot of useless rules and hamper me with unqualified people who will only slow us down—" he shot Syd an apologetic version of his smile "—no offense—and then we'll catch your guy." Lucy didn't blink. "The members of your team have to meet Chief Zale's approval." "Oh, no way!" "He—and /—believe that since we don't know who we're dealing with, and since you have plenty of alternatives for personnel, you should construct your team from SEALs or SEAL candidates who absolutely—no question—do not fit the rapist's description." Syd sat down across from Lucky. "So in other words, no one white, powerfully built, with a crew cut." Lucky sputtered. "That eliminates the majority of the men stationed in Coronado." Lucy nodded serenely. "That's right. And the majority of the men are all potential suspects." "You honestly think a real SEAL could have raped those women?" "I think until we know more, we need to be conservative as to whom we allow into our information loop," she told him. "You'd be a suspect yourself, Luke, but your hair's too long." "Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence." "The second rule is about weapons," Lucy continued. "We don't want you running around town armed to the teeth. And that means knives as well as sidearms." "Sure," he said. "Great. And when we apprehend this guy, we'll throw spoons at him." "You won't apprehend him," she countered. "The task force will. Your team's job is to help locate him. Track him down. Try to think like this son of a bitch and anticipate his next move, so we—the police and FInCOM—can be there, waiting for him." "Okay," Lucky said. He pointed across the table at Sydney. "I'll follow your rules—if you take her off my hands. After we do the hypnotist thing tomorrow afternoon, all she's going to do is get in the way." He looked at Syd. "No offense." "Too bad," she said, "because I am offended." Lucky looked at her again. "I don't know what Zale has against you, but it's obvious he doesn't like me. He's trying to make it close to impossible for my team to operate by assigning me..." "I'm a reporter," Syd told him. "...what amounts to little more than baby-sitting duty and..." His impossibly blue eyes widened. "A reporter." Now he was the parrot. His eyes narrowed. "Sydney Jameson. S. Jameson. Ah, jeez, you're not just a reporter, you're that reporter." He glared at her. "Where the hell do you get off making us all sound like psychotic killers?" He was serious. He'd taken offense to the one part of her story the police had actually requested she include. "Cool your jets, Ken," she told him. "The police wanted me to make it sound as if they actually believed the rapist was a SEAL." "It's entirely likely our man is a SEAL wannabe," Lucy interjected. "We were hoping the news story would feed his ego, maybe make him careless." "Ken?" Lucky asked Syd. "My name's Luke." Oops, had she actually called him that? "Right. Sorry." Syd gave him the least sorry smile she could manage. Lucky looked at her hard before he turned to Lucy. "How the hell did a reporter get involved?" "Her neighbor was attacked. Sydney stayed with the girl—and this was just a girl. She wasn't more than nineteen years old, Luke. Sydney was there when I arrived, and oddly enough, I didn't think to inquire as to whether she was with UPI or Associated Press." "So what did you do?" Lucky turned back to Syd. "Blackmail your way onto the task force?"

"Damn straight." Syd lifted her chin. "Seven rapes and not a single word of warning in any of the papers. It was a story that needed to be written— desperately. I figured I'd write it—and I'll write the exclusive behind-the-scenes story about tracking and catching the rapist, too." He shook his head, obviously in disgust, and Syd's temper flared. "You know, if I were a man," she snapped, "you'd be impressed by my assertive behavior." "So did you actually see this guy, or did you just make that part up?'' he asked. Syd refused to let him see how completely annoyed he made her feel. She forced her voice to sound even, con trolled. "He nearly knocked me over coming down the stairs. But like I told the police, the light's bad in the hallways. I didn't get a real clear look at him." “Is there a chance it was good enough for you to look at a lineup of my men and eliminate them as potential suspects?" he demanded. Lucy sighed. "Lucky, I don't—" "I want Bobby Taylor and Wes Skelly on my team." "Bobby's fine. He's Native American," she told Syd. "Long dark hair, about eight feet tall and seven feet wide—definitely not our man. But Wes..." "Wes shouldn't be a suspect," Lucky argued. "Police investigations don't work that way," Lucy argued in response. "Yes, he shouldn't be a suspect. But Chief Zale wants every individual on your team to be completely, obviously not the man we're looking for." "This is a man who's put his life on the line for me— for your husband—more times than you want to know. If Sydney could look at Skelly and—" "I really don't remember much about the man's face," Syd interrupted. "He came flying down the stairs, nearly wiped me out, stopped a few steps down. I'm not even sure he turned all the way around. He apologized, and was gone." Lucky leaned forward. "He spoke to you?" God, he was good-looking. Syd forced away the little flutter she felt in her stomach every time he gazed at her. She really was pathetic. She didn't like this man. In fact, she was well on her way to disliking him intensely, and yet simply looking into his eyes was enough to make her knees grow weak. Obviously, it had been way too long since she'd last had sex. Not that her situation was likely to change any time in the near future. "What did he say?" Lucky asked. "His exact words?" Syd shrugged, hating to tell him what the man had said, but knowing he wouldn't let up until she did. Just do it. She took a deep breath. ''He said, 'Sorry, bud.'" "Sorry... bud?" Syd felt her face flush. "Like I said. The light was bad in there. He must've thought I was, you know, a man." Lucky O'Donlon didn't say anything aloud, but as he sat back in his seat, the expression on his face spoke volumes. His gaze traveled over her, taking in her unfeminine clothes, her lack of makeup. An understandable mistake for any man to make, he telegraphed with his eyes. He finally looked over at Lucy. “The fact remains that I can't possibly work with a reporter following me around." "Neither can I," she countered. "I've worked for years as an investigative reporter," Syd told them both. "Hasn't it occurred to either one of you that I might actually be able to help?"

Chapter 3 This shouldn't be too hard. Lucky was a people person—charming, charismatic, likeable. He knew that about himself. It was one of his strengths. He could go damn near anywhere and be best friends with damn near anyone within a matter of hours. And that was what he had to do right here, right now with Sydney Jameson. He had to become her best friend and thus win the power to manipulate her neatly to the sidelines. Come on, Syd, help out your old pal Lucky by staying out of the way. His soon-to-be-old-pal Syd sat in stony silence beside him in his pickup truck, arms folded tightly across her chest, as he drove her back to her car which was parked in the police-station lot. Step one. Get a friendly conversation going. Find some common ground. Family. Most people could relate to fam-ily. "So my kid sister's getting married in a few weeks." Lucky shot Syd a friendly smile as well, but he would've gotten a bigger change of expression from the Lincoln head at Mount Rushmore. "It's kind of hard to believe. You know, it feels like she just turned twelve. But she's twenty-two, and in most states that's old enough for her to do what she wants." "In every state it's old enough," Syd said. What do you know? She was actually listening. At least partly. "Yeah," Lucky said. "I know. That was a joke." "Oh," she said and looked back out the window. O-kay. Lucky kept on talking, filling the cab of the truck with friendly noise. "I went into San Diego to see her, intending to tell her no way. I was planning at least to talk her into waiting a year, and you know what she tells me? I bet you can't guess in a million years." "Oh, I bet I can't either," Syd said. Her words had a faintly hostile ring, but at least she was talking to him. "She said, we can't wait a year." Lucky laughed. "And I'm thinking murder, right? I'm thinking where's my gun, I'm going to at the very least scare the hell out of this guy for getting my kid sister pregnant, and then Ellen tells me that if they wait a year, this guy Greg's sperm will expire." He had Syd's full attention now. "Apparently, Greg had leukemia as a teenager, years and years ago. And before he started the treatment that would save him but pretty much sterilize him, he made a few deposits in a sperm bank. The technology's much better now and frozen sperm has a longer, um, shelf life, so to speak, but Ellen's chances of having a baby with the sperm that Greg banked back when he was fifteen is already dropping." Lucky glanced at Syd, and she looked away. Come on, he silently implored her. Play nice. Be friends. I'm a nice guy. "Ellen really loves this guy," he continued, "and you should see the way he looks at her. He's too old for her by about seventeen years, but it's so damn obvious that he loves her. So how could I do anything but wish them luck and happiness?" Syd actually graced him with a glance. "How are your parents taking this?" Lucky shook his head, glad at the perfect opportunity to segue into poor-little-orphaned-me. This always won him sympathy points when talking to a woman. "No parents. Just me and Ellen. Mom had a heart attack years ago. You know, you really don't hear much about it, but women are at just as much risk for heart disease as men and—" He cut himself off. "Sorry—I've kind of turned into a walking public service announcement about the topic. I mean, she was so young, and then she was so gone." "I'm sorry," Syd murmured. "Thanks. It was roughest on Ellen, though," he continued. "She was still just a kid. Her dad died when she was really young. We had different fathers and I'm not really sure what happened to mine. I think he might've become a Tibetan monk and taken a vow of silence to protest Jefferson Airplane's breakup." He flashed her a smile. "Yeah, I know what you're thinking. With a name like Lucky, I should have rich parents living in Bel Air. I actually went to Bel Air a few years ago and tried to talk this old couple into adopting me, but no go." Syd actually smiled at that one. Bingo. He knew she was hiding a sense of humor in there somewhere. "Now that you know far too much about me," he said, "it's your turn. You're from New York, right?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How did you know that? I don't have an accent." "But you don't need an accent when you come from New York," Lucky said with a grin. "The fact that you do everything in hyperspeed gives you away. Those of us from southern California can spot a New Yorker a mile away. It's a survival instinct. If we can't learn to ID you, we can't know to take cover or brace for impact when you make the scene."

Sydney might've actually laughed at that. But he wasn't sure. Her smile had widened though, and he'd been dead right about it. It was a good one. It lit her up completely, and made her extremely attractive—at least in a small, dark, non-blond-beauty-queen sort of way. And as Lucky smiled back into Sydney's eyes, the answer to all his problems became crystal clear. Boyfriend. It was highly likely that he could get further faster if he managed to become Sydney Jameson's boyfriend. Sex could be quite a powerful weapon. And he knew she was attracted to him, despite her attempts to hide it. He'd caught her checking him out more than once when she thought he wasn't paying attention. This was definitely an option that was entirely appealing on more than one level. He didn't have to think twice. "Do you have plans for tonight?" he asked, slipping smoothly out of best-friend mode and into low-scale, friendly seduction. The difference was subtle, but there was a difference. "Because I don't have any plans for tonight and I'm starving. What do you say we go grab some dinner? I know this great seafood place right on the water in San Felipe. You can tell me about growing up in New York over grilled swordfish." "Oh," she said, "I don't think—" "Do you have other plans?" "No," she said, "but—" "This is perfect," he bulldozed cheerfully right over her. "If we're going to work together, we need to get to know each other better. Much better. I just need to stop at home and pick up my wallet. Can you believe I've been walking around all day without any cash?" Hoo-yah, this was perfect. They were literally four blocks from his house. And what better location to initiate a friendly, low-key seduction than home sweet home? Syd had to hold on with both hands as Lucky quickly cut across two lanes of traffic to make a right turn into a side street. "Don't you live on the base?" she asked. "Nope. Officer's privilege. This won't take long, I promise. We're right in my neighborhood." Now, that was a surprise. This neighborhood consisted of modestly sized, impeccably kept little houses with neat little yards. Syd hadn't given much thought to the lieutenant's living quarters, but if she had, she wouldn't have imagined this. Sure enough, he pulled into the driveway of a cheery little yellow adobe house. A neatly covered motorcycle was parked at the back of an attached carport. Flowers grew in window boxes. The grass had been recently, pristinely mowed. "Why don't you come in for a second?" Lucky asked. "I've got some lemonade in the fridge." Of course he did. A house like this had to have lemonade in the refrigerator. Bemused and curious, Syd climbed down from the cab of his shiny red truck. It was entirely possible that once inside she would be in the land of leather upholstery and art deco and waterbeds and all the things she associated with a glaringly obvious bachelor pad. And instead of lemonade, he'd find—surprise, surprise—a bottle of expensive wine in the back of the refrigerator. Syd mentally rolled her eyes at herself. Yeah, right. As if this guy would even consider her a good candidate for seduction. That wasn't going to happen. Not in a million years. Who did she think she was, anyway? Barbie to his Ken? Not even close. She wouldn't even qualify for Skipper's weird cousin. Lucky held the door for her, smiling. It was a self-confident smile, a warm smile...an interested smile? No, she had to be imagining that. But she didn't have time for a double take, because, again, his living room completely surprised her. The furniture was neat but definitely aging. Nothing matched, some of the upholstery was positively flowery. There was nothing even remotely art deco in the entire room. It was homey and warm and just plain comfortable. And instead of Ansel Adams prints on the wall, there were family photographs. Lucky as a flaxen-haired child, holding a chubby toddler as dark as he was fair. Lucky with a laughing blonde who had to be his mother. Lucky as an already too-handsome thirteen-year-old, caught in the warm, wrestling embrace of a swarthy, dark-haired man. "Hey, you know, I've got an open bottle of white wine," Lucky called from the kitchen, "if you'd like a glass of that instead of lemonade... ?" What? Syd wasn't aware she had spoken aloud until he repeated himself, dangling both the bottle in question and an extremely friendly smile from the kitchen doorway. The interest in his smile was not her imagination. Nor was the warmth in his eyes.

God, Navy Ken was an outrageously handsome man. And when he looked at her like that, it was very, very hard to look away. He must've seen the effect he had on her in her eyes. Or maybe it was the fact that she was drooling that gave her away. Because the heat in his eyes went up a notch. "I've got a couple of steaks in the freezer," he said, his rich baritone wrapping as enticingly around her as the slightly pink late-afternoon light coming in through the front blinds. "I could light the grill out back and we could have dinner here. It would be nice not to have to fight the traffic and the crowds." "Um," Syd said. She hadn't even agreed to go to dinner with him. "Let's do it. I'll grab a couple of glasses, we can sit on the deck," he decided. He vanished back into the kitchen, as if her declining his rather presumptuous invitation was an impossibility. Syd shook her head in disbelief. This was too much. She had absolutely no doubt about it now. Lieutenant Lucky O'Donlon was hitting on her. His motive was frightfully obvious. He was attempting to win her over. He was trying to make her an ally instead of an adversary in this task-forcecoupling from hell. And, in typical alpha male fashion, he'd come to the conclusion that the best way to win her support involved full-naked-body contact. Or at least the promise of it. Sheesh. Syd followed him into the kitchen, intending to set him straight. "Look, Lieutenant—" He handed her a delicate tulip-shaped glass of wine. "Please, call me Lucky." He lifted his own glass, touching it gently to hers, as he shot her a smile loaded with meaning. "And right now I am feeling particularly lucky." Syd laughed. Oh, dear God. And instead of telling him flat out that she had to go and she had to go now, she kept her mouth shut. She didn't have any plans for tonight, and—God help her—she wanted to see just how far this clown was willing to go. He continued to gaze at her as he took a sip of his wine. His eyes were a shade of blue she'd never seen before. It was impossible to gaze back at him and not get just a little bit lost. But that was okay, she decided, as long as she realized that this was a game, as long as she was playing, too, and not merely being played. He set his wineglass down on the counter. "I've got to change out of my Good Humor man costume. Excuse me for a minute, will you? Dress whites and grilling dinner aren't a good mix. Go on out to the deck—I'll be there in a flash." He was so confident. He walked out of the kitchen without looking back, assuming she'd obediently do as he commanded. Syd took a sip of the wine as she leaned back against the counter. It was shockingly delicious. Didn't it figure? She could hear Lucky sing a few bars of something that sounded suspiciously like an old Beach Boys tune. Didn't that figure also? We'll have fun, fun, fun indeed. He stopped singing as he pushed the button on his answering machine. There were two calls from a breathy-voiced woman named Heather, a third from an equally vapid-sounding Vareena, a brief "call me at home," from an unidentified man, and then a cheerful female voice. "Hi, Luke, it's Lucy McCoy. I just spoke to Alan Francisco, and he told me about Admiral Stonegate's little bomb. I honestly don't think this is going to be a problem for you—I've met the candidates he's targeted and they're good men. Anyway, the reason I'm calling is I've found out a few more details about this case that I think you should know, and it's occurred to me that it might be a good idea for the grown-ups—assuming Bobby's part of your team—to meet tonight. I'm on duty until late, so why don't we say eleven o'clock—twenty-three hundred hours—at Skippy's Harborside? Leave a message on my machine if this works for you. Later, dude." There was one more call—the pool cleaner wanted to reschedule her visit for later in the week—but then the answering machine gave a finalsounding beep. There was silence for a moment, and then Syd heard Lucky's lowered voice. "Hey, Luce. S'me. Twenty-three hundred sounds peachy keen. I haven't talked to Frisco yet—did you actually use the word candidates? Why do I hate this already, before I even know what the hell's going on?" He swore softly and laughed. “I guess I just have a good imagination. See you at Skip's." He hung up the phone without making any noise, then whistled his way into the bathroom. Syd quietly opened the screen door and tiptoed onto the deck. She stood there, leaning against the railing, looking down into the crystal blueness of his swimming pool and the brilliantly lush flower gardens as he made his grand entrance. He had changed, indeed. The crisp uniform had been replaced by a pair of baggy cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, worn open to reveal the hard planes of his muscular, tanned chest. Navy Ken had magically become Malibu Ken. He'd run his fingers through his hair, loosening the gel that had glued it down into some semblance of a conservative military style. It now tumbled over his forehead and into his eyes, waving tendrils of sunbleached gold, some of it long enough to tickle his nose. His feet were bare and even his toes were beautiful. All he needed was a surfboard and twenty-four hours' worth of stubble on his chin, and he'd be ready for the Hunks of the Pacific calendar photo shoot.

And he knew it, too. Syd took little sips of her wine as Lucky gave a running discourse on his decision four years ago to build this deck, the hummingbird feeders he'd put in the garden, and the fact that they'd had far too little rain this year. As he lit the grill, he oh-so-casually pointed out that the fence around the backyard made his swimming pool completely private from the eyes of his neighbors, and how— wink, wink—that helped him maintain his all-over tan. Syd was willing to bet it wouldn't take much to get him to drop his pants and show off the tan in question. Lord, this guy was too much. And she had absolutely no intention of skinny dipping with him. Not now, not ever, thanks. "Have you tried it recently?" he asked. Syd blinked at him, trying to remember his last conversational bounce. Massage. He'd just mentioned some really terrific massage therapy he'd had a few months ago, after a particularly strenuous SEAL mission. She wasn't sure exactly what he'd just asked, but it didn't matter. He didn't wait for her to answer. "Here, let me show you." He set his glass on the railing of the deck and turned her so that she was facing away from him. It didn't occur to him that she might not want him to touch her. His grip was firm, his hands warm through the thin cotton of her shirt and jacket as he massaged her shoulders. He touched her firmly at first, then harder, applying pressure with his thumbs. "Man, you're tense." His hands moved up her neck, to the back of her head, his fingers against her skin, in her hair. Oh. My. God. Whatever he was doing felt impossibly good. Fabulously good. Sinfully good. Syd closed her eyes. "It's been a stressful few days, hasn't it?" he murmured, his mouth dangerously close to her ear. "I'm glad we've got this chance to, you know, start over. Get to know each other. I'm...looking forward to...being friends." God, he was good. She almost believed him. His hands kept working their magic, and Syd waited to see what he'd do or say next, hoping he'd take his time before he crossed the line of propriety, yet knowing that it wasn't going to be long. He seemed to be waiting for some sort of response from her, so she made a vague noise of agreement that came out sounding far too much like a moan of intense pleasure as he touched a muscle in her shoulders that no doubt had been tightly, tensely flexed for the past fifteen years, at least. "Oh, yeah," he breathed into her ear. "You know, I feel it, too. It's crazy, isn't it? We hardly know each other and yet..." In one smooth move he turned her to face him. "I'm telling you, Sydney, I've been dying to do this from the moment we first met." It was amazing. It was like something out of a movie. Syd didn't have time to step back, to move away. His neon-blue gaze dropped to her mouth, flashed back to her eyes, and then, whammo. He was kissing her. Syd had read in her massive research on Navy SEALs that each member of a team had individual strengths and skills. Each member was a specialist in a variety of fields. And Lieutenant Lucky O'Donlon, aka Navy Ken, was clearly a specialist when it came to kissing. She meant to pull away nanoseconds after his lips touched hers. She meant to step back and freeze him with a single, disbelieving, uncomprehending look. Instead, she melted completely in his arms. The bones in her body completely turned to mush. He tasted like the wine, sweet and strong. He smelled like sunblock and fresh ocean air. He felt so solid beneath her hands—all those muscles underneath the silk of his shirt, shoulders wider than she'd ever imagined. He was all power, all male. And she lost her mind. There was no other explanation. Insanity temporarily took a tight hold. Because she kissed him back. Fiercely, yes. Possessively, absolutely. Ravenously, no doubt about it. She didn't just kiss him, she inhaled the man. She slanted her head to give him better access to her mouth as he pulled her more tightly against him. It was crazy. It was impossibly exciting—he was undeniably even more delicious than that excellent wine. His hands skimmed her back, cupping the curve of her rear end, pressing her against his arousal and— And sanity returned with a crash. Syd pulled back, breathing hard, furious with him, even more furious with herself. This man was willing to take her to bed, to be physically intimate with her—all simply to control her. Sex meant so little to him that he could cheerfully use himself as a means to an end. And as for herself—her body had betrayed her, damn it. She'd been hiding it, denying it, but the awful truth was, this man was hot. She'd never been up close to a man as completely sexy and breathtakingly handsome as Lucky O'Donlon. He was physical perfection, pure dazzling masculine

beauty. His looks were movie-star quality, his body a work of art, his eyes a completely new and unique shade of blue. No, he wasn't just hot, he was white-hot. Unfortunately, he was also insensitive, narrow-minded, egocentric and conniving. Sydney didn't like him—a fact she conveniently seemed to have forgotten when he kissed her. The hunger in his perfect eyes was nearly mesmerizing as he reached for her again. "Thanks but no thanks," she managed to spit out as she sidestepped him. "And while I'm at it, I'll pass on dinner, too." He was completely thrown. If she'd felt much like being amused, she could have had a good laugh at the expression on his face as he struggled to regroup. "But—" "Look, Ken, I'm not an idiot. I know damn well what this is about. You figure you can keep me happy by throwing me a sexual bone—no pun intended. And yes, your kisses are quite masterful, but just the same—no thanks." He tried to feign innocence and then indignation. "You think that...? Wait, no, I would never try to—" "What?" she interrupted. "I'm supposed to believe that crap about 'isn't it crazy? This attraction—you feel it, too?"' She laughed in disbelief. "Sorry, I don't buy it, pal. Guys like you hit on women like me for only two reasons. It's either because you want something—" "I'm telling you right now that you're wrong—" "Or you're desperate." "Whoa." It was his turn to laugh. "You don't think very highly of yourself, do you?" "Look me in the eye," she said tightly, "and tell me honestly that your last girlfriend wasn't blond, five-foot-ten and built like a supermodel. Look me in the eye and tell me you've always had a thing for flat-chested women with big hips." Syd didn't let him answer. She went back into the house, raising her voice so he could hear her. "I'll catch a cab back to the police-station parking lot." She heard him turn off the grill, but then he followed her. "Don't be ridiculous. I'll give you a ride to your car." Syd pushed her way out the front door. "Do you think you can manage to do that without embarrassing us both again?" He locked it behind him. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you or offended you or—" "You did both, Lieutenant. How about we just not say anything else right now, all right?" He stiffly opened the passenger-side door to his truck and stood aside so that she could get in. He was dying to speak, and Syd gave him about four seconds before he gave in to the urge to keep the conversation going. "I happen to find you very attractive," Luke said as he climbed behind the wheel. Two and a half seconds. She knew he'd give in. She should have pointedly ignored him, but she, too, couldn't keep herself from countering. "Yeah," she said. "Right. Next you'll tell me it's my delicate and ladylike disposition that turns you on." "You have no idea what's going on in my head." He started his truck with a roar. "Maybe it is." Syd uttered a very non-ladylike word. The lieutenant glanced at her several times, and cranked the air-conditioning up a notch as Syd sat and stewed. God, the next few weeks were going to be dreadful. Even if he didn't hit on her again, she was going to have to live with the memory of that kiss. That amazing kiss. Her knees still felt a little weak. He pulled into the police-station parking lot a little too fast and the truck bounced. But he remembered which car was hers and pulled up behind it, his tires skidding slightly in the gravel as he came to a too-swift stop. Syd turned and looked at him. He stared straight ahead. It was probably the first time he'd ever been turned down, and he was embarrassed. She could see a faint tinge of pink on his cheeks. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. After she didn't move for several seconds, he turned and looked at her. "This is your car, right?" She nodded, traces of feeling sorry turning into hot anger. "Well?"

"Well, what?" He laughed ruefully. "Something tells me you're not waiting for a good-night kiss." He wasn't going to tell her. He'd had no intention of telling her, the son of a bitch. Syd glared at him. "What?" he said again. "Jeez, what did I do now?" "Eleven o'clock," she reminded him as sweetly as she could manage. "Skippy's Harborside?" Guilt and something else flickered in his eyes. Disappointment that she'd found out, no doubt. Certainly not remorse for keeping the meeting a secret. He swore softly. "Don't make me go over your head, Lieutenant," Syd warned him. "I'm part of your team, part of this task force." He shook his head. "That doesn't mean you need to participate in every meeting." "Yes, it does." He laughed. "Lucy McCoy and I are friends. This meeting is just an excuse to—" "Exchange information about the case," she finished for him. “I heard her phone message. I would have thought it was just a lovers' tryst myself, but she mentioned what's-his-name, Bobby, would be there." "Lovers' tryst...?" He actually looked affronted. "If you're implying that there's something improper between Lucy and me—-'' Syd rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. It's a little obvious there's something going on. I wonder if she knows what you were trying to do with me. I suppose she couldn't complain because she's married to—" "How dare you?" ''Your... what did you call it? XO? She's married to your XO." "Lucy and I are friends." His face was a thundercloud— his self-righteous outrage wasn't an act. "She loves her husband. And Blue...he's...he's the best." His anger had faded, replaced by something quiet, something distant. "I'd follow Blue McCoy into hell if he asked me to," Luke said softly. "I'd never dishonor him by fooling around with his wife. Never." "I'm sorry," Syd told him. "I guess... You just... You told me you never take anything too seriously, so I thought—" "Yeah, well, you were wrong." He stared out the front windshield, holding tightly to the steering wheel with both hands. "Imagine that." Syd nodded. And then she dug through her purse, coming up with a small spiral notebook and a pen. She flipped to a blank page and wrote down the date. Luke glanced at her, frowning slightly. "What...?" "I'm so rarely wrong," she told him. "When I am, it's worth taking note of." She carefully kept her face expressionless as he studied her for several long moments. Then he laughed slightly, curling one corner of his mouth up into an almost-smile. "You're making a joke." "No," she said. "I'm not." But she smiled and gave herself away. She climbed out of the truck. "See you tonight." "No," he said. "Yes." She closed the door and dug in her purse for her car keys. He leaned across the cab to roll down the passenger-side window. "No," he said. "Really. Syd, I need to be able to talk to Lucy and Bob without-—" "Eleven o'clock," she said. "Skippy's. I'll be there." As she got into her car and drove away, she glanced back and saw Luke's face through the windshield. No, this meeting wasn't going to happen at Skippy's at eleven. But the time couldn't be changed—Lucy McCoy had said she was on duty until late. But if she were Navy Ken, she'd call Lucy and Bobby what's-his-name and move the location—leaving Syd alone and fuming at Skipper's Harborside at eleven o'clock. Bobby what's-his-name. Syd pulled up to a red light and flipped through her notebook, looking for the man's full name. Chief Robert Taylor. Yes. Bobby Taylor. Described as

an enormous SEAL, at least part Native American. She hadn't yet met the man, but maybe that was a good thing. Yeah, this could definitely work.

Chapter 4 Lucky hadn't really expected to win, so he wasn't surprised when he followed Heather into La Cantina and saw Sydney already sitting at one of the little tables with Lucy McCoy. He'd more than half expected the reporter to second-guess his decision to change the meeting's location and track them down, and she hadn't disappointed him. That was part of the reason he'd called Heather for dinner and then dragged her here, to this just-short-of-seedy San Felipe bar. Syd had accused him of being desperate as she'd completely and brutally rejected his advances. The fact that she was right—that he had had a motive when he lowered his mouth to kiss her—only somehow served to make it all that much worse. Even though he knew it was foolish, he wanted to make sure she knew just how completely non-desperate he was, and how little her rejection had mattered to him, by casually showing up with a drop-dead gorgeous, blond beauty queen on his arm. He also wanted to make sure there was no doubt left lingering in her nosy reporter's brain that there was something going on between him and Blue McCoy's wife. Just the thought of such a betrayal made him feel ill. Of course, maybe it was Heather's constant, mindless prattle that was making the tuna steak he'd had for dinner do a queasy somersault in his stomach. Still he got a brief moment of satisfaction as Syd turned and saw him. As she saw Heather. For a fraction of a second, her eyes widened. He was glad he'd been watching her, because she quickly covered her surprise with that slightly bored, single-raised-eyebrow half-smirk she had down pat. The smirk had stretched into a bonafide half smile of lofty amusement by the time Lucky and Heather reached their table. Lucy's smile was far more genuine. "Right on time." “You're early," he countered. He met Syd's gaze. "And you're here." "I got off work thirty minutes early," Lucy told him. "I tried calling you, but I guess you'd already left." Syd silently stirred the ice in her drink with a straw. She was wearing the same baggy pants she'd had on that afternoon, but she'd exchanged the man-size, long-sleeved, button-down shirt for a plain white T-shirt, her single concession to the relentless heat. She hadn't put on any makeup for the occasion, and her short dark hair, looked as if she'd done little more than run her fingers through it. She looked tired. And nineteen times more real and warm than perfect, plastic Heather. As Lucky watched, Syd lifted her drink and took a sip through the straw. With lips like that, she didn't need makeup. They were moist and soft and warm and perfect. He knew that firsthand after kissing her. That one kiss they'd shared had been far more real and meaningful than Lucky's entire six month off-and-on, whenever-he-was-in-town, nonrelationship with Heather. And yet, after kissing him as if the world were coming to an end, Syd had pushed him away. "Heather and I had dinner at Smokey Joe's," Lucky told them. "Heather Seeley, this is Lucy McCoy and Sydney Jameson." But Heather was already looking away, her MTV-length attention span caught by the mirrors on the wall and her distant but gorgeous reflection... Syd finally spoke. "Gee, I had no idea we could bring a date to a task-force meeting." "Heather's got some phone calls to make," Lucky explained. "I figured this wasn't going to take too long, and after..." He shrugged. After, he could return to his evening with Heather, bring her home, go for a swim in the moonlight, lose himself in her perfect body. "You don't mind giving us some privacy, right, babe?" He pulled Heather close and brushed her silicon-enhanced lips with his. Her perfect, plastic body... Sydney sharply looked away from them, suddenly completely absorbed by the circles of moisture her glass had made on the table. And Lucky felt stupid. As Heather headed for the bar, already dialing her cell phone, he sat down next to Lucy and across from Syd and felt like a complete jackass. He'd brought Heather here tonight to show Syd...what? That he was a jackass? Mission accomplished. Okay, yes, he had taken Syd into his arms on his deck earlier this evening in an effort to win her alliance. But somehow, some way, in the middle of that giddy, free-fall-inducing kiss, his strictly business motives had changed. He thought it had probably happened when her mouth had opened so warmly and willingly beneath his. Or it might've been before that. It might've been the very instant his lips touched hers. Whenever it had happened, all at once it had become very, very clear to him that he kept on kissing her purely because he wanted to.

Desperately. Yes, there was that word again. As he ordered a beer from the bored cocktail waitress, as he pointed out Heather and told the waitress to get her whatever she wanted—on him—he tried desperately not to sound as if he were reeling from his own ego-induced stupidity in bringing Heather here. He knew Syd was listening. She was still pretending to be enthralled with the condensation on the table, but she was listening, so he referred to Heather as “that gorgeous blonde by the bar, with the body to die for." Message sent: I don't need you to want to kiss me ever again. Except he was lying. He needed. Maybe not quite desperately, but it was getting pretty damn close. Jeez, this entire situation was growing stupider and stupider with every breath he took. Syd was so completely not Lucky's type. And he was forced to work with her to boot, although he was still working on ways to shake her permanently after tomorrow's session with the hypnotist. She was opinionated, aggressive, impatient and far too intelligent—a know-it-all who made damn sure the rest of the world knew that she knew it all, too. If she tried, even just a little bit, she'd be pretty. In a very less-endowed-than-most-women way. Truth was, if life were a wet T-shirt contest and Heather and Syd were the contestants, Heather would win, hands down. Standing side by side, Syd would be rendered invis ible, outshone by Heather's golden glory. Standing side by side, there should have been no contest. Except, one of the two women made Lucky feel com- pletely alive. And it wasn't Heather. “Hey, Lucy. Lieutenant." U.S. Navy SEAL Chief Bobby Taylor smiled at Sydney as he slipped into the fourth seat at the table. "You must be Sydney. Were my directions okay?" he asked her. Syd nodded. She looked up at Lucky almost challeng-ingly. "I wasn't sure exactly where the bar was," she told him, "so I called Chief Taylor and asked for directions." So that's how she found him. Well, wasn't she proud of herself? Lucky made a mental note to beat Bobby to death later. "Call me Bob. Please." The enormous SEAL smiled at Syd again, and she smiled happily back at him, ignoring Lucky completely. "No nickname?" she teased. "Like Hawk or Cyclops or Panther?" And Lucky felt it. Jealousy. Stabbing and hot, like a lightning bolt to his already churning stomach. My God. Was it possible Sydney Jameson found Bob Taylor attractive? More attractive than she found Lucky? Bobby laughed. "Just Bobby. Some guys during BUD/S tried to call me Tonto, which I objected to somewhat... forcefully." He flexed his fists meaningfully. Bobby was a good-looking man despite the fact that his nose had been broken four or five too many times. He was darkly handsome, with high cheekbones, craggy features, and deep-brown eyes that broadcast his mother's Native American heritage. He had a quiet calmness to him, a Zenlike quality that was very attractive. And then there was his size. Massive was the word for the man. Some women really went for that. Of course, if Bobby wasn't careful to keep up his PT and his diet, he'd quickly run to fat. "I considered Tonto politically incorrect," Bobby said mildly. "So I made sure the name didn't stick." Bobby's fists were the size of canned hams. No doubt he'd been extremely persuasive in his objections. "These days the Lieutenant here is fond of calling me Stimpy," Bob continued, "which is the name of a really stupid cartoon cat." He looked down at his hands and flexed his hot-dog-sized fingers again. "I've yet to object, but it's getting old." "No," Lucky said. "It's because Wes—" he turned to Syd. "Bobby's swim buddy is this little wiry guy named Wes Skelly, and visually, well, Ren and Stimpy just seems to fit. It's that really nasty cartoon that—" "Wes isn't little," Lucy interrupted. "He's as tall as Blue, you know." "Yeah, but next to Gigantor here—" "I like Gigantor," Bobby decided. Syd was laughing, and Lucky knew from the way the chief was smiling at her that he was completely charmed, too. Maybe that was the way to win Syd's alliance. Maybe she could be Bobby's girlfriend. The thought was not a pleasant one, and he dismissed it out of hand. Charming women was his strength, damn it, and he was going to charm Sydney Jameson if it was the last thing he did.

Lucy got down to business. "You talk to Frisco?" she asked him. Lucky nodded grimly. "I did. Do you think it's possible Stonegate doesn't really want us to apprehend the rapist?" "Why? What happened?" Syd demanded. "Lieutenant Commander Francisco got called in to meet with Admiral Stonegate," Lucy explained. "Ron Stone-gate's not exactly a big fan of the SEAL teams." "What'd Stonehead do this time?" Bobby asked. "Easy on the insults," Lucky murmured. He glanced at Syd, wishing she weren't a reporter, knowing that anything they said could conceivably end up in a news story. "We've been ordered by the...admiral to use this assignment as a special training operation," he said, choosing his words carefully, leaving out all the expletives and less-than-flattering adjectives he would have used had she not been there, "for a trio of SEAL candidates who are just about to finish up their second phase of BUD/S." "King, Lee and Rosetti," Bobby said, nodding his approval. Lucky nodded. Bobby had been working as an instructor with this particular group of candidates right from the start of phase one. He wasn't surprised the chief should knew the men in question. "Tell me about them," Lucky commanded. He'd made a quick stop at the base and had pulled the three candidates' files after he'd talked to Frisco and before he'd picked up Heather. But you could only tell so much about a man from words on a piece of paper. He wanted to hear Bobby's opinion. "They were all part of the same boat team during phase one," Bobby told him. "Mike Lee's the oldest and a lieutenant, Junior Grade, and he was buddied up with Ensign Thomas King—a local kid, much younger. African American. Both have IQs that are off the chart, and both have enough smarts to recognize each other's strengths and weaknesses. It was a good match. Petty Officer Rio Rosetti, on the other hand, is barely twenty-one, barely graduated from high school, struggles to spell his own name, but he can build anything out of nothing. He's magic. He was out in a skiff and the propeller snagged a line and one of the blades snapped. He took it apart, built a new propeller out of the junk, that was on board. They couldn't move fast, but they could move. It was impressive. "Rosetti's swim buddy bailed during the second day of Hell Week," Bobby continued, "and Lee and King took him in. He returned the favor a few days later, when Lee started hallucinating. He was seeing evil spirits and not taking it well, and King and Rosetti took turns sitting on him. The three of them have been tight ever since. King and Lee spend nearly all their off time tutoring Rosetti. With their help, he's managed to stay with the classroom program." He paused. "They're good men, Lieutenant." It was good to hear that. Still. "Turning a mission this serious into a training op makes about as much sense as sticking the team with Lois Lane, here," Lucky said. "Twelve hours, seventeen minutes," Syd said. "Hah." He blinked at her, temporarily distracted. "Hah? What hah?" "I knew when you found out that I was a reporter it was only a matter of time before you used the old Lois Lane cliche," she told him. Her attitude wasn't quite smug, but it was a touch too gleeful to be merely matter-of-fact. "I figured twenty-four, but you managed in nearly half the time. Congratulations, Lieutenant." "Lois Lane," Bobby mused. "Shoot, it's almost as bad as Tonto." "It's not very original," even Lucy agreed. "Can we talk about this case please?" Lucky said desperately. "Absolutely," Lucy said. "Here's my late-breaking news. Four more women have come forward since Sydney's article appeared in the paper this morning. Four.''' She shook her head in frustration. "I don't know why some women don't report sexual assault when it happens." "Is it our guy?" Syd asked. "Same MO?" "Three of the women were branded with the budweiser. Those three attacks took place within the past four weeks. The fourth was earlier. I'm certain the same perp was responsible for all four attacks," Lucy told them. "And frankly, it's a little alarming that the severity of the beatings he gives his victims seems to be increasing." "Any pattern among the victims as to location, physical appearance, anything?" Lucky asked. "If there is, we can't find anything other than that the victims are all females between the ages of eighteen and forty-three, and the attacks all took place in either San Felipe or Coronado," the detective replied. "I'll get you the complete files first thing in the morning. You might as well try searching for a pattern, too. I don't think you're going to find one, but it sure beats sitting around waiting for this guy to strike again." Bobby's pager went off. He glanced at it as he shut it off, then stood. "If that's all for now, Lieutenant..." Lucky gestured with his head toward the pager. "Anything I should know about?"

"Just Wes," the bigger man said. "It's been a rough tour for him. Coronado's the last place he wanted to be, and he's been here for nearly three months now." He nodded at Sydney. "Nice meeting you. See you later, Luce." He turned back. "Do me a favor and lock your windows tonight, ladies." "And every night until we catch this guy," Lucky added as the chief headed for the door. He stood up. "I'm going to take off, too." "See you tomorrow." Syd barely even looked at him as she turned to Lucy. "Are you in a hurry to get home, detective? Because I have some questions I was hoping you could answer." Lucky lingered, but aside from a quick wave from Lucy, neither woman gave him a second glance. "I did some research on sex crimes and serial rapists and serial murderers," Syd continued, "and—" "And you're thinking about what I said about the level of violence escalating," Lucy finished for her. "You want to know if I think this guy's going to cross the line into rape-homicide." Oh, God, Lucky hadn't even considered that. Rape alone was bad enough. Lucy sighed. "Considering the abuse the perp seems to enjoy dishing out, in my opinion, it could be just a matter of time before he—" "Heads up," Syd said in a low voice. "Barbie's coming this way." Barbie? Lucky looked up to see Heather heading toward them. Her body in motion made heads turn throughout the entire room. She was gorgeous, but she was plastic. Kind of like a Barbie doll. Yeah, the name fit. He wanted to stay, wanted to hear what Lucy and Syd had to say, but he'd saddled himself with Heather, and now he had to pay the price. He had to take her home. With Heather, there was always a fifty-fifty chance she'd invite him up to her place and tear off his clothes. Tonight she'd made a few suggestive comments at dinner that led him to believe it was, indeed, going to be one of those nights where they engaged in a little pleasure gymnastics. "Ready to go home?" Heather smiled at him, a smile loaded with promise. A smile he knew that Syd had not missed. Good. Let her know that he was going to get some tonight. Let her know he didn't need her to make fireworks. "Absolutely." Lucky put his arm around her waist. He glanced at Syd, but she was already back to her discussion with Lucy, and she didn't look up. As Heather dragged him to the door, Lucky knew he was the envy of every man in the bar. He was going home with a beautiful woman who wanted to have wild sex with him. He should have been running for his car. He should have been in a hurry to get her naked. But as he reached the door, he couldn't stop himself from hesitating, from looking back at Syd. She glanced up at that exact moment, and their eyes met and held. The connection was instantaneous. It was crac-klingly powerful, burningly intense. He didn't look away, and neither did she. It was far more intimate than he'd ever been with Heather, and they'd spent days together naked. Heather tugged at his arm, pressed her body against him, pulled his head down for a kiss. Lucky responded instinctively, and when he looked back at Syd, she had turned away. "Come on, baby," Heather murmured. "I'm in a hurry." Lucky let her pull him out the door. The pickup truck was following her. Syd had first noticed the headlights in her rearview mirror as she'd pulled out of La Cantina's parking lot. The truck had stayed several car lengths behind her as she'd headed west on Arizona Avenue. And when she'd made a left turn onto Draper, he'd turned, too. She knew for sure when she did a series of right and left turns, taking the shortcut to her neighborhood. It couldn't be a coincidence. He was definitely following her.

Syd and Lucy had talked briefly after Navy Ken had taken his inflatable Barbie home. She'd stayed in the bar after Lucy had left as well, having a glass of beer as she wrote her latest women's safety article on her laptop. It was far easier to write in the noisy bar than it would have been in her too-quiet apartment. She missed the chaos of the newsroom. And being home alone would only have served to remind her that Lucky O'Donlon wasn't. Miss Vapid USA was, no doubt, his soul mate. Syd wondered rather viciously if they spent all their time together gazing into mirrors. Blond and Blonder. Lucy had volunteered the information that Heather was typical of the type of women the SEAL fraternized with. He went for beauty queens who were usually in their late teens, with an IQ not much higher than their age. Syd didn't know why she was surprised. God forbid a man like Luke O'Donlon should ever become involved with a woman who actually meant something to him. A woman who talked back to him, offering a differing opinion and a challenging, vivacious honest-to-God relationship.... Who was she kidding? Did she really imagine she tasted integrity in his kisses? It was true that he'd protested admirably when she'd accused him of trying to steal his XO's wife, but all that meant was that he had a line in his debauchery that he would not cross. He was hot, he was smooth, he could kiss like a dream, but his passion was empty. For indeed, what was passion without emotion? A balloon that, when popped, revealed nothing but slightly foul-smelling air. She was glad she'd seen Luke O'Donlon with his Barbie doll. It was healthy, it was realistic and just maybe it would keep her damned subconscious from dreaming erotic dreams about him tonight. Syd took a right turn onto Pacific, pulling into the right lane and slowing down enough so that anyone in their right mind would pass her, but the truck stayed behind her. Think. She had to think. Or rather, she had to stop think ing about Luke O'Donlon and his perfect butt and focus on the fact that a sociopathic serial rapist could well be following her through the nearly deserted streets of San Felipe. She'd written an article dealing with this very subject just minutes ago. If you think someone is following you, she'd said, do not go home. Drive directly to the police station. If you have a cell phone, use it to call for help. Syd fumbled in her shoulder bag for her cell phone, hesitating only slightly before she pushed the speed-dial button she'd programmed with Lucky O'Donlon's home phone number. It would serve him right if she interrupted him. His machine picked up after only two rings, and she skipped over his sexy-voiced message. "O'Donlon, it's Syd. If you're there, pick up." Nothing. "Lieutenant, I know my voice is the last thing you probably want to hear right now, but I'm being followed." Oh, crud, her voice cracked slightly, and her fear and apprehension peeked through. She took a deep breath, hoping to sound calm and collected, but only managing to sound very small and pitiful. "Are you there?" No response. The answering machine beeped, cutting her off. Okay. Okay. As long as she kept moving, she'd be okay. And chances were, if she pulled into the brightly lit police-station parking lot, whoever was following her would drive away. But what a missed opportunity that would be. If this were the rapist behind her, they could catch him. Right now. Tonight. She pressed one of the other speed-dial numbers she'd programmed into her phone. Detective Lucy McCoy's home number. One ring. Two rings. Three... "'Lo?" Lucy sounded as if she'd already been asleep. "Lucy, it's Syd." She gave a quick rundown of the situation, and Lucy snapped instantly awake. "Stay on Pacific," Lucy ordered. "What's your license plate number?" "God, I don't know. My car's a little black Civic. The truck's one of those full-size ones—I haven't been able to see what color—something dark. And he's hanging too far back for me to see his plate number." "Just keep driving," Lucy said. "Slow and steady. I'm calling in as many cars as possible to intercept." Slow and steady. Syd used her cell phone and tried calling Lucky one more time. Nothing.

Slow and steady. She was heading north on Pacific. She could just follow the road all the way up to San Francisco, slowly and steadily. Provided the truck behind her let her stop for gas. She was running low. Of course a little car like this could go for miles on a sixteenth of a tank. She had no reason to be afraid. At any minute, the San Felipe police were going to come to the rescue. Any minute. Any. Minute. She heard it then—sirens in the distance, getting louder and deafeningly louder as the police cars moved closer. Three of them came from behind. She watched in her rear-view mirror as they surrounded the truck, their lights flashing. She slowed to a stop at the side of the road as the truck did the same, twisting to look back through her rear window as the police officers approached, their weapons drawn, bright searchlights aimed at the truck. She could see the shadow of the man in the cab. He had both hands on his head in a position of surrender. The po lice pulled open the truck's door, pulled him out alongside the truck where he braced himself, assuming the position for a full-body search. Syd turned off the ignition and got out, wanting to get closer now that she knew the man following her wasn't armed, wanting to hear what he was saying, wanting to get a good look at him—see if he was the same man who'd nearly knocked her down the stairs after attacking her neighbor. The man was talking. She could see from the police officers standing around him that he was keeping up a steady stream of conversation. Explanation, no doubt, for why he was out driving around so late at night. Following someone? Officer, that was just an unfortunate coincidence. I was going to the supermarket to pick up some ice cream. Yeah, right. As Syd moved closer, one of the police officers approached her. "Sydney Jameson?" he called. "Yes," she said. "Thank you for responding so quickly to Detective McCoy's call. Does this guy have identification?" "He does," the officer said. "He also says he knows you—and that you know him." What? Sydney moved closer, but the man who'd been following her was still surrounded by the police and she couldn't see his face. The police officer continued. "He also claims you're both part of a working police task force...?" Sydney could see in the dim streetlights that the truck was red. Red. As if on cue, the police officers parted, the man turned his face toward her and... It was. Luke O'Donlon. "Why the hell were you following me?" All of her emo tions sparked into anger. "You scared me to death, damn it!" He himself wasn't too happy about having been frisked by six unfriendly policemen. He was still standing in the undignified search position—legs spread, palms against the side of his truck, and he sounded just as indignant as she did. Maybe even more indignant. "I was following you home. You were supposed to go home, not halfway across the state. Jeez, I was just trying to make sure you were safe." "What about Heather?" The words popped out before Sydney could stop herself. But Luke didn't even seem to hear her question. He had turned back to the police officers. "Are you guys satisfied? I'm who I say I am, all right? Can I please stand up?" The police officer who seemed to be in charge looked to Syd. "No," she said, nodding yes. "I think you should make him stay like that for about two hours as punishment." "Punishment?" Luke let out a stream of sailor's language as he straightened up. "For doing something nice? For worrying so much about you and Lucy going home from that bar alone that I dropped Heather off at her apartment and came straight back to make sure you'd be okay?" He hadn't gone home with Miss Ventura County. He'd given up a night of steamy, mindless, emotionless sex because he had been worried about her. Syd didn't know whether to laugh or hit him. "Heather wasn't happy," he told her. "That's your answer for 'what about Heather?'" He smiled ruefully. "I don't think she's ever been turned down before." He had heard her question. She'd spent most of the past hour trying her hardest not to imagine his long, muscular legs entangled with Heather's, his skin slick and his hair

damp with perspiration as he... She'd tried her hardest, but she'd always had a very good imagination. It was stupid. She'd told herself that it didn't matter, that he didn't matter. She didn't even like him. But now here he was, standing in front of her, gazing at her with those impossibly blue eyes, with that twenty-four-carat sun-gilded hair curling in his face from the ocean's humidity. "You scared me," she said again. "You?" He laughed. "Something tells me you're un-scareable." He looked around them at the three police cars, lights still spinning, the officers talking on their radios. He shook his head with what looked an awful lot like admiration. "You actually had the presence of mind to call the police from your cell phone, huh? That was good, Jameson. I'm impressed." Syd shrugged. "It wasn't that big a deal. But I guess you just don't spend that much time with smart women." Lucky laughed. "Ouch. Poor Heather. She's not even here to defend herself. She's not that bad, you know. A little heartless and consumed by her career, but that's not so different from most people." "How could you be willing to settle for 'not that bad?'" Syd countered. "You could have just about anyone you wanted. Why not choose someone with a heart?" "That assumes," he said, "that I'd even want someone's heart." "Ah," she said, turning back to her car. "My mistake." "Syd." She turned back to face him. "I'm sorry I scared you." "Don't let it happen again," she said. "Warn me in advance all right?" She turned away. "Syd." She sighed and turned to face him again. "Quickly, Ken," she begged. "We've got a seven o'clock meeting scheduled at the police station. I'm not a morning person, and I'm even less of a morning person when I get fewer than six hours of sleep." "I'm going to follow you home," he told her. "When you go up to your apartment, flash your light a few times so I know everything's okay, all right?" Syd didn't get it. "You don't even like me. Why the concern?'' Lucky smiled. "I never said I didn't like you. I just don't want you on my team. Those are two very different things."

Chapter 5 “Sit on the couch—or in the chair," Dr. Lana Quinn directed Sydney. "Wherever you think you'll be more comfortable." "I appreciate your finding the time to do this on such short notice," Lucky said. "You got lucky," Lana told him with a smile. "Wes called right after my regular one o'clock cancelled. I was a little surprised actually—it's been a while since I've heard from him." Lucky didn't know the pretty young psychologist very well. She was married to a SEAL named Wizard with whom he'd never worked. But Wizard had been in the same BUD/S class with Bobby and Wes, and the three men had remained close. And when Lucky had stopped Wes in the hall to inquire jokingly if he knew a hypnotist, Wes had surprised him by saying, yes, as a matter of fact, he did. "How is Wes?" Lana asked. Lucky was no shrink himself, but the question was just a little too casual. She must have realized the way her words had sounded and hastened to explain. “He was in such a rush when he called, I didn't even have time to ask. We used to talk on the phone all the time back when my husband was in Team Six, you know, when he was gone more often than not—I think it was because Wes and I both missed Quinn. And after he transferred back to California, back to Team Ten, Wes kind of dropped out of touch." "Wes is doing good—just made chief," Lucky told her. "That's great," Lana enthused—again just a little too enthusiastically. "Congratulate him for me, will you?" Lucky was not an expert by any means, but he didn't have to be an expert to know there was more to that story than Lana was telling. Not that he believed for one minute that Wes would've had an affair with the wife of one of his best friends. No, Wes Skelly was a caveman in a lot of ways, but his code of honor was among the most solid Lucky had ever known. It did make perfect sense, though, for Wes to have done something truly stupid, like fall in love with his good friend's wife. And if that had happened, Wes would have dropped out of Lana's life like a stone. And Lucky suspected she knew that, psychologist that she was. God, life was complicated. And it was complicated enough without throwing marriage and its restrictions into the picture. He was never getting married, thank you very much. It was a rare day that went by without Lucky reminding himself of that—in fact, it was his mantra. Never getting married. Never getting married. Yet lately—particularly as he watched Frisco with his wife, Mia, and Blue with Lucy, and even the captain, Joe Cat, who'd been married to his wife, Veronica, longer than any of the other guys in Alpha Squad, Lucky had felt... Envy. God, he hated to admit it, but he was a little jealous. When Frisco draped his arm around Mia's shoulder, or when she came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders after a long day. When Lucy stopped in at the crowded, busy Alpha Squad office and Blue would look across the room and smile, and she'd smile back. Or Joe Cat. Calling Veronica every chance he got, from a pay phone in downtown Paris, from the Australian outback after a training op. He'd lower his voice, but Lucky had overheard far more than once. Hey babe, ya miss me? God, I miss you.... Lucky had come embarrassingly close to getting a lump in his throat more than once. Despite his rather desperate-sounding mantra, Joe and Blue and Frisco and all of the other married SEALs made the perils of commitment look too damn good. As Lucky watched, across the room Sydney perched on the very edge of the couch, arms folded tightly across her chest as she looked around Lana's homey office. She didn't want to be here, didn't want to be hypnotized. Her body language couldn't be any more clear. He settled into the chair across from her. "Thanks for agreeing to this." He could see her trepidation in the tightness of her mouth as she shook her head. "I don't think it's going to work." "Yeah, well, maybe it will." "Don't be too disappointed if it doesn't." She was afraid of failing. Lucky could understand that. Failure was something he feared as well. "Why don't you take off your jacket," Lana suggested to Sydney. "Get loose—unbutton your shirt a little, roll up your sleeves. I want you to try to get as comfortable as possible. Kick off your boots, try to relax." "I don't think this is going to work," Sydney said again, this time to Lana, as she slipped her arms out of her jacket. "Don't worry about that," Lana told her, sitting down in the chair closest to Sydney. "Before we go any further, I want to tell you that my methods are

somewhat uncon ventional. But I have had some degree of success working with victims of crimes, helping them clarify the order and details of certain traumatic or frightening events, so bear with me. And again, there's no guarantee that this will work, but we've got a better shot at it if you try to be open-minded." Syd nodded tightly. "I'm trying." She was. Lucky had to give her that. She didn't want to be here, didn't have to be here, yet here she was. "Let's start with you telling me what you felt when you encountered the man on the stairs," Lana said. "Did you see him coming, or were you startled by him?" "I heard the clatter of his footsteps," Syd told her as she unfastened first one, then two, then three buttons on her shirt. Lucky looked away, aware that he was watching her, aware that he didn't want her to stop at three, remembering with a sudden alarming clarity the way she had felt when he'd held her in his arms. She'd tasted so sweet and hot and... Lucky was dressed in his summer uniform, and he resisted the urge to loosen his own collar. He was overheating far too often these days. He should have called Heather after following Syd home last night. He should have called and groveled. Chances are she would have let him in. But he'd gone home instead. He'd swum about four hundred laps in his pool, trying to curb his restlessness, blaming it on the fact that Alpha Squad was out there, in the real world, while he'd been left behind. "He was moving fast," Syd continued. "He clearly didn't see me, and I couldn't get out of his way." "Were you frightened?" Lana asked. Syd thought about that, chewing for a moment on her lower lip. "More like alarmed," she said. "He was big. But I wasn't afraid of him because I thought he was dangerous. It was more like the flash of fear you get when a car swerves into your lane and there's nowhere to go to avoid hitting it." "Picture the moment that you first heard him coming," Lana suggested, "and try to flip it into slow motion. You hear him, then you see him. What are you thinking? Right at that second when you first spot him coming down the stairs?" Syd looked up from untying the laces of her boots. "Kevin Manse," she said. She was still leaning over, and Lucky got a sudden brief look down the open front of her shirt. She was wearing a black bra, and he got a very clear look at black lace against smooth pale skin. As she moved to untie her other boot, Lucky tried to look away. Tried and failed. He found himself watching her, hoping for another enticing glimpse of her small but perfectly, delicately, deliciously shaped, lace-covered breasts. Sydney Jameson was enormously attractive, he realized with a jolt as he examined her face. Sure he'd always preferred women with a long mane of hair, but hers was darkly sleek and especially lustrous, and the short cut suited the shape of her face. Her eyes were the color of black coffee, with lashes that didn't need any makeup to look thick and dark. She wasn't traditionally pretty, but whenever she stopped scowling and smiled, she was breathtaking. And as far as her clothes... Lucky had never particularly liked the Annie Hall look before, but with a flash of awareness, he suddenly completely understood its appeal. Buried beneath Syd's baggy, mannish clothing was a body as elegantly, gracefully feminine as the soft curves of her face. And the glimpse he'd had was sexy as hell—sexy in a way he'd never imagined possible, considering that the women he usually found attractive were far more generously endowed. She straightened up, kicking off her boots. She wasn't wearing socks, and her feet were elegantly shaped with very high arches. God, what was wrong with him that the sight of a woman's bare foot was enough to push him over the edge into complete arousal? Lucky shifted in his seat, crossing his legs, praying Lana wouldn't ask him to fetch anything from her desk all the way across the room. "Who's Kevin Manse?" the psychologist asked Sydney. Syd sat back, crossing her legs tailor-style, tucking her sexy feet beneath her on the couch. "He was a football player I, um..." she flashed a look in Lucky's direction and actually blushed "...knew in college. I guess the sheer size of this guy reminded me of Kevin." Wasn't that interesting? And completely unexpected. Syd Jameson certainly didn't seem the type to have dated a football player in college. "Boyfriend?" Lucky asked. "Um," Syd said. "Not exactly." Ah. Maybe she'd liked the football player, and he hadn't even noticed her. Maybe, like Lucky, Kevin had been too busy trying to catch the eyes of the more bodacious cheerleaders. Lana scribbled a comment on her notepad. "Okay," she said. "Let's give this a shot, shall we?"

Syd laughed nervously. "So how do you do this? All I can think of is Elmer Fudd trying to hypnotize Bugs Bunny with his pocket watch on a chain. You know, 'You ah getting vewwy sweepy.'" Laughing, Lana crossed the room and turned off the light. "Actually, I use a mirror ball, a flashlight and voiced suggestions. Lieutenant, I have to recommend that you step out into the waiting room for a few minutes. I've found that SEALs are highly susceptible to this form of light-induced hypnotism. My theory is that it has to do with the way you've trained yourself to take combat naps." She sat down again across from Syd. “They fall, quickly, into deep REM sleep for short periods of time," she explained before looking back at Lucky. "There may be a form of self-hypnosis involved when you do that." She smiled wryly. "I'm not sure though. Quinn won't let me experiment on him. You can try staying in here, but..." "I'll leave the room—temporarily," Lucky said. "Good idea. I'm sure Dr. Quinn doesn't want both of us waddling around quacking like ducks," Syd said. Hot damn, she'd made a joke. Lucky laughed, and Syd actually smiled back at him. But her smile was far too small and it faded far too quickly. "Seriously," she added. "If I do something to really embarrass myself, don't rub it in, all right?" "I won't," he told her. "As long as you promise to return the same favor some day." "I guess that's fair." "Step outside, Lieutenant." "You'll wait to ask her any questions until I come back in?" Lana Quinn nodded. "I will." "Quack, quack," Syd said. Lucky closed the door behind him. As he paced, he punched a number into his cell phone. Frisco picked up the phone on his office desk after only half a ring. "Francisco." "Answering your own phone," Lucky said. "Very impressive." "Understaffed," Frisco said shortly. "S'up?" "I'm wondering if you've heard anything about yesterday's diving accident." Frisco said some choice words, none of them polite. "God, what a stupid-fest. The SEAL candidate—-former SEAL candidate—who nearly had nitrogen bubbles turn his brain into Swiss cheese, apparently snuck out of the barracks the night before the accident. It was his birthday, and some well-meaning but equally idiotic friends flew him to Vegas to visit his girlfriend. The flight back was delayed, and he didn't land in San Diego until ohthree-hundred. The stupid bastard made it back into the barracks without being found out, but he was still completely skunked when the training op started at oh-four-thirty." Lucky cringed. It was dangerous to dive any less than twenty-four hours after flying. And if this guy was diving drunk, to boot... "If he'd spoken up then, he would've been forced out of BUD/S, but this way they're throwing the book at him," Frisco continued. "He's facing a dishonorable discharge at the very least." The fool was lucky he was alive, but indeed, that was where his luck ended. "How many of the candidates were covering for him?" Lucky asked. An incident like this could well eliminate half of an entire class. "Only five of 'em," Frisco said. "All officers. All gone as of oh-six-hundred this morning." Lucky shook his head. One guy couldn't handle having a birthday without getting some from his girlfriend, and six promising careers were flushed. The door opened, and Lana Quinn poked her head out of her office. "We're ready for you, Lieutenant." "Whoops," Lucky said to Frisco. "I've got to go. It's hypno-time. Later, man." He hung up on his commanding officer and snapped his phone shut, slipping it into his pocket. "Move slowly," Lana told him. "She's pretty securely under, but no quick motions or sudden noises, please." The blinds were down in the office and, with the overhead lights off, Lucky had to blink for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. He moved carefully into the room, standing off to the side, as Lana sat down near Syd. She was stretched out on the couch, her eyes closed, as if she were asleep. She looked deceptively peaceful and possibly even angelic. Lucky, however, knew better.

"Sydney, I want to go back, just a short amount of time, to the night you were coming home from the movies. Do you remember that night?" As Lucky sat down, Syd was silent. "Do you remember that night?" Lana persisted. "You were nearly knocked over by the man coming down the stairs." "Kevin Manse," Syd said. Her eyes were still tightly shut, but her voice was strong and clear. "That's right," Lana said. "He reminded you of Kevin Manse. Can you see him, Syd?" Sydney nodded. "He nearly knocks me over on the stairs. He's angry. And drunk. I know he's drunk. I'm drunk, too. It's my first frat-house party." “What the—" Lana silenced Lucky with one swift motion. "How old are you, Sydney?" "I'm eighteen," she told them, her husky voice breathless and young-sounding. "He apologizes—oh, God, he's so cute, and we start talking. He's an honors student as well as the star of the football team and I can't believe he's talking to me." "Now it's more than ten years later," Lana interrupted gently, "and the man on the stairs only reminds you of Kevin." "I'm so dizzy," Syd continued, as if she hadn't heard Lana. "And the stairs are so crowded. Kevin tells me his room's upstairs. I can lie down for a while on his bed. And he kisses me and..." She sighed and smiled. "And I know he doesn't mean alone." "Oh, God," Lucky said. He didn't want to hear this. "Sydney," Lana said firmly. "I need you to come back to the present day now." "I pretend not to be nervous when he locks the door behind us," Syd continued. "His books are out on his desk. Calculus and physics. And he kisses me again and..." She made a soft noise of pleasure, and Lucky rocketed out of his seat. "Why won't she listen to you?" Lana shrugged. "Could be any number of reasons. She's clearly strong-willed. And this could well have been a pivotal moment in her life. Whatever her reasons, she doesn't want to leave it right now." Syd moved slightly on the couch, her head back, her lips slightly parted as she made another of those intense little sounds. Dear God. "Why don't we see if we can get to the end of this episode," Lana suggested. "Maybe she'll be more receptive to moving into the more recent past if we let her take her time." "What," Lucky said, "we're just going to sit here while she relives having sex with this guy?" "I've never done this before," Syd whispered. "Not really, and— Oh!" Lucky couldn't look at her, couldn't not look at her. She was breathing hard, with a slight sheen of perspiration on her face. "Okay," he said, unable to stand this another second. "Okay, Syd. You do the deed with Mr. Wonderful. It's over. Let's move on." "He's so sweet," Syd sighed. "He says he's afraid people will talk if I stay there all night, so he asks a friend to drive me back to my dorm. He says he'll call me, and he kisses me good night and I'm.. .I'm so amazed at how good that felt, at how much I love him— I can't wait to do it again." Okay. So now he knew that not only was Sydney hot, she was hot-blooded as well. "Sydney," Lana's voice left no room for argument. "Now it's just a little less than a week ago. You're on the stairs, in your apartment building. You're coming home from the movies—" "God." Sydney laughed aloud. "Did that movie suck. I can't believe I spent all that money on it. The highlight was that pop singer who used to be a model who now thinks he's an actor. And I'm not talking about his acting. I'm talking about the scene that featured his bare butt. It alone was truly worthy of the big screen. And," she laughed again, a rich, sexy sound, "if you want to know the truth, these days the movies is the closest I seem to be able to get to a naked man." Lucky knew one easy way to change that, fast. But he kept his mouth shut and let Lana do her shrink thing. "You're climbing the stairs to your apartment," she told Syd. "It's late, and you're heading home and you hear a noise." "Footsteps," Syd responded. "Someone's coming down the stairs. Kevin Manse—no, he just looks for half a second like Kevin Manse, but he's not." "Can you mentally push a pause button," Lana asked, "and hold him in a freeze-frame?" Syd nodded. "He's not Kevin Manse." “Can you describe his face? Is he wearing a mask? Panty hose over his head?''

"No, but he's in shadow," Syd told them. "The light's behind him. He's got a short crew cut, I can see the hair on his head sticking straight up, lit the way he is. But his face is dark. I can't really see him, but I know he's not Kevin. He moves differently. He's more muscle-bound— you know, topheavy from lifting weights. Kevin was just big all over." Lucky could well imagine. God, this was stupid. He was jealous of this Kevin Manse guy. "Let him move toward you," Lana suggested, "but in slow motion, if you can. Does the light ever hit his face?" Syd was frowning now, her eyes still closed, concentrating intensely. "No," she finally said. "He swerves around me, hits me with his shoulder. Sorry, bud. He turns his face toward me and I can see that he's white. His hair looks golden, but maybe it's just brown, just the reflected light." "Are you sure he's not wearing a mask?" Lana asked. "No. He's still moving down the stairs, but he's turning his head to look at me, and I turn away." "You turn away," Lana repeated. "Why?" Syd laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm embarrassed," she admitted. "He thought I was a man. It's happened to me before, and it's worse when they realize they've made a mistake. I hate the apologies. That's when it's humiliating." "So why do you dress that way?" Lucky had to ask. Lana shot him an appalled "what are you doing?" look. He didn't give a damn. He wanted to know. "It's safe," Syd told him. "Safe." "Lieutenant," Lana said sternly. "Back to the guy on the stairs," Lucky said. "What's he wearing?" "Jeans," Syd said without hesitating. "And a plain dark sweatshirt." "Tattoos?" Lucky asked. "His sleeves are down." "On his feet?" She was silent for several long seconds. "I don't know." "You turn away," Lana said. "But do you look back at him as he goes down the stairs?" "No. I hear him, though. He slams the front door on his way out. I'm glad—it sometimes doesn't latch and then anyone can get in." "Do you hear anything else?" Lucky asked. "Stop and listen carefully." Syd was silent. "A car starts. And then pulls away. A fan belt must be loose or old or something because it squeals a little. I'm glad when it's gone. It's an annoying sound—it's not an expensive part, and it doesn't take much to learn how to—" "When you're home, do you park in a garage," Lucky interrupted, "or on the street?" "Street," she told him. "When you pulled up," he asked, "after the movie, were there any cars near your apartment building that you didn't recognize?" Syd chewed on her lip, frowning slightly. "I don't remember." Lucky looked at Lana. "Can you take her back there?" "I can try, but..." "Gina's door is open," Syd said. "Syd, let's try to backtrack a few minutes," Lana said, "Let's go back to your car, after you've left the movie theater. You're driving home." "Why is her door open?" Syd asked, and Lana glanced at Lucky, shaking her head. "Her boyfriend must've left it open," Syd continued. "Figures a guy can't replace a fan belt also can't manage to shut a door and..." She sat up suddenly, her eyes wide open. She was looking straight at Lucky, but through him, or in front of him, not at him. She didn't see him. Instead, she saw something else, something he couldn't see. "Oh, my God!" Her hair was damp with perspiration, and she reached up with a shaking hand to push it away from her eyes.

Lana leaned forward. "Sydney, let's go back—" "Oh, my God, Gina! She's in the corner of the living room, and her face is bleeding! Her eye's swollen shut and... oh, God, oh, God. She wasn't just beaten. Her clothes are torn and..." Her voice changed, calmer, more controlled. "Yes, I need the police to come here right away." She recited the address as if she were talking on the telephone. "We'll need an ambulance, too. And a policewoman, please. My neighbor's been...raped." Her voice broke, and she took a deep breath. "Gina, here's your robe. I think it would be okay if you put it around yourself. Let me help you, hon..." "Sydney," Lana said gently. “I’m going to bring you back now. It's time to go." "Go?" Syd's voice cracked. "I can't leave Gina. How could you even think that I could just leave Gina? God, it's bad enough I have to pretend everything's going to be okay. Look at her! Look at her!" She started to cry; deep, wracking sobs that shook her entire body, a fountain of emotion brimming over and spilling down her cheeks. "What kind of monster could have done this to this girl? Look in her eyes—all of her hopes, her dreams, her life, they're gone! And you know with that mother of hers, she's going to live the rest of her life hiding from the world, too afraid ever to come back out again. And why? Because she left the window in the kitchen unlocked. She wasn't careful, because nobody had bothered to warn any of us that this son of a bitch was out there! They knew, the police knew, but nobody said a single word!" Lucky couldn't stop himself. He sat next to Sydney, and pulled her into his arms. "Oh, Syd, I'm sorry," he said. But she pushed him away, curling into herself, turning into a small ball in the corner of the couch, completely inconsolable. Lucky looked at Lana helplessly. "Syd," she said loudly. "I'm going to clap my hands twice, and you're going to fall asleep. You'll wake up in one minute, feeling completely refreshed. You won't remember any of this." Lana clapped her hands, and just like that, Syd's body relaxed. The room was suddenly very silent. Lucky sat back, resting his head against the back of the couch. He drew in a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. "I had no idea," he said. Syd was always so strong, so in control.... He remembered that message he'd found on his answering machine last night when he'd gotten home. The way she hadn't quite managed to hide the fear in her voice when she'd called him for help, thinking she was being followed by a stranger. You scared me to death, she'd told him, but he hadn't really believed it until he'd heard that phone message. What else was she hiding? "She clearly considers her stake in this to be personal," Lana said quietly. She stood up. "I think it would be better if you were in the waiting room when she wakes up."

Chapter 6 “Where are we going?" Syd asked, following Luke down toward the beach. "I want to show you something," he said. He'd been quiet ever since they'd left Lana Quinn's office—not just quiet, but subdued. Introspective. Brooding. It made her nervous. What exactly had she said and done while under the hypnotist's spell to make the ever-smiling Navy Ken brood? Syd had come out of the session feeling a little disoriented. At first she'd thought the hypnosis hadn't worked, but then she'd realized that about half an hour had passed from the time she'd first sat down. A half hour of which she remembered nothing. To Syd's disappointment, Lana told her she hadn't got a clear look at the rapist's unmasked face as he'd come down the stairs. They weren't any closer to identifying the man. Luke O'Donlon hadn't said a word to her. Not in Lana's office, not in his truck as they'd headed back here to the base. He'd parked by the beach and gotten out, saying only, “Come on." They stood now at the edge of the sand, watching the activity. And there was a great deal of activity on this beach, although there was nary a beach ball, a bikini-clad girl, a picnic basket or a colorful umbrella in sight. There were men on the beach, lots of men, dressed in long pants and combat boots despite the heat. One group ran down by the water at a pounding pace. The other group was split into smaller teams of six or seven, each of which wrestled a huge, heavy-looking, ungainly rubber raft toward the water, carrying it high above their heads while men with bullhorns shouted at them. ''This is part of BUD/S," Luke told her. "SEAL training. These men are SEAL candidates. If they make it through all the phases of this training, they'll go on to join one of the teams." Syd nodded. "I've read about this," she said. "There's a drop-out rate of something incredible, like fifty percent, right?" "Sometimes more." He pointed down the beach toward the group of men that were running through the surf. "Those guys are in phase two, which is mostly diving instruction, along with additional PT. That particular class started with a hundred men and today they're down to twenty-two. Most guys ring out in the first few days of phase one, which consists mostly of intense PT—that's physical training." "I'd kind of figured that out." "Navyspeak contains a lot of shorthand," he told her, "Let me know if you need anything explained." Why was he being so nice? He could have managed to sound patronizing, but he just sounded...nice. "Thanks," Syd managed. "Anyway, this class," he pointed again to the beach, "is down to only twenty-two because they had a string of bad luck—some kind of stomach flu hit during the start of Hell Week, and a record number of men were evac-ed out." He smiled, as if in fond memory. "If it was just a matter of barf and keep going, most of 'em probably would've stayed in, but this flu came with a dangerously high fever. Medical wouldn't let them stay. Those guys were rolled back to the next class—most of them are going through the first weeks of phase one again right now. To top that off, this particular class also just lost six men in the fallout from that diving accident. So their number's low." Syd watched the men who were running through the water—the candidates Luke had said were in the second phase of BUD/S training. "Somehow I was under the impression that the physical training ended after Hell Week." Luke laughed. "Are you kidding? PT never ends. Being a SEAL is kind of like being a continuous work in progress. You always keep running— every day. You've got to be able to do consistent seven-and-a-half-minute miles tomorrow and next month—and next year. If you let it slip, your whole team suffers. See, a SEAL team can only move as fast as its slowest man when it's moving as a unit." He gestured toward the men still carrying the black rubber boats above their heads. "That's what these guys are starting to learn. Teamwork. Identify an individual's strengths and weaknesses and use that information to keep your team operating at its highest potential." A red-haired girl on a bicycle rode into the parking lot. She skidded to a stop in the soft sand a few yards away from Luke and Syd, and sat down, watching the men on the beach. "Yo, Tash!" Luke called to her. She barely even glanced up, barely waved, so intent was she on watching the men on the beach. It was the girl Syd had met yesterday, the one who'd been at the base with Lieutenant Commander Francisco's wife. She was looking for someone, searching the beach, shading her eyes with her hand. "Frisco's not out here right now," Luke called to her. "I know," she said and went right on looking. Luke shrugged and turned back to Syd. "Check out this group here." He pointed at the men with the boats. "See this team with the short guy? He's not pulling his weight, right? He's not carrying much of the IBS—the inflatable boat—because he can hardly reach the damn thing. The taller men

have to compensate for him. But you better believe that the vertically challenged dude will make up for it somewhere down the road. He's light, probably fast. Maybe he's good at climbing. Or he can fit into tight places—places the bigger men can't. Shorty may not help too much when it comes to carrying something like an IBS, but, guaranteed, he'll do more than his share in the long run." He was quiet then, just watching the SEAL candidates, The group of runners—the candidates in the second phase of BUD/S training—collapsed on the sand. "Five minutes," Syd heard distantly but distinctly through a bullhorn. "And then, ladies, we do it all over again." The instructor with the bullhorn was Bobby Taylor, his long dark hair pulled back into a braid. As Syd watched, one of the candidates approached Bobby, pointing up toward the edge of the beach, toward them. Bobby seemed to shrug, and the candidate took off, running toward them through the soft sand. He was young and black, and the short, nearly shaved hairstyle that all the candidates sported served to emphasize the sharp angles of his face. He had a few scars, one disrupting the line of his right eyebrow, the other on his cheek, and they added to his aura of danger. Syd thought he was coming to talk to Luke, but he headed straight for the little girl on the bike. "Are you crazy?" His less-than-friendly greeting was accompanied by a scowl. "What did I tell you about riding your bike out here alone? And that was before this psycho-on-the-loose crap." "No one wanted to ride all the way out here with me." Tasha lifted her chin. They were both speaking loudly enough for Syd to easily overhear. "Besides, I'm fast. If I see any weirdos, I can get away, no problem." Sweat was literally pouring off the young man's face as he bent over to catch his breath, hands on his knees. "You're fast," he repeated skeptically. "Faster than a car?" She was exasperated. "No." "No." He glared at her. "Then it's not no problem, is it?" "I don't see what the big deal—" The black man exploded. "The big deal is that there's some son-of-a-bitch psycho running around town raping and beating the hell out of women. The big deal is that, as a female, you're a potential target. As a pretty, young female who's riding her bike alone, you're an attractive, easy target. You might as well wear a sign around your neck that says victim." "I read this guy breaks into women's homes," Tasha countered. "I don't see what that has to do with me riding my bike." Syd couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer. "Actually," she said, "serial rapists tend to do something called troll for victims. That means they drive around and look for a likely target—someone who's alone and potentially defenseless—and they follow her home. It's possible once they pick a victim, they follow her for several days or even weeks, searching for the time and place she's the most vulnerable. Just because all of the other attacks we know about occurred in the victims' homes doesn't mean he's not going to pull his next victim into the woods." "Thank you, voice of reason," the young man said. He gave Tasha a hard look. "Hear that, wild thing? Uncle Lucky's girlfriend here sounds like she knows what she's talking about." Uncle Lucky's girlfriend...? "Oh," Syd said. "No. I'm not his—" "So, what am I supposed to do?" The girl was exasperated and indignant. "Stay home all day?" Tasha and her friend were back to their fight, intently squaring off, neither of them paying any attention to Syd's protests. Luke, however, cleared his throat. Syd didn't dare look at him. "Yes," the young man answered Tasha's question just as fiercely and without hesitation. "Until this is over, yes. Stay home." She gave him an incredulous look. "But, Thomas—" "How many times in the years that we've been friends have I ever asked you for a favor, princess?" Thomas asked, his voice suddenly quiet, but no less intense. "I'm asking for one now." Tears welled suddenly in Tasha's eyes and she blinked rapidly. "I needed to see you. After hearing about that diving accident..." The harsh lines of his face softened slightly. "I'm fine, baby." "I see that," she said. "Now." Syd turned away, aware that she was watching them, afraid that her curiosity about their relationship was written all over her face. Thomas had to be in his twenties, and Tasha was only in her teens. He'd referred to them as friends, but it didn't take a genius-level IQ to see that the girl's attachment to this man was much stronger. But he was being careful not to touch her, careful to use words like friends, careful to keep his distance. "How about I call you?" he suggested, kindly. "Three times a week, a few minutes before twenty-one hundred— nine o'clock? Check in and let you

know how I'm doing. Would that work?" Tasha chewed on her lower lip. "Make it five times a week, and you've got a deal." “I’ll try for four," he countered. "But—" She shook her head. "Five" He looked at her crossed arms, at the angle of her tough-kid chin and assumed the same pose. "Four. But I don't get every evening off, you know, so some weeks it might be only three. But if I get weekend liberty, I'll drop by, okay? In return, you've got to promise me you don't go anywhere alone until this bad guy is caught." She gave in, nodding her acceptance, gazing up at him as if she were memorizing his face. "Say it," he insisted. "I promise." "I promise, too," he said then glanced at his watch. "Damn, I gotta go." He turned, focusing on Luke and Syd as if for the first time. "Hey, Uncle Lucky. Drive Tasha home." It was, without a doubt, a direct order. Luke saluted. "Yes, sir, Ensign King, sir." Thomas's harshly featured face relaxed into a smile that made him look his age. "Sorry, Lieutenant," he said. "I meant, please drive Tasha home, sir. It's not safe right now for a young woman to ride all that distance alone." Luke nodded. "Consider it done." "Thank you, sir." The young man pointed his finger at Tasha. "I don't want to see you here again. At least not without Mia or Frisco." And he was gone, lifting his hand in a farewell as he ran back to the rest of his class. Luke cleared his throat. "Tash, you mind hanging for a minute? I've got—" The girl had already moved down the beach, out of ear shot. She sat in the sand, arms around her knees, watching the SEAL candidates. Watching Thomas. "I've got to finish this really important discussion I was having with my girlfriend," Luke finished, purely for Syd's benefit. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Not funny." "Damn," he said with a smile. "I was hoping I could get you to squawk again. ‘I’m not his girlfriend,'" he imitated her badly. "Also not funny." His smile widened. "Yes, it is." "No, it's—" "Let's call it a healthy difference of opinions and let it go at that." Syd closed her mouth and nodded. Fair enough. He looked out over the glistening ocean, squinting slightly against the glare. "The reason I wanted you to see this, you know, BUD/S, was to give you a look at the teamwork that takes place in the SEAL units." "I know you think I'm going to get in your way over the next few days or weeks," Syd started. "But—" Luke cut her off. "I know you'll get in my way," he countered. "When was the last time you ran a seven-and-a-half minute mile?" "Never, but—" "The way I see it, we can make this work by utilizing your strengths and being completely honest about your weaknesses." "But—" This time Syd cut her own self off. Did he say make this work? "Here's what I think we should do," Luke said. He was completely serious. "I think we should put you to work doing what you do best. Investigative reporting. Research. I want you to be in charge of finding a pattern, finding something among the facts we know that will bring us closer to the rapist." "But the police are already doing that." "We need to do it, too." The breeze off the ocean stirred his already tousled hair. "There's got to be something they've missed, and I'm counting on

you to find it. I know you will, because I know how badly you want to catch this guy." He gazed back at the ocean. "You, uh, kind of gave that away in Lana Quinn's office." "Oh," Syd said. "God." What else had she said or done? She couldn't bring herself to ask. "We're both on the same page, Syd," Luke said quietly, intensely. "I really want to catch this guy, too. And I'm willing to have you on my team, but only if you're willing to be a team player. That means you contribute by using your strengths—your brain and your ability to research. And you contribute equally by sitting back and letting the rest of us handle the physical stuff. You stay out of danger. We get a lead, you stay back at the base or in the equipment van. No arguments. You haven't trained for combat, you haven't done enough PT to keep up, and I won't have you endanger the rest of the team or yourself." "I'm not that out of shape," she protested. "You want to prove it?" he countered. "If you can run four miles in thirty minutes while wearing boots, and complete the BUD/S obstacle course in ten minutes—" "Okay," she said. "Good point. Not in this lifetime. I'll stay in the van." "Last but not least," he said, still earnestly, "I'm in command. If you're part of this team, you need to remember that I'm the CO. When I give an order you say 'yes, sir.'" "Yes, sir." He smiled. "So are we in agreement?" "Yes, sir." "You obviously need to learn the difference between a question and an order." Syd shook her head. "No," she said, "I don't." *** "Okay," Syd asked, "it's ten against one. Do you fight or flee?" "Fight. Definitely fight." Petty Officer Rio Rosetti's Brooklyn accent came and went depending on who he was talking to, and right now it was one hundred percent there. When he was with Syd, he was one hundred percent tough guy. Lucky stood outside his temporary office, eavesdropping as Lieutenant Michael Lee added his quiet opinion. "Depends on who the ten are," Lee mused. "And what they're carrying. Ten of Japan's elite commandos—I might choose the old 'live to fight another day' rule and run." "What I want to know," Ensign Thomas King's rich voice chimed in, "is what I'm doing in a ten-to-one situation without the rest of my SEAL team." Syd fit right in. For the past two days, she and Lucky and Bobby had been working around the clock, trying to find something that the police might've missed. Syd worked with the information they had on the victims, and Bobby and Lucky went through file after file of personnel records, looking for anything that connected any of the officers and enlisted men currently stationed in Coronado to any hint of a sex crime. Admiral Stonegate's handpicked trio of SEAL candidates spent their off hours helping. They were a solid group— good, reliable men, despite their connection to Admiral Stonehead. And after only two days, Syd was best friends with all three of them. And Bobby, too. She laughed, she smiled, she joked, she fumed at the computers. It was only with Lucky that she was strictly business. All "yes, sir," and "no, sir," and that too-polite, slightly forced smile, even when they were alone and still working at oh-one-hundred.... Lucky had managed to negotiate a truce with her. They had a definite understanding, but he couldn't help but wish he could've gone with the girlfriend alliance scenario. Yes, it would've been messy further down the road, but it would have been much more fun. Especially since he still hadn't been able to stop thinking about that kiss. "Here's another 'what if situation for you," Lucky heard Syd say. "You're a woman—" "What?" Rio hooted. "I thought you wanted to know about being a SEAL?" "This is related to this assignment," she explained. "Just hear me out. You're a woman, and you turn around to find a man wearing panty hose on his head in your apartment in the middle of the night." "You tell him, 'no darling, that shade of taupe simply doesn't work with your clothing.'" Rio laughed at his joke. "You want me to kill him or muzzle him?" Thomas King asked. "Rosetti, I'm serious here," Syd said. "This has happened to eleven women. There's nothing funny about it. Maybe you don't understand because

you're not a woman, but personally I find the thought terrifying. I saw this guy. He was big—about Thomas's size." "Flee," Mike Lee said. "But what if you can't?" Syd asked. "What if there's no place to run? If you're trapped in your own apartment by a known rapist? Do you fight? Or do you submit?" Silence. Submit. The word made Lucky squirm. He stepped into the room. "Fight," he said. "How could you do anything but fight?" The three other men agreed, Rio pulling his boots down off the table and sitting up a little straighter. Syd glanced up at him, her brown eyes subdued. "But we're not women," Rio said with a burst of wisdom and insight. "We're not even men anymore." "Hey, speak for yourself," Thomas said. "I mean, we're more than men," Rio countered. "We're SEALs. Well, almost SEALs. And with the training I've had, I'm not really afraid of anyone— and I'm not exactly the biggest guy in the world. Most women haven't got either the training or the strength to kick ass in a fight with a guy who outweighs 'em by seventy pounds." Lucky looked at Syd. She was wearing a plain T-shirt with her trademark baggy pants, sandals on her feet instead of her boots. Sometime between last night and this morning, she'd put red polish on her toenails. "What would you do?" he asked her, taking a doughnut from the box that was open on the table. "Fight or..." He couldn't even say it. She met his gaze steadily. "I've been going through the interviews with the victims, looking for a pattern of violence that correlates to their responses to his attack. A majority of the women fought back, but some of them didn't. One of them pretended to faint—went limp. Several others say they froze—they were so frightened they couldn't move. A few others, like Gina, just cowered." "And?" Lucky said, dragging a chair up to the table. "And I wish I could say that there's a direct relationship between the amount of violence the rapist inflicted on the victim and the amount that she fought back. In the first half-dozen or so attacks, it seemed as if the more the woman fought, the more viciously he beat her. And there were actually two cases where our perp walked away from women who didn't fight back. As if he didn't want to waste his time." "So then it makes sense to advise women to submit,” Lucky figured. "Maybe at first, but I'm not so sure about that anymore, His pattern's changed over the past few weeks." Syd scowled down at the papers in front of her. "We have eleven victims, spanning a seven-week period. During those seven weeks, the level of violence our guy is using to dominate his victims has begun to intensify." Lucky nodded. He'd overheard Syd and Lucy discussing this several nights ago. "Out of the six most recent victims, we've had four who fought back right from the start, one who pretended to faint, and Gina, the most recent, who cowered and didn't resist. Out of those six, Gina got the worst beating. Yet—go figure—the other woman who didn't resist was barely touched." "So if you fight this guy, you can guarantee you'll be hurt," Lucky concluded. "But if you submit, you've got a fifty-fifty chance of his walking away from you." "And a chance of being beaten within an inch of your life," Syd said grimly. "Keep in mind, too, that we're making projections and assumptions based on six instances. We'd really need a much higher number of cases to develop any kind of an accurate pattern." "Let's hope we don't get that opportunity," Mike Lee said quietly. "Amen to that," Thomas King seconded. "I still think, knowing that, I would recommend zero resistance," Lucky said. "I mean, if you had a shot at this guy just walking away..." "That's true." Syd chewed on her lower lip. "But actually, there's more to this—something that puts a weird spin on the situation. It has to do with, um..." She glanced almost apologetically at the other men. "Ejaculation." Rio stood up. "Whoops, look at the time. Gotta go." Syd made a face. "I know this is kind of creepy," she said, "but I think it's important you guys know all the details." "Sit," Lucky ordered. Rio sat, but only on the edge of his seat. "Actually, Lieutenant," Mike said evenly, "we've got a required class in five minutes. If we leave now, we'll be on time." He looked at Syd. "I assume you'll be writing a memo about...this for the other members of the task force...?"

Syd nodded. "There you go," Rio said with relief. "We'll read all about it in your memo." All three men stood up, and Lucky felt a surge of panic, They were going to go, leaving him alone with Syd, who wanted to discuss... Yikes. Still, what was he supposed to say, "no, you can't go to class?" "Go," he said, and they all nearly ran out the door. Syd laughed. "Well," she said, "I sure know how to clear a room, don't I?" She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't want to follow them, Lieutenant? Read about this in my memo instead?" Lucky stood up to pour himself a cup of coffee from the setup by the door. He had to search for a mug that was clean, and he was glad for the excuse to keep his back to her. "Nothing about this assignment has been pleasant. So if you think this is something I need to hear..." "I do." Lucky poured himself a cup of coffee, then, taking a deep breath, he turned to face her. He carried it back to the table and sat down across from her. "Okay," he said, "Shoot." "According to the medical reports, our man didn't.., shall we say, achieve sexual completion, unless the woman fought back," Syd told him. Oh, God. "We need to keep in mind," she continued, "the fact that rape isn't about sex. It's about violence and power, Domination. Truth is, many serial rapists never ejaculate at all. And in fact, out of these eleven cases of rape, we've got only four instances of sexual, um, completion. Like I said, all of them occurred when the victim fought back, or—and this is important—when the victim was forced to fight back." "But wait. You said a majority of the victims fought back." Lucky leaned forward. "Couldn't he have been wearing a condom the other times?" "Not according to the victims' statements." Syd stood up and started to pace. "There's more, Luke, listen to this. Gina said in her interview that she didn't resist. She cowered, and he hit her, and she cowered some more. And then, she says he spent about ten minutes trashing her apartment. I went in there. The place looked like there'd been one hell of a fight. But she didn't fight back. "I'm wondering if this guy was trying to simulate the kind of environment in which the victim has fought back, in an attempt to achieve some kind of sexual release. When he went back to Gina after he tore the place up, he kicked the hell out of her, but she still didn't do more than curl into a ball— and, if my theory's right, she therefore didn't give him what he wanted. So what does he do? He's angry as hell and he tears at her clothes, but she still doesn't resist. So he grabs her by the throat and starts squeezing. Bingo. Instant response. She can't breathe—she starts struggling for air. She starts fighting. And that does the trick for him, maybe that plus the sheer terror he can see in her eyes, because now, you know, she thinks he's going to kill her. He achieves sexual completion, inflicts his final moment of pain upon her by burning her, then leaves. The victim's still alive—this time." Oh, God. "It's really just a matter of time before he squeezes someone's throat too hard, or for too long, and she dies," Syd continued grimly. "And if taking a life gives him the right kind of rush—and it's hard to believe that it won't— he'll have transitioned. Serial rapist to serial killer. We already know he's into fear. He likes terrorizing his victims. He likes the power that gives him. And letting someone know she's going to die can generate an awful lot of terror for her and pleasure for him." Syd carried her half-empty mug to the sink and tossed the remnants of her coffee down the drain. "Fight or submit," she said. "Fighting gives him what he wants, but gets you a severe beating. Still, submitting pisses him off. And it could enrage him enough to kill." Lucky threw his half-eaten doughnut into the trash can, feeling completely sick. "We've got to catch this guy." "That," Syd agreed, "would be nice."

Chapter 7 Luke O'Donlon was waiting when Syd pulled up. "Is she alive?" she asked as she got out of her car. The quiet residential area was lit up, the street filled with police cars and ambulances, even a fire truck. Every light was blazing in the upscale house. Luke nodded. "Yes." "Thank God. Have you been inside?" He shook his head. "Not yet. I took a...walk around the neighborhood. If he's still here, he's well hidden. I've got the rest of the team going over the area more carefully." It was remarkable, really. When Syd had received Luke's phone call telling her Lucy had just called, that there'd been another attack, she'd been fast asleep. She'd quickly pulled on clothes, splashed water on her face and hurried out to her car. She felt rumpled and mismatched, slightly offbalance and sick to her stomach from exhaustion and fear that this time the attacker had gone too far. Luke, on the other hand, looked as if he'd been grimly alert for hours. He was wearing what he'd referred to before as his summer uniform—shortsleeved, light fabric—definitely part of the Navy Ken clothing action pack. His shoes were polished and his hair was neatly combed. He'd even managed to shave, probably while he was driving over. Or maybe he shaved every night before he went to bed on the off chance he'd need to show up somewhere and be presentable at a moment's notice. "Is the victim...?" "Badly beaten," he said tersely. As if on cue, a team of paramedics carried a stretcher from the house, one of them holding an IV bag high. The victim was strapped down, her neck in a brace. She was carried right past them—the poor woman looked as if she'd been hit by a truck, both eyes swollen shut, her face savaged with bruises and cuts. "God," Luke breathed. It was one thing to read about the victims. Even the horror of photographs was one step removed from the violence. But seeing this poor woman, a mere hour after the attack... Syd knew the sight of that battered face had brought the reality of this situation home to the SEAL in a way nothing else could have. "Let's go inside," she said. Luke was still watching the victim as she was gently loaded into the ambulance. He turned his head toward Syd almost jerkily. Uh-oh. "You okay?" she asked quietly. "God," he said again. "It's awful, isn't it? That's pretty much what Gina looked like," she told him. "Like she'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champ on speed. And what he did to her face is the least of it." He shook his head. "You know, I've seen guys who were injured. I've helped patch up guys who've been in combat. I'm not squeamish, really, but knowing that some one did that to her and got pleasure from it..." He took a deep breath and blew it out hard. "I'm feeling a little...sick." He'd gone completely pale beneath his tan. Oh, boy, unless she did something fast, the big tough warrior was going to keel over in a dead faint. "I am, too," Syd said. "Mind if we take a minute and sit down?" She took his arm and gently pulled him down next to her on the stairs that led to the front door, all but pushing his head down between his knees. They sat there in silence for many long minutes after the ambulance pulled away. Syd carefully kept her eyes on the activity in the street—the neighbors who'd come out in their yards, the policemen keeping the more curious at a safe distance—looking anywhere but at Luke. She was aware of his breathing, aware that he'd dropped his head slightly in an attempt to fight his dizziness. She took many steadying breaths herself—but her own dizziness was more from her amazement that he could be affected this completely, this powerfully. After what seemed like forever, she sensed more than saw Luke straighten up, heard him draw in one last deep breath and blow it out in a burst. "Thanks," he said. Syd finally risked a glance at him. Most of the color had returned to his face. He reached for her hand, loosely lacing her fingers with his as he gave her a rueful smile. "That would've been really embarrassing if I'd fainted." "Oh," she said innocently, "were you feeling faint, too? I know I'm not taking enough time to eat right these days, and that plus the lack of sleep...."

He gently squeezed her hand. “And thanks, also, for not rubbing in the fact that right now I'm the one slowing you down." "Well, now that you mention it...." Luke laughed. God, he was good-looking when he laughed. Syd felt her hands start to sweat. If she hadn't been light-headed before, she sure as hell was now. "Let's go inside," Luke said. "Find out if this guy left a calling card this time." Syd gently pulled her hand free as she stood up. "Wouldn't that be nice?" "Mary Beth Hollis..." Detective Lucy McCoy told Syd over the phone "...is twenty-nine years old. She works in San Diego as an administrative assistant to a bank president." Syd was sitting in the airless office at the naval base, entering the information about the latest victim into the computer. "Single?" she asked. "Recently married." Syd crossed her fingers. "Please tell me her husband works here at the base..." She had a theory about the victims, and she was hoping she was right. But Lucy made the sound of the loser button. "Sorry," she said. "He works in legal services at the same bank." "Her father?" "Deceased. Her mother owns her own flower shop in Coronado." Syd didn't give up. "Brothers?" "She's an only child." "How about her husband. Did he have any brothers or sisters in the Navy?" Lucy knew where she was going. "I'm sorry, Syd, Mary Beth has no family ties to the base." Syd swore. That made her theory a lot less viable. "But..." Lucy said. Syd sat up. "What? You've got something?" "Don't get too excited. You know the official police and FInCOM position—" "That the fact that eight out of twelve victims are connected to the base is mere coincidence?" Syd said a most indelicate word. "Where's the connection with Mary Beth?" "It's a stretch," Lucy admitted. "Tell me." "Former boyfriend. And I mean former. As in nearly ancient history. Although Mary Beth just got married, she's been living with her lawyer for close to four years. Way before that, she was hot and heavy with a captain who still works as a doctor at the military hospital. Captain Steven Horowitz." Syd sighed. Four years ago. That was a stretch. "Still think there's a connection?" Lucy asked. "Yes." Lucky poked his head in the door. “Ready to go?'' Like Syd, he'd been working nonstop since last night's late-night phone call about the most recent attack. But unlike Syd, he still looked crisp and fresh, as if he'd spent the afternoon napping rather than sifting through the remaining personal files of the men on the naval base. "I gotta run," Syd told Lucy. "I'm going back to the hypnotist, see if I noticed any strange cars parked in front of my house on the night Gina was attacked. Wish me luck." "Good luck," Lucy said. "If you could remember the license-plate number, I'd be most appreciative." "Yeah, what are the odds of that? I don't even know my own plate number. Later, Lucy." Syd hung up the phone, saved her computer file and stood, trying to stretch the kinks out of her back. "Anything new turn up?" Lucky asked as they started down the hall.

"Four years ago, Mary Beth Hollis—victim twelve— used to date a Captain Horowitz." "Used to date," he repeated. He gave her a sidelong glance. "You're working hard to keep your theory alive, eh?" "Don't even think of teasing me about this," Syd countered. "Considering all the women who lived in San Felipe and Coronado, it couldn't be coincidence that nine out of twelve victims were related to someone who worked at the base. There's a connection between these women and the base, I'm sure of it. However, what that connection is..." She shook her head in frustration. "It's there—I just can't see it. Yet," she added. "I know I'm close. I have this feeling in my..." She broke off, realizing how ridiculous she sounded. She had a feeling.... “In your gut?'' he finished for her. "Okay." She was resigned. "Go ahead. Laugh at me. I know. It's just a crazy hunch." "Why should I laugh at you," Luke said, "when I believe that you're probably on to something?" He snorted. "Hell, I'd trust your hunches over FInCOM's any day." He wasn't laughing. He actually believed her. As Syd followed Lieutenant Lucky O'Donlon out into the brilliant afternoon, she realized that over the past few days, something most unlikely had occurred. She and Navy Ken had actually started to become friends. Syd opened her eyes and found herself gazing up at an unfamiliar ceiling in a darkened room. She was lying on her back on a couch and... She turned her head and saw Dr. Lana Quinn's gentle smile. "How'd l do?" she asked. Lana made a slight face and shook her head. "A 'dark, old-model sedan' was the best you could come up with. When I asked you what make or model, you said ugly. You didn't see the plates—not that anyone expected you to— but I have to confess I'd hoped." "Yeah, me, too." Syd tiredly pulled herself up into a sitting position. "I'm not a car person. I'm sorry—" She looked around. “Where's Luke?'' "Waiting room," Lana said as she pulled open the curtains, brightening up the room. "He fell asleep while he was out there—while I was putting you under. He looked so completely wiped out, I couldn't bring myself to wake him." "It's been a tough couple of days," Syd told the doctor. "I heard another woman was attacked last night." "It's been frustrating," Syd admitted. "Particularly for Luke. We haven't had a whole lot of clues to go on. There's not much to do besides wait for this guy to screw up. I think if Luke had the manpower, he'd put every woman in both of these cities in protective custody. I keep expecting him to start driving around with a bullhorn warning women to leave town." "Quinn's in DC this week," Lana said. "He's worried, too. He actually asked Wes Skelly to check up on me. I left for work earlier than usual this morning, and Wes was sitting in his truck in front of my house. It's crazy." "Luke keeps trying to get me to stay overnight at the base," Syd told her, "and for the first time in his life, it's for platonic reasons." Lana laughed as she opened the door to the waiting room. "I'm sorry to have to kick you out so soon, but I've got another patient." "No problem. Dark, old-model sedan," Syd repeated. ''Thanks again." "Sorry I couldn't be of more help." Syd went into the waiting room, where a painfully thin woman sat as far away as possible from Luke, who lay sprawled on the couch, still fast asleep. He was adorable when he slept—completely, utterly, disgustingly adorable. The skinny woman went into Lana's office, closing the door tightly behind her as Syd approached Luke. "Time to go," she announced briskly. No response. "O'Donlon." He didn't even twitch. His eyes remained shut, his lashes about a mile long, thick and dark against his perfect, tanned cheeks. No way was she going to touch him. She'd read far too many books where professional soldiers nearly killed the hapless fool who tried to shake them awake.

She clapped her hands, and still he slept on. “Damn it, Luke, wake up." Nothing. Not that she blamed him. She was exhausted, too. All right. She wasn't going to touch him, but she was going to poke him from a safe distance. She took the copy of Psychology Today that was on the end table, rolled it up and, trying to stay as far back from him as possible, jabbed him in the ribs. It happened so fast, she wasn't completely sure she even saw him move. One moment, his eyes were closed, the next he had her pinned to the waiting-room floor, one hand holding both of her wrists above her head, his other forearm heavy against her throat. The eyes that gazed into hers were those of an animal— soulless and fierce. The face those eyes belonged to was hard and severe and completely deadly, his mouth a taut line, his teeth slightly bared. But then he blinked and turned back into Luke O'Donlon, aka Lucky, aka her own living Navy Ken. "Jeez." He lifted his arm from her throat so that she could breathe again. "What the hell were you trying to do?" "Not this," Syd said, clearing her throat, her head starting to throb from where it had made hard contact with the floor. "In fact, I was trying to do the exact opposite of this, But I couldn't wake you up." "Oh, man, I must've..." He shook his head, still groggy. "Usually I can take a combat nap and wake up at the least little noise." "Not this time." "Sometimes, if I'm really tired, and if I know I'm in a safe place, my body takes over and I go into a deep sleep and—" his eyes narrowed slightly. "You're supposed to be hypnotized," he remembered. "How come you're not hypnotized?" As Syd stared up into the perfect blueness of his eyes, she wasn't sure she wasn't hypnotized. Why else would she just lie here on the floor with the full weight of his body pressing down on top of her without protesting even a little? Maybe she'd gotten a concussion. Maybe that was what had rendered her so completely stupid. But maybe not. Her head hurt, but not that much. Maybe her stupidity was from more natural causes. "Dark, old-model sedan," she told him. "Lana didn't want to wake you, and it's just as well. I'm an idiot when it comes to cars. That and calling it ugly was the best I could do." Was he never going to get off her ever again? She could feel the muscular tautness of his thigh pressed between her legs. She could feel... Oh, God. "Are you okay?" he asked, rolling away from her. "Last time you were hypnotized it was something of an emotional roller coaster. I'm sorry I fell asleep. I really wanted to be there, in case..." He laughed sheepishly, giving her what she thought of as his best Harrison Ford self-deprecating smile. It was as charming on Luke as it was on Harrison. ''Well, this sounds really presumptuous, but I wanted to be there in case you needed me." She would have found his words impossibly sweet—if she were the type to be swayed by sweet words. And she would've missed the warmth of his body if she were the type to long for strong arms to hold her. And if she were the type to wish he'd pull her close again and kiss her and kiss her and kiss her... But she wasn't. She wasn't. Having a man around was nice, but not a necessity. Besides, she never took matters of the heart and all of their physical, sexual trappings lightly. Sex was a serious thing, and Luke, with his completely unplastic, extremely warm body, didn't do serious. He'd told her that himself. "I was okay," she said, desperately trying to bring them back to a familiar place she could handle—that irreverent place of friendly insults and challenges, “until you hit me with a World Wrestling Federation-quality body slam, Earthquake McGoon." "Ho," he said, almost as if he were relieved to be done with the dangerously sweet words and their accompanying illusion of intimacy himself, as if he were as eager to follow her back to the outlined safety of their completely platonic friendship. "You're a fine one to complain, genius, considering you woke me up by sticking a gun barrel into my ribs." "A gun barrel!" She laughed her disbelief. "Get real!" "What the hell was that, anyway?" Syd picked up the magazine and tightly rolled it, showing him. "It felt like a gun barrel." He pulled himself to his feet and held out his hand to help Syd up. “Next time you want to wake me, and calling my name won't do it," he said, "think Sleeping Beauty. A kiss'll do the trick every time." Yeah, right. Like she'd ever try to kiss Luke O'Donlon awake. He'd probably grab her and throw her down and...

And kiss her until the room spun, until she surrendered her clothes, her pride, her identity, her very soul. And probably her heart, as well. "Maybe we shouldn't leave," she said tartly, as she fol lowed Luke out the door. "It seems to me that the safest place for a Navy SEAL who fantasizes that he's Sleeping Beauty is right here, in a psychologist's waiting room." "Ha," Luke said, "ha." "What's on the schedule for this afternoon?" Syd asked as Luke pulled his truck into the parking lot by the administration building. "I'm going to start hanging out in bars," Luke told her. "The seedier the better." She turned to look at him. "Well, that's productive. Drinking yourself into oblivion while the rest of us sweat away in the office?" He turned off the engine but didn't move to get out of the truck. "You know as well as I do that I have no intention of partying." "You think you'll single-handedly find this guy by going to bar after bar?" she asked. "You don't even know what he looks like." He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "Syd, I've got to do something before he hurts someone else." "His pattern is four to seven days between attacks." Luke snorted. "That's supposed to make me feel better?" He swore, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "I feel like I'm sitting on a time bomb. What if this guy goes after Veronica Catalanotto next? She's home all alone, with only a toddler in her house. Melody Jones is out of town with her baby, thank God." He ticked them off on his fingers—the wives of his teammates in Alpha Squad. "Nell Hawken lives over in San Diego. She's safe—at least until this bastard decides to widen his target area. PJ Becker works for FInCOM. Both she and Lucy are best qualified to deal with this. They're both tough but, hell, no one's invincible. And there's you." He turned to look at her again. "You live alone. Doesn't that scare you, even a little bit?" Syd thought about last night. About that noise she thought she'd heard as she was brushing her teeth. She'd locked herself in the bathroom, and if she'd had the cell phone with her, she would have called Luke in a complete panic. But she hadn't had her phone—in hindsight she could say thank God—and she'd sat, silently, fear coursing through her veins, for nearly thirty minutes, barely breathing as she waited, listening to hear that noise outside the bathroom door again. Fight or submit. She'd thought about little else for all thirty of those minutes. And fight pretty much won. There was nothing in the bathroom that could be used as a weapon except for the heavy ceramic lid to the back of the toilet. She'd brandished it high over her head as she'd finally emerged from the bathroom to find she was, indeed, alone in her apartment. But she'd turned on every lamp in the place, checked all the window locks twice, and slept—badly—with the lights blazing. "Nah," she said now. "I'm just not the type that scares easily." He smiled as if he knew she was lying. "What, did you get spooked and sleep with all the lights on last night?" he asked. "Me?" She tried to sound affronted. "No way." "That's funny," he said. "Because when I drove past your place at about : a.m. it sure looked as if you had about four million watts of electricity working." She was taken aback. "You drove past my apartment...?" He realized he'd given himself away. "Well, yeah...I was in the neighborhood...." "How many nights have you been spending your time cruising the streets of San Felipe instead of sleeping?" she asked. He looked away, and she realized she'd collided with the truth. "No wonder you nearly fainted last night," she said. No wonder he'd looked as if he hadn't been pulled from bed. "I wasn't going to faint," he protested. "You were so going to faint." "No way. I was just a little dizzy." She glared at him. "How on earth do you expect to catch this guy if you don't take care of yourself—if you don't get a good night's sleep?" "How on earth can I get a good night's sleep," he said through gritted teeth, "until I catch this guy?" He was serious. He was completely serious. "My God," Syd said slowly. "It's the real you."

"The real me?" he repeated, obviously not understanding. Or at least pretending that he didn't understand. "The insensitive macho thing's just an act," she accused him. She was certain of that now. "Mr. Aren't-I-Wonderful? in a gleaming uniform—a little bit dumb, but with too many other enticements to care. Most people can't see beyond that, can they?" "Well," he said modestly, "I don't have that much to offer...." The truth was, he was a superhero for the new millenium. "You're a great guy—a really intriguing mix of alpha male and sensitive beta. Why do you feel that you have to hide that?" "I'm not sure," he said, "but I think you're insulting me." "Cut the crap," she commanded. "Because I also know you've got a beta's IQ, smart boy." "Smart boy," he mused. "Much better than Ken, huh, Midge?" Syd tried not to blush. How many times had she slipped and actually addressed him as Ken? Too many, obviously. “What can I say? You had me fooled with the ultraplastic veneer." "As long as we're doing the Invasion of the Body-Snatchers thing and pointing fingers at the non-pod people, I'd like to do the same to you." He extended his arm so that his index finger nearly touched her face, and let out an awful-sounding squawk. Syd raised one eyebrow as she gazed silently at him. "There," he said, triumphantly. "That look. That disdained dismay. You hide behind that all the time." "Right," she said. "And what exactly is it that I'm bothering to hide from you?" "I think you're hiding," he paused dramatically, "the fact that you cry at movies." She gave him her best "you must be crazy" look. "I do not." "Or maybe I should just say you cry. You pretend to be so tough. So...unmovable. Methodically going about trying to find a connection between the rape victims, as if it's all just a giant puzzle to be solved, another step in the road to success which starts with you writing an exclusive story about the capture of the San Felipe Rapist. As if the human part of the story—these poor, traumatized women—doesn't make you want to cry." She couldn't meet his gaze. "Even if I were the type of person who cried, there's no time," she said as briskly as she possibly could. She didn't want him to know she'd cried buckets for Gina and all of the other victims in the safety and privacy of her shower. "I think you're secretly a softy," he continued. "I think you can't resist giving to every charity that sends you a piece of junk mail. But I also think someone once told you that you'll be bulldozed over for being too nice, so you try to be tough, when in truth you're a pushover." Syd rolled her eyes. "If you really need to think that about me, go right a—" "So what are you doing this afternoon?" Syd opened the door to the cab, ready to end this conversation. How had it gotten so out of hand? "Nothing. Working. Learning all there is to know about serial rapists. Trying to figure out what it is I'm missing that ties the victims together." “Frisco told me you asked his permission to bring Gina Sokoloski onto the base." Busted. Syd shrugged, trying to downplay it. “I need to talk to her, get more information. Find out if there's anyone connecting her to the Navy— anyone we might have missed." "You could have done that over the phone." Syd climbed out of the truck, slamming the door behind her. Luke followed. "Yeah, well, I thought it would be a good idea if Gina actually left her mother's house. It's nearly been two weeks, and she still won't open her bedroom curtains. I may not even be able to convince her to come with me." "See?" he said. "You're nice. In fact, that's not just regular nice, that's gooey nice. It's prize-winning nice. It's—" She turned toward him, ready to gag him if necessary. "All right! Enough! I'm nice. Thank you!" "Sweet," he said. "You're sweet." "Grrrr," said Syd. But he just laughed, clearly unafraid. Lucky stood on the beach, about a dozen yards behind the blanket Syd had spread on the sand. She'd brought wide-brimmed hats—one for Gina and one for herself, no doubt to shade the younger woman's still-battered face from the hot afternoon sun. Syd had bought sunglasses, too. Big ones that helped hide Gina's bruised eyes. Together

Gina clutched her soda tightly, her legs pulled in to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, her head down. It was as close to a fetal position as she could get. She was a picture of tension and fear. But Syd was undaunted. She sprawled on her stomach, elbows propping up her chin, keeping up a nearly continuous stream of chatter. Down on the beach, the phase-one SEAL candidates were doing a teamwork exercise with telephone poles. And, just for kicks, during a so-called break, Wes and Aztec and the other instructors had them do a set of sugar-cookie drills—running into the surf to get soaked, and then rolling over and over so that the white powdery sand stuck to every available inch of them, faces included. Faces in particular. Then it was back to the telephone poles. Syd gestured toward the hard-working, sand-covered men with her cola can, and Lucky knew she was telling Gina about BUD/S. About Hell Week. About the willpower the men needed to get through the relentless discomfort and physical pain day after day after day after day, with only four blessed hours of sleep the whole week long. Perseverance. If you had enough of that mysterious quality that made you persevere, you'd survive. You'd make it through. You'd be wet, you'd be cold, you'd be shaking with fatigue, muscles cramping and aching, blisters not just on your feet, but in places you didn't ever imagine you could get blisters, and you'd break it all down into the tiniest segments possible. Life became not a day or an hour or even a minute. It became a footstep. Right foot. Then left. Then right again. It became a heartbeat, a lungful of air, a nanosecond of existence to be endured and triumphed over. Lucky knew what Syd was telling Gina, because she'd asked him—and Bobby, and Rio, Thomas and Michael— countless questions about BUD/S, and about Hell Week in particular. As he watched, whatever precisely Syd was saying caught Gina's attention. As he watched, the younger woman lifted her head and seemed to focus on the men on the beach. As he watched, Syd, with her gentle magic, helped Gina take the first shaky steps back to life. Gina, like the SEAL candidates in BUD/S, needed to persevere. Yeah, being assaulted sucked. Life had given her a completely unfair, losing hand to play—a deal that was about as bad as it could get. But she needed to keep going, to move forward, to work through it one painful step at a time, instead of ringing out and quitting life. And Syd, sweet, kind Syd, was trying to help her do just that. Lucky leaned against Syd's ridiculous excuse for a car, knowing he should get back to work, but wanting nothing more than to spend a few more minutes here in the warm sun. Wishing he were on that blanket with Syd, wishing she had brought a soda for him, wishing he could lose himself in the fabulously textured richness of her eyes, wishing she would lean toward him and lift her mouth and... Ooo-kay. It was definitely time to go. Definitely time to... Over on the blanket, Syd leapt to her feet. As Lucky watched, she danced in a circle around Gina, spinning and jumping. Miracle of miracles, Gina was actually laughing at her. But then Syd turned and spotted him. Yeesh. Caught spying. But Syd seemed happy to see him. She ran a few steps toward him, but then ran back to Gina, leaning over to say something to the young woman. And then she was flying toward him, holding on to that silly floppy hat with one hand, her sunglasses falling into the sand. Her feet were bare and she hopped awkwardly and painfully over the gravel at the edge of the parking area to get closer to him. "Luke, I think I've found it!" He immediately knew which it she was talking about. The elusive connection among the rape victims. "I've got to take Gina back home," she said, talking a mile a minute. "I need you to get some information for me. The two other women who had no obvious ties to the base? I need you to find out if they have or had a close relationship with someone who was stationed here four years ago." She was so revved up, he hated to be a wet blanket, but he didn't get it. She looked at the expression on his face and laughed. "You think I'm nuts." "I think it's a possibility." "I'm not. Remember Mary Beth Hollis?" "Yeah." He was never going to forget Mary Beth Hollis, The sight of her being carried to the ambulance was one he'd carry with him to his dying day. "Remember she dated Captain Horowitz four years ago, before she was married?"

He remembered hearing about the woman's romantic connection to the navy doctor, but he hadn't committed the details to memory. "Gina just told me that her mother's second husband was a master chief in the regular Navy," Syd continued. "Stationed where? Stationed here. He was transferred to the east coast when he and Gina's mom were divorced—when? Four years ago. Four. Years. Ago." Understanding dawned. "You think all these women are connected in that they know someone who was stationed here—" "Four years ago," she finished for him, her entire face glowing with excitement. "Or maybe it's not exactly four years ago, maybe it's more or less than that. What we need to do is talk to the two victims who've got no obvious connection to the base, see if they had a connection, past tense. Call Lucy McCoy," she ordered him. "What are you waiting for? Go. Hurry! I'll meet you in the office as soon as I drive Gina home." She started hopping back over the rocks, and Lucky couldn't resist. He scooped her up and carried her the few feet to the soft sand. Problem was, once he had her in his arms, he didn't want to put her down. Especially when she looked up at him with such surprised laughter in her eyes. "Thank you," she said. "Actually, my feet thank you." She squirmed, and he released her, and then it was his turn to be surprised when she threw her arms around his neck and gave him an exuberant hug. "Oh, baby, this is it," she said. "This is the connection! It's going to help us identify and protect the women this guy is targeting." Lucky closed his eyes as he held her tightly, breathing in the sweet scent of her sunblock. She pulled free far too soon. "Hurry," she said again, pushing him in the direction of the administration building. Lucky went, breaking into an obedient trot, even though he was far from convinced they'd find anything new. He hoped with all of his heart that Syd wouldn't be too disappointed. Of course, if she was, he could always comfort her. He was good at providing comfort—particularly the kind that slid neatly into seduction. God, what was he thinking? This was Syd. Syd—who'd kissed him as if the world were coming to an end. Syd—whose body had felt so tempting beneath his just this morning. Syd—whose lit-up windows he'd stared at for nearly an hour last night, dying to ring her bell for more reasons than simply to make sure she was safe. Okay. True confession time. Yes, it was Syd, and yes, he wanted to seduce her. But he liked her. A lot. Too much to trade in their solid friendship for his typical two-week, molten-lava, short-term fling. He wasn't going to do it. He was going to stay away from her, keep it platonic. Yeah. Right.

Chapter 8 Another former boyfriend and a father who's since died," Luke said to Syd as she hurried into the office. She stopped short. "Oh, my God, I'm right?" "You're amazingly, perfectly, brilliantly right." He grabbed her and danced her around the room. It was a lot like this morning in Lana Quinn's waiting room. One minute she was standing there and the next she was in motion. She clung to him for dear life as he spun her around and around. "Finally," he said, "something that we might be able to go on." She looked up at him breathlessly. "Only might?" "I'm trying to be restrained." He narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a file cabinet. She had to laugh at that. "This is you, restrained?" Luke laughed, too, as he finally slowed to a stop, as he once more let her feet touch the ground. “This is me, extremely restrained." He was still holding her as tightly as she was holding him, and suddenly, as he gazed into her eyes, he wasn't laughing anymore. She was pressed against him from her shoulders to her thighs and the fit felt impossibly good. He was warm and solid and he smelled good, too. He was looking down at her, her face tipped up to his, his mouth mere inches from hers, and for several long, heart-stopping moments, Syd was certain that he was going to kiss her. Like the last time he'd kissed her, she saw it coming, but this go-round seemed so much more unrehearsed. The shift of emotions and the heightened awareness in his eyes couldn't possibly be an act, could it? Or the way his gaze dropped for just an instant to her lips, the way his own lips parted just a tiny bit, the tip of his tongue wetting them slightly in an unconscious move. But then, instead of planting a big knee-weakening one on her, he released her. He let her go and even stepped back. Whoa, what just happened here? Luke grabbed her hand and pulled her over to the main computer. "Check this out. Show her the thing," he commanded the SEAL candidates. Thomas was at the keyboard with Rio hovering over his shoulder, and they both moved slightly to the side so that Syd could see the screen. As if her eyes could focus on the screen. She still felt completely disoriented. Luke hadn't kissed her. Of course, this was an office in a building on a U.S. naval base, she told herself, and he was the team's commanding officer. This was the U.S. Navy and there were probably rules about kissing. Restrained, he'd said, indeed. Syd had to smile. Funny, she wouldn't have thought he'd have had it in him. Thomas was talking to her, explaining what they'd done on the computer. "We pulled up the personnel files of all twelve of the servicemen and women—living and dead, active duty and retired—who're connected to the victims." "All twelve," Rio chimed in, "were stationed here in Coronado during the same eight-week period in ." Eight weeks, four years ago. That couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Syd leaned closer to look at the numbers on the screen for herself. "According to the information we've been given directly from the women who were attacked, the servicemen and woman also all knew their corresponding victim during that time," Thomas pointed out. "We've pulled a complete list of personnel who were here during that eight-week period," Luke said handing her a thick tome that was stapled together with what looked like a railroad spike. "Even if they were only here for a day during that time, their name's on this list. Mike's out delivering a copy to Lucy McCoy. She's going to run these names through the police computer, see if anyone left the service and ended up with a police record—particularly one that includes charges of sexual assault." "We already have ten good candidates," Bobby added. “Ten of the men on that list were given dishonorable discharges either at that time or later in their careers." "Basically, that means they were kicked out of the Navy," Luke explained. Syd was overwhelmed. "I can't believe you did all this so quickly—that you actually managed to figure out the connection." "You figured out the connection," Luke told her. "We just filled in the blanks." She looked down at the enormous list of names she still held in her hands. "So now what do we do? Contact all these men and women and warn them that they or someone they love—or used to love—is in danger of being attacked?"

"Only a percentage of those men and women are still living in this area," Bobby said. "A percentage of a billion is still a huge number," Syd countered. "There's not a billion names on that list," Luke told her. She hefted the list. "It feels as if there is." "Most of Alpha Squad's in there," Bobby told her. “The squad came to Coronado for a training op, I remember, and ended up pulling extra duty as BUD/S instructors. There was this one class, where the dropout rate was close to zero. I think three guys rang out, total. It was the most amazing thing, but as they went into Hell Week, we were completely understaffed." "I remember that," Luke said. "Most of us had done a rotation assisting the instructors, so we ended up shanghaied into helping take these guys through their paces." "Most of Alpha Squad," Syd echoed, realizing just what that meant. Anyone female and connected to anyone on this list was a potential target for attack. She looked at Luke. "Have you called—" "Already done," he said, anticipating her question, "I've talked to all the guys' wives except Ronnie Catalanotto, and I left a pretty detailed message on her machine and told her to call me on my cell phone ASAP." "You know, Lieutenant Lucky, sir," Rio said, "one way to catch this guy might be to set Syd here up as bait, make it look like she's your girlfriend and—" "Uh-uh," Luke said. "No way." Well, wasn't he vehemently opposed to that? "I'm not talking about sending her out into the bad part of San Felipe in the middle of the night," Rio persisted. "In fact, she'll be safer than she is right now, considering we'll be watching her whenever she's alone." "She lives on the third floor of a house in a neighborhood that's more concrete and asphalt than landscaping," Luke argued. "How are you going to watch her? Unless you're hiding someplace in her apartment—" "We can plant microphones," Thomas suggested. "Set up a surveillance system, have a van down on the street." "We can bring the skel's attention to you, too." Rio was really excited about this. Syd could tell he'd watched too many episodes of "NYPD Blue." Skel. Oh, brother. "You could go on TV, do an interview, insult him in some way. Claim that there's no way in hell he could be a SEAL. Obviously he's trying to make somebody believe he's one—maybe he's trying to make himself believe it. Throw some reality into his face. Tick him off, then appear in public with Syd, do some kissy-face stuff and—'' "No. This is crazy." Syd sat down at the conference table, trying to look unaffected and even slightly bored, as if she hadn't just realized that she'd completely misinterpreted that almost-kiss that she and Luke hadn't shared not quite five minutes ago. He'd spun her around, and she'd latched onto him. He hadn't looked at her as if he wanted to kiss her. No, she'd probably been looking at him that way. And he'd stopped laughing because he felt awkward. He wasn't being restrained because they were at his place of work. He simply wasn't interested. How could she have thought he'd be even remotely interested in her? Bobby cleared his throat. "You know, this could work." "Yeah, but think of his reputation," Syd said dryly, "if he were seen in public with me." Luke turned to look at her, the expression on his face unreadable. "You actually want to do this?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "Are you completely insane? Your job is research, remember? We had an agreement. You're supposed to be the one in the surveillance van, not the one used as bait. Bait. Dear Lord, save me from a conspiracy of fools!" "Hey, what happened to brilliant?" Syd asked sharply. He glared at her. "You tell me! You're the one who's lost your mind!" "Maybe we could get Detective McCoy to pretend she's your girlfriend," Thomas volunteered. "Oh, that would work," Syd rolled her eyes. "Clearly this guy pays attention to details. You don't think he'd notice that Luke sends out this 'come and get me and mine' message, and then starts getting chummy with the wife of one of his best friends? Oh, and she's a police detective, too. Anyone notice that not-too-fresh smell? Could that possibly be the stench of a setup?" "Do you have any idea at all how much damage this dirtwad could do to you in the amount of time it would take the fastest SEAL team in the world to get from a van on the street to your third-floor apartment?" Luke asked hotly. "Do you know that this son of a bitch broke Mary Beth Hollis's cheekbone with his first punch? Do you really want to find out what that feels like? My God, Sydney! Think about that, will you please?"

"So maybe the setup should be at your house," she countered. "We can make like I move in with you, and set up a pattern where you come home extremely late—where there's a repeated block of time when I'm there alone. The team can hide in your backyard. Shoot, they can hide in your basement." "No, they can't. I don't have a basement." She nearly growled at him in exasperation. "Luke, think about this! If we can guarantee that the team will be close, then, yes, yes, I'm willing, to do this to catch this guy. I really, really want to catch this guy. As far as I can see, the only real objection is that you and I will have to spend more time together, that we'll have to put on a show of a relationship in public. But, shoot, I can stomach that for the greater good of mankind, if you can." Luke laughed in disbelief. If she didn't know better, she'd think his feelings were hurt. "Well, gee, that's big of you." Syd stood there, staring at him, both wanting him to give in, and praying that he'd refuse. God, how on earth was she going to play boyfriendgirlfriend with this impossible, incredible man for any length of time? How was she going to share a house with him? If she were a gambler, she'd bet big money that she'd end up in his bed within a day or two. No, make that an hour or two. It was a sure thing— except for one little important detail. He didn't want her in his bed. "I think this could really work," Bobby said, his calm voice breaking the charged silence. "I do, too," Mike said, speaking up for the first time. "I think we should do it." Luke said something completely, foully unrepeatable— something having to do with barnyard animals, something that implied that he was out of his mind, then stomped out of the room. Bobby smiled at Syd's confused expression. "That was a green light," he interpreted. "A go-ahead. Why don't you use those media contacts you have and set up whatever kind of interview for the lieutenant that you can? TV's best, of course. Oh, and Syd—let's keep this to ourselves. The fewer people who know this relationship between you and Luke isn't real, the better." Syd rolled her eyes. "Anyone who knows him will take one look at me and realize something's up." "Anyone who knows him," Bobby said, "will take one look at you, and think he's finally found someone worthy of his time." Lucky couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this nervous because of a woman. He had to park his truck three houses down from the Catalanottos'. Veronica's "little" cookout had turned into a full-blown party, judging from all the cars and trucks parked on the street. Bobby's truck and Wes's bike were there. PJ Becker's lime-green Volkswagen bug. Frisco's Jeep. Lucy McCoy's unassuming little subcompact. "We'll just stop in so I can talk Veronica into leaving town for a week or so," he told Syd as they walked down the driveway toward the little house. "We can use this party as a dress rehearsal for when we go into town later. If we can fool this group of people into thinking we're together, we can fool anyone." Syd looked over at him, one perfect eyebrow slightly raised. "Do you really think we can fool them? We don't look like we're together." She was right. In fact, they looked about as un-together as a man and woman could. "What do you think I...? Should I put my arm around your shoulders?" Yeesh, he hadn't sounded this stupidly uncertain since that eighth-grade dance he'd been invited to as a sixth-grader. "I don't know," she admitted. "Would you put your arm around my shoulders if we really were together?" "I'd..." He put his arm around her waist, tucking her body perfectly alongside his. He didn't mean for it to happen, but his hand slipped up beneath the edge of her T-shirt and his fingers encountered satiny smooth skin. Uh-oh. He braced himself, waiting for her to hit him, or at least to pull away and assault him with a severe scolding. But she didn't. In fact, she slipped her arm around him, tucking her own hand neatly into the back pocket of his shorts, nearly sending him into outer space. Lucky had to clear his throat before he could speak. "You think this is okay?" With his hand where it was against her bare skin, it was far more intimate and possessive than an arm thrown around her shoulders. Syd cleared her throat, too. Hah, she wasn't as matter-of-fact as she was pretending to be. "God, this is weird." She lifted her head to look up at him. "This is weird, isn't it?" "Yes." "Are you as nervous about this as I am?" "Yes," Lucky said, glad to be able to admit it. "If you have to kiss me," Syd told him, "try not to kiss me on the mouth, okay?"

Have to? "Oh," he said, "well, sure. I mean, that's good. You tell me what you don't want me to do and I'll make sure I don't cross those boundaries—" "No!" She sounded completely flustered. "It's not about boundaries. It's just...I had about a ton of garlic on my pizza for lunch yesterday, and I still have Dominic's Italian Cafe-breath. I just...I didn't want to gross you out." Lucky laughed—it was such a lame excuse. "There's no way you could still have garlic-breath more than twenty-four hours later." "You've obviously never had one of Dominic's deluxe garlic pizzas." "Look, Syd." He stopped about ten feet from the Catalanottos' front steps, pulling her to face him. "It's okay. You don't need to make up reasons why I shouldn't kiss you." "I'm not making up reasons," she insisted. "So then, if I don't mind about the alleged garlic-breath, you don't mind if I kiss you?" The early evening shadows played artfully across Syd's face as she laughed. "I can't believe we're having this conversation." And standing there, looking down at her, with his arm still around her waist, Lucky wanted to kiss her about as badly as he'd ever wanted to kiss anyone. And damn it, as long as they were playing this pretend girlfriend game, he might as well take advantage of the fact that it would only help their cover if he did kiss her. But how the hell did one go about kissing a friend? He knew all there was to know about how to kiss a stranger, but this was different. This was far more dangerous. And suddenly he knew exactly what to do, what to say. "You've got me dying to find out if you really do taste like garlic," he said. "Oh, believe me, I do." "Do you mind...?" He tipped her chin up to his. "For the sake of scientific experimentation...?" She laughed. That was when he knew he had her. That was when he knew he could kiss her without having her get all ticked off at him. She might pull away really fast, but she wasn't going to hit him. So he lowered his head those extra inches and covered her mouth with his. And, oh, my. Just like when he'd kissed her on that deck just off his kitchen, she turned to fire in his arms. Just like when he'd kissed her on his deck, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, kissing him just as hungrily as he kissed her. It was the kind of kiss that screamed of pure sex, the kind that lit him up pretty damn instantly, the kind that made him want to tear her clothes from her body so he could take her, right here and right now—on his captain's front lawn. It was the kind of kiss that made him instantly aware that it had been forty-nine long days, seventeen agonizing hours and twelve very impatient minutes since he'd last had sex. It was the kind of kiss that made him instantly forget whomever it was he'd last had sex with. Hell, it made him forget every other woman he'd ever known in his entire women-filled life. It was the kind of kiss he might normally have ended only to spend the rest of the evening actively plotting ways he could get away with kissing this woman again. But— ha! He laughed as well as he could, considering he was still kissing her. They were playing the pretend girlfriend game. He could kiss her whenever he wanted! Oh, my, she tasted hot and sweet and delicious. And yes, he thought just maybe he could taste the slightest, subtlest spicy hint of garlic, too. Syd pulled back, and he let her come up for air, ready to protest that he thought he needed to kiss her again just to make sure he wasn't imagining the garlic, ready to give her a mile-long list of reasons why he should probably kiss her again, ready to... He realized belatedly that the light had gone on next to the Catalanottos' front door. He turned his head, and sure enough. Veronica was standing there, laughing at him. “You," she said. "Figures it would be you." Lucky saw that they'd drawn a crowd. PJ Becker was behind Veronica. And Mia Francisco peeked through the front window, Frisco right behind her. Frisco gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. Syd jettisoned herself from his arms, but he caught her hand and reeled her back in. "It's okay," he murmured to her. "I knew someone would be bound to notice us. We're together, remember? You're my new girlfriend—I'm allowed to kiss you."

"Sorry," Veronica called through the screen in her crisp British accent. "Frankie came out onto the back deck, insisting that a man and a lady were making a baby in the front yard, and we just had to see for ourselves." "Oh, my God," Syd said, her face turning bright pink. "I obviously need to discuss the details of conception with him again," she said, laughter in her voice. "I'd thought we'd been over that 'kissing doesn't make a baby' stuff, but apparently it didn't stick. I suppose it's all right— he's only four." "Do you want to come in?" PJ called out, "or should we just all go away? Give you some privacy—close the door and turn off the light?" Lucky laughed as he pulled Syd to the door. The introductions took no time, and then Veronica was pulling Syd through the house to the back deck. "You've got to see the view we've got of the ocean," she said, as if she'd known Syd for years, "and I've got to check the chicken that's on the grill." "Bobby already checked the chicken," about four voices called out. "Everyone here is convinced I can't cook," Veronica told Syd as she opened the slider. She made a face. "Unfortunately they're right." "Hey, Syd," Bobby said serenely from his place at the grill. He was wearing only a bathing suit, and with all his muscles gleaming, his long hair tied back in a braid, he looked as if he belonged on the cover of one of those historical romances. Syd did a major double take, and Lucky poked her in the side, leaning close to whisper, "Don't stare—you're with me, remember?" "You know Lucy McCoy," Veronica said to Syd. "And Tasha Francisco, and Wes Skelly—" "Actually, we've never met," Wes said. He didn't stand up from where he was sprawled in a lounge chair. "See, I'm not allowed to help with this op," he told Veronica, his voice tinged with sarcasm and coated with perhaps just a little too much beer. "I'm not a member of the team because I'm a potential suspect, right, Lieutenant?" Lucky kept his voice cheerful. "Come on, Skelly, you know I didn't have anything to do with picking my team. Admiral Stonehead did it for me." "Hi, everyone. Sorry, I'm late—I was held up at the office, and then it was such a nice evening I couldn't resist walking over." Lucky turned to see Lana Quinn climbing the stairs that led from the beach. Bobby greeted her with a hug. "Where's Wizard, the mighty Quinn? I thought he was coming home today." She made a face. “Team Six has been sidetracked. What else is new? He's going to be away at least another few weeks. I know, I know—I should feel lucky he even got a chance to call." Wes lurched to his feet, knocking over the little plastic table next to him, spilling pretzels across the deck. He swore sharply. "I'm sorry," he said. "Ron, I'm sorry, I forgot I... I have to go...do something. I'm sorry." He vanished into the house, nearly knocking Syd over on his way. Lucky turned to Bobby, making the motion of keys turning in the ignition, silently asking if Wes was okay to drive. Bobby shook his head no, then pulled his hand out of his bathing-suit pocket, opening it briefly—just long enough so that Lucky could see he'd already claimed possession of his friend's keys. Bobby made a walking motion with his fingers. Wes would walk back to the base. On the other side of the deck, Syd helped Lana Quinn clean up the spilled pretzels. "So. Does the new GF know you're a jerk?" Lucky turned to see PJ Becker grinning at him, but he knew her words were only half in jest. Which, of course, made them half-serious, as well. This woman still hadn't forgotten the way he'd hit on her back when they'd first met. She'd forgiven, sure, but she'd probably never forget. It was one of the things he liked best about her. She'd never, ever let him get away with anything. "Yeah," he said. "She knows. She likes me anyway." It wasn't entirely a lie. Syd did like him. Just not in the way PJ meant. Senior Chief Harvard Becker's wife gazed at Syd with her gorgeous, liquid-brown eyes—eyes that never missed anything. "You know, O'Donlon, if you're smart enough to have hooked up with someone like Syd Jameson, maybe I seriously underestimated you. She's a good writer—she had a weekly column in the local paper about a year ago, you know. I tried never to miss it. There's a good brain— a thinking brain—in that girl's head." She gave him another brilliant smile and a kiss on the cheek. "Who knows? Maybe you're not such a jerk after all." As Lucky laughed, PJ went to give her best evil eye to the extremely pregnant Mia, who looked as if she were thinking about helping pick up pretzels. Lucky sidled up to Bobby. "What's up with Wes?" Bobby shrugged. "It hasn't been his year."

"Is he gonna be okay?" "The walk will do him good. I'll throw his Harley into the back of my truck." "Anything I can do to help?" Lucky asked. "Nope." "Let me know if that changes." "Yep." Lucky grabbed Veronica's arm as she went past carrying a broom. "Got a sec?" She looked down at the broom. "Well..." He took it from her and tossed it gracefully to PJ, who caught it with one hand. Show off. "Yes, I suppose I do have a sec now," Veronica said cheerfully. "What's up?" "I need you to go to New York," he said. "How's a : a.m. flight tomorrow sound?" He kissed her, relief flooding through him. "Thank you." "Lucy was pretty persuasive. This monster you're trying to catch sounds awful. However, I've noticed that neither she nor PJ are planning to come with me." "Lucy's SFPD and PJ's FInCOM." "And you're convinced they can take care of them selves?" She searched his eyes, her concern written plainly on her face. He tried to make it a joke. "Can you imagine the fallout if I even so much as implied PJ couldn't handle this on her own? And as for Lucy..." he glanced across the deck to where the detective was leaning against the railing, talking to Lana Quinn and Syd "...I'm going to strongly encourage her to bunk down at the police station until this is over." Veronica followed his gaze. "You make sure Syd is careful, too." "Oh, yeah," Lucky said. "Don't worry about that. She's, uh...she's moving in with me." It was the weirdest thing. It was all part of the pretend girlfriend game, designed to catch the rapist, but as he said the words aloud—words he'd never before uttered, not ever in his entire life—it felt remarkably real. He felt a little embarrassed, a little proud, a little terrified, and a whole hell of a lot of anticipation. Syd was moving in with him. She was going to go home with him tonight. It was true that she was going to sleep in the guest bedroom, but for the first time in God knows how long he wouldn't have to worry about her safety. Maybe, just maybe, he'd get some sleep tonight. On the other hand, maybe not, considering she was going to be in the next room, and considering he was still half-aroused from that incredible kiss. Veronica's eyes widened, and then filled with tears. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. "Oh, Luke, I'm so happy for you!" She pulled back to gaze into his eyes. "I was so certain you were just going to bounce from Heather to Heather for the rest of your life." She raised her voice. "Everyone, Lucky's finally living up to his nickname! He just told me Syd's moving in with him!" There was a scramble for cans of beer—soda for Frisco and Mia and Tash—as Veronica made a toast. Lucky didn't dare look at Syd directly—he could feel her embarrassment from all the way across the room. And he could feel Frisco's eyes on him, too. His swim buddy and temporary CO was smiling, but there were questions in his eyes. Like, wow, didn't this happen incredibly fast? And, why didn't you mention this to me before now? Tomorrow he'd sit down with Frisco and fill him in on the details—tell him the truth. But right now... He had to get Syd out of there before she died of embarrassment. He put down the beer someone had thrust into his hand and rescued her from PJ, Mia, Lana and Veronica. "I hate to drop a bomb and run," he said. "Speech!" someone said. It was Bobby, the bastard. He knew it was just a setup and he was probably having a good laugh behind that inscrutable calm. "Speech," PJ echoed. "This is too good. No way are we going to let you get away without telling us at least some of the juicy details. Where'd you guys meet? How long have you been seeing each other?" She approached Lucky and gazed hard into his eyes from about four inches away. "Who are you really, and what have you done with our commitment-shy friend Lucky?"

"Very funny," Lucky said, tugging Syd past PJ and over to the door. "Oh, come on," PJ said. "At least tell us how she managed to talk you into sharing a house. I mean, that's a major step. A grown-up decision." She smiled at Syd. "I'm proud of you. Good job! Way to make him follow your rules." "Actually, I was the one who talked her into moving in with me," Lucky lied. "I'm finally in love." He shrugged. "What can I say?" "Who knows?" Syd asked as they got into his truck. "That this is just an act? Only Bobby. And Lucy Mc Coy," Luke admitted. "I had to tell Lucy, especially considering she's supposed to be informed of my team's every move. She called this afternoon, mad as hell about that TV interview. She was ready to wring my neck." He started the engine, switched on the headlights and pulled out into the street, turning around in a neighbor's driveway. "Officially, she's pissed, but unofficially, she hopes this works. She knows we'll keep you as safe—safer—than the police would." He glanced at her in the dimness of the cab. "I'm going to tell Frisco tomorrow, but I'm going to ask him not to tell Mia. I think Bobby's right. The fewer people who know, the better." Syd sat as far away from him as she possibly could on the bench seat, trying desperately not to think about the way he'd kissed her. About the way she'd kissed him. At the words he'd said so casually as they left the party: I'm finally in love.... Yeah, like that would ever happen. Syd had figured Luke O'Donlon out. He wasn't ever going to fall in love. At least not all the way. He thought he was safe as long as he kept himself surrounded by the beautiful, intelligent, exceptional and already married wives of his best friends. He could cruise through life, half in love with Lucy and Veronica and PJ and Mia, never having to worry about getting in too deep. He could have meaningless sexual relationships with self-absorbed, vacuous young women like Heather—again, without risking his heart. But what if he was wrong? Not about Heather—Syd didn't think for one instant that Luke would ever lose his heart to her. But Lucy McCoy was an entirely different story. As was that outrageously beautiful African American woman she'd met just tonight—PJ Becker. It would be too tragic if Luke actually fell in love with a woman he couldn't have. "So how long have you had a thing for PJ Becker?" she asked him. He managed to pull off a completely astonished look. "What?" "Don't play dumb," she told him. "And don't worry, I don't think everyone knows. It's just I've learned to read you pretty well, and you reacted differently to her than you did to Veronica or Lana." He was embarrassed and rather vehement. "I don't have a thing for her." "But you did," she guessed. He gave it to her, but grudgingly. "Well, yeah, like a million years ago, before she even hooked up with the senior chief." "And let me guess, a million years ago, you did something really dumb, like, oh, say, you hit on her?" He was silent, and she just waited. He finally glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, and then couldn't keep his lips from curling up into a rueful smile. "Don't you hate being right all the time?" "It's not that I'm right all the time," she countered, "it's that you're so predictable. Why don't you surprise everyone next time you meet an attractive woman—and not hit on her first thing?" "What," Luke said, "you mean, if this moving-in-together thing doesn't work out and I don't end up married to you?" She had to laugh. As if. "Sorry about Veronica's announcement," he continued. "I honestly had no idea she was going to do that." Syd shrugged. "It's okay. It was a little strange—all your friends looking at me sideways, wondering what type of alien mind control I was using to make you want to live with me." "That's not what they were thinking," Luke scoffed. Yes, it most certainly was. Syd kept her mouth closed. "After seeing that kiss," he said with a laugh, they think they know why I want to live with you." That kiss. For many, many pounding heartbeats, Syd had stood on the front walk of that cute little beach house with her arms wrapped around Luke O'Donlon, her lips locked on his. For many pounding heartbeats, she had dared to imagine that that kiss was real, that it had nothing to do with their game of pretend. She'd thought she'd seen something warm, something special, deep in his eyes, right before he lowered his mouth to hers. Okay, face it, she'd thought she'd seen his awareness of his genuine attraction, based on genuine liking and genuine respect. She'd seen awareness, all right—awareness of the fact that they were being watched through the window. He'd known they were being watched.

That was why he'd kissed her. They drove in silence for several long minutes. And then he glanced at her again. "Maybe you should scoot over here—sit closer to me. If this guy does start following us..." Syd gave him a look. "Scoot?" she said, trying desperately to keep things light. If she moved next to him, and if he put his arm around her shoulders, she just might forget how to breathe. Unless she could somehow keep him laughing. "I'm sorry, but I never, ever scoot anywhere." Luke laughed. Jackpot. "That's what I love most about you, Sydney, dear. You can pick a fight about anything." "Can not." He laughed again and patted the seat next to him. “Come on. Move your skinny butt down here." "Skinny?" she said, sidling a little bit closer, but nowhere near close enough to touch him. "Excuse me. Have you even looked at my butt? It's double wide." "What, are you nuts?" He reached for her, pulling her so that she was sitting with her thigh pressed firmly against his, his arm draped across her shoulders. "You have a great butt. A classic butt." “Thanks a million. You know, these days classic means old. Classic Coke, Classic Trek. Old" "It doesn't mean old, it means incomparable" he countered. "How old are you, anyway?" "Old enough to know better than to sit this close to someone who's driving. Old enough to know I should have my seat belt on," she grumbled. "Older than you." "No way." "Yes way," she said, praying as he braked to a red light that he wouldn't look down at her. "I'm one year older than you." If he looked down at her, his mouth—that incredible, amazing mouth—would be mere inches from hers. And if his mouth was mere inches from hers, she would be able to think of nothing but kissing him again. She wanted to kiss him again. He turned and looked down at her. "Where are we going now?" she asked, not that she particularly cared. But she figured maybe if she used her mouth to talk, she wouldn't be tempted to use it for other things. Like kissing Luke O'Donlon. "There's a seafood shack down by the water here in San Felipe," he told her. "It's usually packed this time of night. I figured we'd go get some steamed clams. And maybe after that, we could do a little barhopping." "I've never been barhopping," she admitted, mostly to fill the pause in the conversation. "I always thought it sounded so exotic." "Actually, it can be pretty depressing," Luke told her as the light turned green and he focused on the road again, thank God. "I've been barhopping with the other single guys from Alpha Squad. Mostly Bobby and Wes. Although occasionally their buddy Quinn would come along. The Wizard. He's married—you know, to Lana—which never sat quite right with me, because our goal was to cruise the clubs, looking to pick up college girls. But I didn't really know him, didn't really know Lana—I figured it was none of my business." "God," Syd said. "Did she know?" Luke shook her head. "No. Quinn used to say that they had an arrangement. He wouldn't tell her and she wouldn't find out. Wes used to get so mad at him. One night he actually broke Quinn's nose." "Wes is Bobby's swim buddy, right?" Syd thought about the SEAL she'd met for the first time tonight. He was bigger than she'd imagined from the way Luke had described him. Something about him had been disturbingly familiar. When he'd slammed into her on his way out of the party... "Bob and Wes are the best example of a two-man team I've ever seen," Luke told her, the muscles in his thigh flexing as he braked to make a right turn into a crowded restaurant parking lot. "They're good operators separately, but together—it's like instead of getting two regular guys, you're getting two super men. They know each other so well, they play off of each other perfectly—they anticipate each other's every move. They're remarkably efficient." "Bobby knows Wes really well, then, I guess," Syd said. "Probably better than Wes knows himself." "And Bobby's certain Wes couldn't be—" She cut herself off, realizing how awful her words sounded. Just because he was broad-shouldered and wore his hair exactly like the man they were looking for....

Luke parked his truck, then pushed her slightly away from him, turning to face her, to look penetratingly into her eyes. "What aren't you telling me?" "It was weird," she admitted. "When he bumped into me... It was like deja vu." "Wes isn't our guy." Luke was adamant. She couldn't help herself. "Are you sure? Are you absolutely positive?" "Yes. I know him." "There was something about him...." And then she knew. "Luke, he smelled like the guy on the stairs." "Smelled?" "Yeah, like stale cigarettes. Wes is a smoker, right?" "No. Last year Bobby made Wes quit. He used to be a smoker, but—" "Sorry, he's smoking again. Maybe not in front of anybody, but he's definitely smoking, even if it's only on the sly. It was faint, but I could smell it. He smelled just like the man we're looking for." Luke shook his head. "Wes isn't our guy," he said again. "No way. I can't—I won't accept that." "What if you're wrong?" she asked. "What if you find out that all this time he's been right here, right under our noses?" "I'm not wrong," Luke said tightly. "I know this man. You didn't see him at his best tonight, but I know him, all right?" It wasn't all right, but Syd wisely kept her mouth shut.

Chapter 9 “So here's the scenario," Syd said as Luke opened the door, letting her into the quiet coolness of his house. "You're the only man inside an enemy stronghold when a battle, what do you call it, a firefight starts. Your team is being pushed back. You're outnumbered and outgunned. Do you fight or flee?" He locked the door behind them, the sound of the dead-bolt clicking into place seeming to echo around them. They were here. Together. Alone. For the night. Syd's lips were still warm from the last time he'd kissed her—at a bar called Shaky Stan's. He'd kissed her at the Mousehole, too, and at Ginger's, and at the Shark's Run Grill as well. In fact, they'd kissed their way pretty much clear across San Felipe's waterfront district. Syd had tried to keep the kisses short. She'd tried des perately to keep from melting in his arms. But far too often, she'd failed. If they were truly moving in together, after that series of temperature-raising kisses, there was no way in hell either of them would still have their clothes on within five seconds of Luke's locking that door. Aware of that fact, with her clothes firmly on, Syd kept talking, posing one of her military scenarios. She wasn't allowed to ask any of the SEALs specific questions about their operations, but she could pose hypothetical. And she did, as often as possible. "What's inside this hypothetical stronghold?" he asked, tossing his keys onto a small table near the front door. “Is this a rescue mission or an infogathering op?" "Rescue mission," she decided. "Hostages. There are hostages inside. Hostaged children.'' He gave her a comically disbelieving look as he moved to the thermostat and adjusted the setting so that the air conditioning switched on. That was good. It was too still in here, too warm. The AC would get the air moving, make it a little less stuffy. A little less...sultry. "Make it impossibly difficult, why don't you?" he said. He went into the kitchen, and she followed. "I'm just trying to provide a challenge." "Okay, great." He opened the refrigerator and scowled at the cluttered shelves. "If we've been sent in to rescue hostaged children, you better believe we've been given a direct order not to fail." He reached in behind a gallon of milk and pulled out a container that looked as if it held iced tea. "Want some?" Syd nodded, leaning against the door frame. "Thanks." She watched as he took two tall glasses from a cabinet and filled them with ice. "So," she said, mostly to fill the silence. "What do you do in that situation?" He turned to look at her. "We don't fail." She had to laugh. "You want to be a little more specific?" "I'm inside, right?" he said, pouring the tea over the ice in the glasses. "Alone. But I've got radio contact with my men outside. I guess what I do is, I use stealth and I find the enemy's points of vulnerability from inside. And then I let my team know when and where to attack. Then I find and protect the hostages, and wait for the rest of my team to come get us all out." He handed her the glass. "Lemon? Sugar?" "Black is fine," she said. "Thanks." God, this was weird. This man leaning against the counter in his kitchen had spent a good portion of the evening exploring the inside of her mouth with his tongue. And now they were having a refreshing glass of iced tea and a casual, impersonal chat about military strategies. She wondered if he knew how badly she was dying for him to kiss her again. For real, this time. Inwardly she rolled her eyes. Like that would ever happen. It was amazing really. It had only been a matter of days since Luke had first kissed her, just a few feet away from where they were standing, on the deck outside this very kitchen. They'd stood there as virtual strangers, and he'd made the wrong choice. Instead of trying to win her friendship, he'd tried to control her through his powerful sexual appeal. Little did he know that would almost entirely ruin his chances at ever becoming her friend. Almost, but not entirely. And somewhere, somehow, over the past few days, Luke had redeemed himself.

So now they stood here as friends. And now Syd actually wanted him to kiss her. Except now that they were friends, he had no reason to kiss her. "So," she said, trying desperately to fill the silence. “Tell me...why did you join the SEALs?" Luke didn't answer right away. He finished stirring lemon and a small mountain of sugar into his iced tea, rinsed the spoon in the sink and put it neatly into the dishwasher. Then he picked up his glass, and went back into the living room, gesturing with his head for Syd to follow. So she followed him. Right over to a wall that was filled with framed photographs. She'd noticed them the last time she was here. Pictures of Luke as a child, his sun-bleached hair even lighter than it was now. Pictures of young Luke with his arms around a chubby, dark-haired little girl. Pictures of Luke with a painfully thin blond woman who had to be his mother. And pictures of young Luke with a dark-haired, dark complexioned man. He pointed now to the pictures of the man. "This," he said, "is Isidro Ramos. He's why I joined the SEALs." Syd looked more closely at the photograph. She could see the warmth in the man's eyes, one arm looped around young Luke's shoulder. She could see the answering adoration on the boy's smiling face. "Who is he?" she asked. "Was," he told her, sitting down on the couch, taking a sip from his iced tea and stretching his legs out on the coffee table. Syd knew him well enough by now to know his casu-alness was entirely feigned. In truth he was on edge. But was it the topic of conversation he was having trouble with—or her presence here? "Isidro died when I was sixteen," he said. "He was my father." His...? Syd did a double take. No way could a man that dark have had a son as fair as Luke. "Not my biological father," he added. "Obviously. But he was my father far more than Shaun O'Donlon ever bothered to be." Syd sat down on the other end of the couch. "And he's why you joined the SEALs?" He turned and looked at her. "You want the long or the short story?" "Long," she said, kicking off her sandals and tucking her feet up underneath her. "Start at the beginning. I want to hear it all. Why don't you start when you were born. How much did you weigh?" As long as they kept talking, they wouldn't have to deal with such awkward topics as where she should sleep. Or rather, where she should pretend to sleep. She couldn't imagine being able to sleep at all, God help her, knowing Luke was in bed in the next room. "You're kidding, right?" She shook her head and he laughed. "Nine pounds, fourteen ounces. My mother was five feet two. She used to tell me I was nearly as big as she was at the time." He paused for a moment, looking up at the photographs. "My mother was pretty fragile," he said quietly. "You can't really tell from these pictures, because she was so happy with Isidro. The day he died, though, she pretty much gave up. She pretended to keep going, to try to fight her bad health for Ellen's—my sister's—sake. But it was a losing battle. Don't get me wrong," he added. "I loved her. She just...she wasn't very strong. She'd never been strong." Syd took a sip of her tea, waiting for him to continue. "Nineteen sixty-six wasn't a good year for her," he said, "considering her choices were to marry Shaun O'Donlon or have a baby out of wedlock. She was living in San Francisco, but she didn't quite have the 'flowers in her hair' thing down—at least not in '. So she married Shaun in the shotgun wedding of the year, and I got the dubious honor of being legitimate. And—" he turned slightly so that he was facing her on the couch. "Are you really sure you want to hear all of this?" "I'm interested," she told him. "A lot can be revealed about a person simply by listening to them talk about their childhood." "If that's the case, then where did you grow up?" he asked. "New Rochelle, New York. My father is a doctor, my mother was a nurse before she quit to have us. Four kids, I'm the youngest. My brothers and sister are all incredibly rich, incredibly successful, with perfect spouses, perfect wardrobes and perfect tans, cranking out perfect grandkids for my parents right on schedule." She smiled at him. "Note that I don't seem to be on the family track. I'm generally spoken of in hushed tones. The black sheep. Serves them right for giving me a boy's name." Luke laughed. She really liked making him laugh. The lines around his eyes crinkled in a way that was completely adorable. And his mouth... She looked down into her tea to avoid staring at his mouth. "Actually," she confessed, "my family is lovely. They're very nice—if somewhat clueless. And they're quite okay and very supportive about my deviation from the norm. My mother keeps trying to buy me Laura Ashley dresses, though. Every Christmas, without fail. 'Gee, thanks, Mom. In pink? Wow, you shouldn't have. No, you really shouldn't have,' but next year, the exact same thing." Syd risked another glance at Luke. He was still laughing.

"So come on, finish up your story. Your father was a jerk. I think I know how it probably goes—he left before you turned two—" "I wish," Luke said. "But Shaun stayed until I was eight, sucking my mother dry, both emotionally and financially. But the year I turned eight, he inherited a small fortune from old Great-Uncle Barnaby, and he split for Tibet. My mother filed for divorce and actually won a substantial amount in the settlement. She bought a house in San Diego, and with the mortgage paid, she started working full time for a refugee center. This was back when people were leaving Central America in droves. That's where she met Isidro—at the center. "We had an extra apartment over our garage, back behind our house, and he was one of about six men who lived there, kind of as a temporary thing. I remember I was a little afraid of them. They were like ghosts, just kind of floating around, as if they were in shock. I realize now that they probably were. They'd managed to escape, but their families had all been killed—some right in front of their eyes. Isidro later told me he'd been out trading for gasoline on the black market, and when he came home, his entire town had been burned and everyone—men, women and children, even infants—had been massacred. He told me he was one of the lucky ones, that he actually was able to identify the bodies of his wife and children. So many people never knew, and they were left wondering forever if maybe their families were still back there, maybe their kids were still alive." His eyes were distant, unfocused. But then the condensation from his glass of iced tea dripped onto his leg, and he looked down and then over at Syd and smiled. "You know, it's been a long time since I've talked about Isidro. Ellen used to like to hear about him, but I didn't tell her too much of this darker stuff. I mean, the guy essentially had an entire life back in Central America before he even met my mother. He married her—my mother, I mean—so that he wouldn't be deported. If he'd been sent back to his own country, he would've been killed. "My mother sat the two of us—me and Isidro—down at the kitchen table and told us she was going to marry him." Luke laughed, remembering. "He was completely against it. He knew she'd had to get married before, when she was younger. He told her she'd gotten married for the wrong reasons the first time, and that he wasn't going to let her do that again. And she told him that marrying him so that he wouldn't die was the best reason she could imagine. I think she was in love with him, even back then. She convinced him that she was right, they got married, and he moved out of the apartment over the garage and into our house." His mother had been pretty damn shrewd. She'd known what she wanted, and she'd gone about getting it. She'd known if she could get Isidro into her home, it wouldn't be long before their marriage was consummated. And she'd been right on the money. It was funny the way life seemed to go in circles, Lucky mused as he gazed at Syd, who was way, way down on the other end of the couch, as far away from him as she could possibly sit. Because here he was, playing the same game his mother had played. Pretending that he was acting out of some big-picture necessity, rather than from his own personal need. Pretending that, oh, yeah, jeez, if he really had to, he'd cope with the inconvenience of having Sydney around all day and all night. Yeah, right. Like he didn't hope—the way his mother had hoped with Isidro—that the pressure from being with Syd constantly would trigger some kind of unavoidable and unstoppable sexual explosion. That sooner or later—if not tonight, then maybe tomorrow or the next day—Syd would push open his bedroom door with a crash and announce that she couldn't stand it another minute, that she had to have him right now. He laughed. Yeah, like that was really going to happen. "What's so funny?" she asked. He almost told her. Somehow he managed to shrug instead. "Ellen was born just about a year after their wedding. Their marriage turned pretty real pretty fast." She nodded, understanding, glancing up at the wall, at his mother's picture. "The proximity thing. She was beau tiful, and if she was in love with him...he probably didn't stand a chance." "He used to talk to me about his other family," Lucky remembered. "I think he probably didn't say much about them to my mother, but I asked, and he needed to talk about them. I used to go with him to meetings where he would tell about these horrible human rights violations he'd witnessed in his home country. The things he saw, Syd, the things he could bear witness to..." He shook his head. "He told me to value my freedom as an American above all else. Every day he reminded me that I lived in a land of freedom, every day we'd hang an American flag outside our house. He used to tell me that he could go to sleep at night and be certain that no one would break into our house and tear us from our beds. No one would drag us into the street and put bullets in our heads simply for something we believed in. Because of him, I learned to value the freedom that most Americans take for granted. "Isidro taught me a lot of things, but that was something that really stuck. Because he'd lived with that fear. Because his other family had been murdered." Syd was silent, just watching him. "He became a naturalized citizen when I was thirteen years old," he told her, letting himself lose himself a little bit in the softness of her eyes. "That's one day of my life I'll never forget. He was so proud of becoming a real American. And God!" He laughed. "That November, on election day! He took me and Ellen to the polls with him, so we could watch him vote. And he made us both promise— even though El could barely talk—that we would vote every chance we got." "So your stepfather is why you became a SEAL." "Father," he corrected gently. "There was nothing step about him. And, yeah, the things he taught me stuck." Lucky shrugged, knowing that a cynical newspaper journalist probably wouldn't see it the same way he—and Isi dro—had. Knowing that she would probably laugh, hoping she wouldn't, wanting to try to explain just the same. "I know there's a lot wrong with this country, but there's also a lot right. I believe in America. And I joined the

Navy— the SEAL teams in particular—because I wanted to give something back. I wanted to be a part of making sure we remained the land of the free and the home of the brave. And I stayed in the Navy for longer than I'd ever dreamed of because I ended up getting as much as I gave." She laughed. He tried to hide his disappointment. "Yeah, I know. It sounds so hokey." "Oh—" she sat up "—no! I wasn't laughing because of what you said. God, you've just impressed the hell out of me—please don't think I'm laughing at you." "I have?" Lucky tried to sound casual. "Impressed you? Really?" Yeesh, he sounded like a dork, pathetically fishing for more compliments. She didn't seem to notice, caught up in her own intensity. Man, when she got serious, she got serious. "I was laughing because back when I first met you, I thought I had you all figured out. I thought you were one of those testosterone-laden types who'd joined the SEALs purely because they liked the idea of blowing stuff up." "Well, yeah." Lucky needed her to stop looking at him like that, with those blazing eyes that seemed able to look right through him and see his very soul. He needed her to lighten up so that he wouldn't do something really stupid like pull her into his arms and kiss her. "What do you think I mean when I talk about getting something back from being a SEAL? What I get is to blow stuff up." Syd laughed. Thank God. "Tell me," she said, "about your sister. Ellen. She's getting married, right?" "In about a week," he told her. "You better put it on your calendar. It'll look really weird if we're supposedly living together but you don't attend my only sister's wedding." "Oh, no." She made a face. "That really stinks. You can't possibly want to drag me along to your sister's wedding." "I suppose we can make up some excuse for why you're not there," Lucky said. "I mean, if you really don't want to go." "I'd love to go," she countered, "but I know what an important day this is for you. Bobby told me how you turned down a...what did he call it? A silver bullet assignment—something you really, really wanted—just so you could be in town." "If I'm not there," he said, "who's going to walk her down the aisle? Look, just plan to go with me, okay? And if you could plan to wear a dress— something formal— while you're at it..." "God." She gazed at him in mock horror. "You must think I'm a complete idiot. What did you think I'd wear to a formal wedding? A clean pair of jeans?" "Well, yeah," he admitted. "Either jeans or your khakis. I've noticed a certain...repetitiveness to your attire." "Great," she said. "First I'm an idiot, and then I'm boring?" She was laughing, so he knew she wasn't completely serious, but he still felt the need to try to explain. "That's not what I meant—'' "Quit while you're ahead," she told him. "Just tell me about your sister." It was nearly oh-one hundred hours, but Lucky wasn't tired. Syd didn't look tired either. So he told her about his sister, ready and willing to talk all night if she wanted him to. He wished she wanted more than conversation from him. He wanted to touch her, to take her to his bedroom and make love to her. But he wasn't going to risk destroying this quiet intimacy they shared. She liked him. He knew that. But this was too new and far too fragile to gamble with. He wanted to touch her, but he knew he shouldn't. Tonight he was going to have to settle for touching her with his words. "Blade," Rio Rosetti said. "Or Panther." "How about Hawk?" Thomas suggested, tongue firmly in cheek. "Yeah, Hawk's good, too." Rio was unhappy with his current nickname and was trying to talk his friends into calling him something else. "Personally, I think we should be developing a kinder, gentler group of SEALs, with kinder, gentler nicknames," Michael Lee said with a completely straight face. "How about Bunny?" The look on Rio's face was comical. Thomas cracked up. "I like it," he said. "Bunny."

"Whoa," Rio said. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—" "Works for me," Lucky said. They were sitting in the office, waiting for Lucy's electronic transmission of a list she'd got from the police computer. Out of all the many men and women who had served at the Navy base during the same few-month period four years ago, nearly thirty of them—all men—had gotten into trouble with law. Twenty-three had served time. Five were still incarcerated. The police computer had spat out names, aliases and last-known addresses for all of them. They were going to cross-reference this list again with the information they had in the navy's personnel files. "Lucky," Rio said. "Now there's a nickname I'd love." "It's taken," Mike pointed out. "Whoops, here we go. List's in. I'll print out a couple of hard copies." "It's not as if the luck comes with the name," Thomas told Rio. "According to legend, the lieutenant here has led a charmed existence, hence the name." "Charmed indeed," Rio agreed. He glanced at Lucky, who'd gone to look over Mike's shoulder at the computer screen. The list contained name, aliases, last-known address, and a short rap sheet of charges, convictions and jail time served—their criminal resume, so to speak. "I couldn't help but notice that Sydney came to work this morning wearing one of your Hawaiian shirts, sir," Rio continued. "I guess your little sleepover last night went... well." Lucky looked up to find Thomas and Bobby waiting for him to comment, too. Even Michael Lee had lifted his eyes from the computer screen. He laughed. "You guys are kidding, right? You know as well as I do that this is just a ruse to try to trap the rapist. Sure, Syd stayed over, but..." he shrugged, "...nothing happened. I mean, there's really nothing going on between us." "She is wearing one of your shirts," Bobby said. "Yeah, because last night, in a genius move, I insulted her wardrobe." He'd fallen asleep on the couch last night and woken to the scent of coffee brewing. He'd thrown off the blanket Syd must've put over him and staggered into the kitchen to find her already showered and dressed—and wearing one of his shirts. It was weird—and a little scary. It was his fullblown morning-after nightmare, in which a woman he barely knew and didn't particularly like would move in and make herself completely at home, right down to stealing from his closet. Except in this case, there had been no night before. And in this case, it wasn't a nightmare. The coffee smelled great, Syd looked amazing in his shirt, and, as she smiled at him, his stomach didn't twist with anxiety. It twisted, all right, but in anticipation. He liked her, liked having her in his house, liked having her be a part of his morning. And maybe, if he were really lucky, if he lived up to this nickname of his, he'd wake up tomorrow with her in his bed. Mike handed him three copies of the printed list, and he handed one to Bobby, the others to Thomas and Rio. Rio was now looking at him as if he were mentally challenged. “Let me get this straight. You had Syd alone. Syd. One of the most incredibly fascinating and sexy women in the world. And she's alone with you, all night. And instead of taking advantage of that incredible opportunity, you spent your time insulting her clothes?" "Hey, guys, I went to Starbuck's. Who wants coffee?" Syd breezed in carrying a cardboard tray filled with paper coffee cups before Lucky could tell Rio to mind his own business. "Oh, good, the list finally came in?" "Hot off the press," Lucky told her. She smiled as she set a cup down in front of him. "Special delivery. Extra sugar. I figured you could use it after last night." Rio cleared his throat pointedly. “Excuse me?'' Syd smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't you dare think that—that's not what I mean, dirt brain. Luke and I are friends. I kept him up all night talking. He fell asleep on the living-room couch at about :. He's running on way too little sleep and it's all my fault." Rio shot Lucky a disbelieving look. "You fell asleep on the living-room couch... ?" "Hey," Thomas said, "Here's a guy who got out of prison in Kentucky four weeks before the first attack was reported." "First known attack," Lucky reminded him, giving him a grateful look for changing the subject. He rolled his chair closer to the young ensign, to look over his shoulder at the list. "Kentucky's a stretch. He'd have to be motivated to reach San Diego with the amount of money he had on him." "Yeah, but check this out. He's already wanted again," Thomas said, "in connection with a liquor store robbery in Dallas. That happened a week

after his release." Syd leaned over Lucky's shoulder. "Can a convict just leave the state like that? Doesn't he have to check in with a parole officer?" He turned his head to look at her and found himself eye to eye with her breasts. He looked away, his mind instantly blank. What was he just about to say? Bobby answered for him. "As far as I understand it, parole is for when a prisoner is released early. If he serves out his full sentence, there's usually no parole." "What's this guy's name?" Syd asked. "Where is he on the list?" "Owen Finn." Lucky pointed to the list and she leaned even closer to read the small print. She was wearing his deodorant. It smelled different on her. Delicate and femininely fresh. Damn, he was nuts. He should have at least said something to Syd last night. So, hey, like, what do you say we get it on? Well, maybe not that. But certainly something in between that and the great big nothing he'd uttered. Because what if this attraction was mutual? What if she'd spent all night wishing they could get physical, too? What could it hurt to be honest? They were, after all, friends—by her own admission. As his friend, she would appreciate his honesty. Wouldn't she? "Finn was convicted of burglary," Syd said, straightening up. "I thought we were looking for someone with a record of sexual assault or some other violent crime." "Finn," Bobby reported from the Navy Computer's personnel files. "Owen Franklin. Son of a medal of honor winner, entered the U.S. Naval Academy even though his grades weren't quite up to par. Rang out of BUD/S in ', given a dishonorable discharge four months later, charged and convicted of theft. Yeah, this guy definitely has sticky fingers. No mention of violence, though." "How about this one?" Thomas pointed to the list, and Syd leaned over Lucky again. "Martin Taus. Charged with four counts of sexual assault but never convicted. Got off on a technicality. Never served time but paid fines and did community service for damage done in a street fight back in '. His last-known address is a post-office box in San Diego." "How do we find these guys?" Syd asked. "Can't we just bring in everyone on this list?'' She sat down next to him, and he resisted the urge to put his arm around her. If they were out in public, he could've gotten away with it. But here in the office they didn't need to play the girlfriend game. It was too bad. "Most of them aren't local," Lucky told her. "And their last-known addresses are probably out of date. But FInCOM's definitely looking to have them all brought in for questioning." "Some of them aren't going to be easy to find," Thomas pointed out. "Like this Owen Finn who's wanted in Texas, He's clearly on the move." “When are we going to start dangling me out there as bait?" Syd asked. "We need to establish a pattern of time that I'm home alone." "We'll start tonight," Lucky told her. "I spoke to Frisco this morning. The phase-one SEAL candidates are going to be doing a series of night swims over the next week. I'm going to be visible at the base from the time the exercise starts at about twenty-three hundred, right up until the point I put on my gear. Then one of the other instructors will take over for me—masked and suited up, anyone who's watching won't know it's not me. I'll leave the base covertly and join Bobby and our junior frogmen, who will have concealed themselves strategically around the outside of our house. My house," he quickly corrected himself. Alan Francisco had been disappointed—he'd said as much—when Lucky'd admitted his relationship with Syd was just an act. But he didn't say anything more, except that he was there to talk, if Lucky wanted someone to talk to. About what, Lucky'd asked. Yeah, he was a little worried about Syd putting herself in danger, but this way at least he could keep an eye on her. Everything was cool. There was nothing to talk about. “I’ll be going over to Luke's in about an hour to set up interior microphones," Bobby said. "So, I'm going to be alone in the house starting at about seven until...two or three in the morning?" she guessed. "No, we'll have time before the exercise starts," Lucky told her. "We can have dinner downtown. We'll leave here together at about eighteen hundred —six o'clock. After dinner, we'll go to my place, and around twenty-two-thirty, after Bobby and the guys have moved into position, I'll make a big show of kissing you goodbye, and I'll come here. You'll be alone from then until around oh-two-hundred. About three and a half hours." Syd nodded. "Maybe if we're lucky, FlnCOM will round up most of the suspects on our list before tonight. And if we're really lucky, one of them will be our guy." Lucky nodded, hoping the golden luck for which he'd been nicknamed would, indeed, shine through.

Chapter 10 The meltingly perfect lobster and the hundred-dollar bottle of wine had been completely wasted on Syd. What with the blazing sunset, the incredible outdoor patio, the million-dollar view of the Pacific, and—last but certainly not least—the glowing golden good looks of the man sitting across the restaurant table from her, Syd had barely noticed the gourmet food or drink. It might as well have been peanut butter sandwiches and grape juice for all the attention she gave to it. She spent most of the meal wishing Luke would hold her hand. And when he finally did, reaching across the table to intertwine their fingers, she spent the rest of the meal wishing he'd kiss her again. He'd kissed her outside the restaurant after giving the valet his keys. Slow, lingering kisses that rendered her speechless. He'd kissed her in the bar, too, as they'd waited for a table. Delicate kisses. Elegant kisses. Five-star restaurant kisses. She wasn't dressed for this place, but no one besides her seemed to care. The maitre d' was attentive, the waiters were respectful, and Luke... Well, he'd nearly had her believing they were completely, totally, thrillingly in love. "You're so quiet," he said now, his thumb tracing circles on the palm of her hand as they waited for the waiter to return with Luke's credit card, sitting beneath that perfect, color-streaked sky. The way he was looking at her, the quiet timbre of his voice—his behavior was completely that of an attentive lover. He was remarkably good at playing this part. "What are you thinking about?" "Kissing you," she admitted. For an eighth of a second, his guard dropped, his thumb stopped moving and she saw real surprise in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but the waiter returned. And all Luke did was laugh as he gently reclaimed his fingers and signed the bill. He pocketed his receipt and stood, holding out his hand to her. "Let's walk on the beach." They went down the wooden steps hand in hand, and when they reached the bottom, he knelt in the sand and took off her sandals, then carried them for her, along with his own shoes. The sand was sensuously cool between her toes. They walked in silence for about a minute, then Luke cleared his throat. "So, when you were thinking about kissing me, was it a good thought or...?" "It was more of an amused thought," she admitted. "Like, here I am, with the best-looking man in the state of California, and oh, just in case that's not thrilling enough, he's going to kiss me a few dozen more times before the night is through. You kiss like a dream, you know? Of course you know." "You're pretty good at it yourself." "I'm an amateur compared to you. I can't seem to do that thing you do with your eyes. And that little ‘I’m going to kiss you now' smile. Only someone with a face like yours can pull that off." His laughter sounded embarrassed. "Oh, come on. I'm not—" "Don't be coy," she reprimanded him. "You know what you look like. All you need to do is smile, and every woman within a hundred feet goes into heavy fantasy mode. Walk into any room and flash those teeth, and women start lining up for a chance to go home with you." "Gee, if I'd only known that was all it would take..." He gave her his best smile. She yawned. "Doesn't work on me. Not since I heard you snore last night." "I do not snore." Syd just smiled. "I don't." "Okay," she said, clearly just humoring him. "You try to pick fights," he said, realization in his voice, "even these silly, teasing ones, because you're afraid to have a serious conversation with me." That was so not true. "We had a very serious conversation last night," she argued. “Yeah, but I did most of the talking. That was my serious conversation." "I told you about my family," she protested. "Barely."

"Well, they're boring. None of them have run off to Tibet. I mean, if anyone's Tibet-bound, it's probably me." "There you go," he said. "Trying to get me to argue with you about whether you would or wouldn't actually go to Tibet if you had the cash." Tibet no, but New York, yes. Or Boston or Philly. She wanted to return to the east coast, she reminded herself. That's what all this was about. It was about helping catch a serial rapist, and then writing the best, most detailed, most emotionally connected yet factual article about a city-wide task force ever written. She wasn't here simply to kiss this man in the moonlight. The last of the dusk was fading fast, and the moon was just a sliver in the sky. Syd could hear the party sounds from the Surf Club farther down the beach—the echo of laughter and distant rock and roll. Luke's face was entirely in shadow. "I like you, Syd," he told her softly. "You make me laugh. But I want to know you. I want to know what you want, who you really are. I want to know where you see yourself in fifty years. I want to..." He laughed, and she could've sworn it was self-consciously, that is, if it was possible that Luke O'Donlon could be self-conscious. "I want to know about Kevin Manse. I want to know if you're still in love with him, if you still measure every man you bump into against him." Syd was so completely surprised, it very nearly qualified as stunned. Kevin Manse? What the...? She wished she could see Luke's eyes in the darkness. "What do...how do you know about Kevin Manse?" He cleared his throat. “He, um, came up in some detail when Lana Quinn first hypnotized you." "Some detail...?" "You, um, flashed back to the first time you, uh, met him." Syd said a very impolite word. "Flashed back? What do you mean, flashed back?" "Um, I guess relived is more accurate." "Relived?" Her voice went up several octaves. "What is that supposed to mean?" "You, um, partly told us what happened, partly talked to Kevin as if he were in the room. You told us you bumped into him on the stairs at some frat party, and that he took you up to his room. We kind of tried to rush through the 'oh, Kevin, yes, Kevin' part, but—" Syd said another equally impolite word and sat down in the sand, covering her face with her hands. God, how mortifying. "I suppose you also heard how that pitiful story ended?" "Actually, no, I don't know how it ended." She felt more than heard Luke sit down beside her. "Syd, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to embarrass you. I was just... I've been thinking about it a lot lately, wondering..." She peeked out at him through her fingers. He didn't know how the story ended. She was saved from complete and total mortification. "Do you, um, still love him?" Syd laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed, lying back on the sand, staring up at the vastness of the sky and gasping for air. She laughed, because if she didn't laugh, she'd cry. And there was no way she would ever cry in front of this man. Not if she could help it. Luke laughed, too, mostly because laughter was contagious, partly because he was confused. "I didn't mean for that to be such a funny question." "No," she said when she finally could talk, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out in a shudder of air. "No, I definitely don't still love him. In fact, I never loved him." "You said you did. While you were hypnotized." "I was eighteen," she said. "I lost my virginity to the bastard. I temporarily confused sex with love." As she gazed at the sky, the stars slowly appeared. He sighed. "It was only a one-nighter, huh?" Syd turned her head to look at him, a darker lump of a shadow against the darkness of the night. "A one-night stand. How many times have you done that?" He answered honestly. "Too many." "You're probably someone's Kevin Manse," she said. He was silent. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was harsh."

"But probably true. I've tried to stay away from the eighteen-year-old virgins, though." "Oh," Syd said. "Well. Then that makes it all better." Luke laughed ruefully. "Man, you are unmerciful." "I'll cut you down, but not yet—I like seeing you twisting in the wind, baby." Syd laughed. "You want serious? I'll give you the whole pathetic story— that'll really make you squirm. But if you repeat it to anyone, our friendship is over, do you understand?" "I'm going to hate this, aren't I?" "It's pretty hateful." Syd sat up and looked out over the water. "I've never told this to anyone. Not my college roommate, not my sister, not my mother, not anyone. But I'm going to tell you, because we're friends, and maybe you'll learn something from it." "I feel like I'm approaching a car wreck. I'm horrified at the thought of the carnage, but unable to turn away." She laughed. "It's not that bad." "No?" "Well, maybe it was at the time." She hugged her knees close to her chest and sighed. Where to start...? "Kevin was a big football star." "Yeah," Luke said. "You mentioned that. You said he was a scholar, too. Smart as hell. And probably handsome." "On a scale from one to ten..." Syd squinted as she thought about it. "A twelve." "Whoa!" On that same scale, Luke was a fifty. But she wasn't going to tell him that. "So I ran into him, the big, famous football hero, on the stairs of this frat-house party," she said, "and—" "Yeah," he interrupted. "I know that part. You went upstairs with him, and I know that part, too. That's the part where you started going 'oh, Kevin, yes, Kevin—'" "Wow, you are really the funniest man in the world. Oh, wait—no, you're not! You just think you are." Luke laughed softly. "I'm sorry, I'm just... being a jerk. I'm really anxious about where this is going, and I was just trying to..." he exhaled noisily. "Truth is, when you were doing that in Lana's office, it was really incredibly sexy. It was kind of hard to sit through." She closed her eyes. "God, I'm sorry. I hope I didn't offend you." "Yeah, right. It's always offensive to find out that the woman I'm going to be working closely with for the next few weeks is completely hot." She snorted. "Yeah, right. That's me. One hot chick." "You steam," he told her. "And I suppose the fact that you now know I had sex with some guy about an hour after I met him had nothing to do with your decision to hit on me?" "I hit on you before you were hypnotized." He was right. That had happened the day before—on the first day they'd met. And after she'd been hypnotized... "After the session with Lana Quinn," he said, "was when I asked you to join the team, as a team player, remember?" Syd was completely confused. "I'm not even going to try to make any sense out of that." "Just finish the story," he told her. "You told me and Lana that Kevin had one of his friends drive you back to your dorm, later that night." "Yeah," she said. "He said he thought my staying all night would be bad for my reputation. Ha." She rested her chin on her knees, still holding on to herself tightly. "Okay. Next day. Act Two. It's Sunday. There's a big game. And me, I'm a genius. I'm thinking about the fact that thanks to the bottle of Jack Daniel's we put a solid dent in up in Kevin's room, I managed to leave without giving my new soul mate my telephone number. So I spend the morning writing him a note. I think I went through about a hundred drafts before I got it right. 'Dear Kevin, Last night was truly wonderful...'" She had to swallow to clear away the sudden, aching lump that formed in her throat. God, she was such a sap. All these years later, and Kevin Manse could still make her want to cry, damn him. She felt Luke touch her, his fingers gentle in her hair, light against her back. "You really don't have to tell me any more of this," he said quietly. "I already feel really bad, and if you want, right now I'll swear to you that I'll never do a one-nighter again. I mean, it's been years since I have anyway, and—" "I went to the football game," she told him. "With my pathetic little note. And I sat there in the stands and I watched my lover from the night before

play a perfect game. After it was over, I tried to get into the stadium locker rooms, but there were security guards who laughed at me when I told them I was Kevin's girlfriend. I didn't get upset. I just smiled. I figured they'd have plenty of time to get to know me—the season was just starting. They told me that Kevin always came out the south entrance after a game to greet his fans. They told me I should wait there if I wanted to see him. So I waited." "Oh, God," Luke said. "I know exactly where this is going." "I waited by the south gate, with a crowd of about fifty people, for over an hour," Syd continued. She remembered the smell of the spilled beer, the sweat, and the humid afternoon heat. She remembered that nervous feeling in her stomach, that anticipation at the thought of seeing Kevin again. She'd stood there, fantasizing, wondering what he'd do when he saw her. Would he laugh and hold out his arms to her? Would he get that soft look in his eyes, just as he had the night before, when they'd done those things that still made her blush? Would he pick her up and spin her around in a victory dance, and then kiss her? Syd remembered thinking that the crowd would cheer at that kiss, the way crowds always did at the end of romantic movies, when the hero and heroine were together at last. "He finally came out," she told Luke, "and started signing autographs. It took me forever, but I made my way to the front of the crowd. And he turned to me and..." The lump was back, damn it, and she had to clear it out of her throat. "And he didn't remember me," she whispered. "He looked right into my eyes, and he didn't even recognize that I was the girl he'd had sex with the night before. He gave me his high-voltage, football-star smile, and took my note right out of my hand. He asked me what my name was, asked me how to spell it, and he signed his autograph on that piece of paper and gave it back to me. 'To Sydney— Stay happy, Kevin Manse.'" Lucky sat in the sand and stared up at the now slightly hazy sky. "Can I try to find him?" he asked. "Can I track him down and beat the hell out of him?'' Syd managed a shaky laugh. He wanted to touch her again, to put his arms around her and hold her close, but it seemed like the wrong thing to do, given the circumstances. "I'm so sorry," he said, and his words seemed so inadequate. Especially since he'd spent nearly all of dinner planning exactly how he was going to talk Syd into his bed tonight. Late tonight. After oh-twohundred. In the small hours of the night, when she would be at her most vulnerable. He'd turn off the microphones, send the rest of his team home. And in the privacy of his living room... He'd told himself that it would be good for him to be honest with her. To tell her he was attracted, admit that he was having trouble thinking about much else besides the fact that he wanted her. He was planning to move closer and closer as they sat on the couch, closing in on her until she was in his arms. He was planning to kiss her until she lost all sense of direction. He was planning to kiss her until she surrendered. But in truth, he wasn't really being honest. He was merely calculating that this feigned honesty would get him some. He hadn't given much thought at all to tomorrow. He hadn't considered Syd's feelings. Or her expectations. Just like Kevin Manse, he'd thought only about his own immediate gratification. God, he was such a jerk. Syd drew in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “We should probably go. It's getting late. You have to head over to the base, and I've...I've got to go tattoo the word victim on my forehead, just to be sure our bad guy gets the right idea." She stood up and stretched, then turned and offered Lucky a hand. He took it, and she helped him up. He'd known all along that she was strong, but she was much, much stronger than he'd ever imagined. He held on to her hand, suddenly afraid that she didn't really like him, afraid that she was simply enduring his company, afraid of what she'd write about him in her article after this was all over. And, he was afraid that after it was over, he'd never see her again. "Syd, do you hate me?" She turned toward him and touched his face, her fingers cool against his cheek. "Are you kidding?" Her husky voice was filled with amusement and something else. Something warm that wrapped around him and brought him more than mere relief. "I know it sounds crazy, but I think you're probably the best friend I've ever had."

Chapter 11 Syd woke to the shrill sound of the telephone ringing. The clock on the bedside table in Luke's guest room read :. It was nearly four in the morning. Who could possibly be calling now? She knew instantly, sitting up, her heart pounding. The rapist hadn't taken the bait. Instead, some other poor woman had been attacked. She could hear the low murmur of Luke's voice from the other room. His voice got louder, and, although she couldn't make out the words, she could pick up his anger loud and clear. No, this wasn't good news, that was for sure. Luke had come home just after two. He'd been unnaturally quiet, almost pensive, and very, very tired. He'd made a quick circuit of the house, making sure all the doors and windows were securely locked, and then he'd gone into his bedroom and shut the door. Syd had climbed into the narrow bed in this room that had probably once been Luke's sister's, and had tried to sleep. Tried and failed. It seemed as if she'd just drifted off when the sound of the phone jerked her back to consciousness. From the other side of the wall, she heard a crash from Luke's room as something was noisily knocked over. She stood up, uncertain as to whether she should go make sure he was all right, when her door opened with a bang. Luke stood there, wearing only a pair of boxers, breathing hard, backlit by the light from the hallway. “Get your clothes on. Fast. We're going to the hospital." His voice was harsh, his face grim. "Lucy McCoy's been attacked." Syd had to run to keep up with Luke as she followed him down the hospital corridor. Lucy McCoy. God, not Lucy.... Whoever had called Luke to give him the news hadn't known any details. How badly had she been hurt? Was she even alive? Bobby appeared at the end of the hallway, and Luke moved even faster. "Sit-rep," he ordered the chief as soon as they were close enough to talk without shouting. Bobby's face was somber. "She's alive and she wasn't raped," he told them as they continued down the hall. "But that's where the good news ends. They've got her in ICU— intensive care. I...persuaded a doctor to talk to me, and he used words like massive head injury and coma. She's got a broken collarbone, broken arm, and a broken rib that punctured her lung, as well." "Who's with her?" Luke's voice was tight. "Wes and Mia," Bobby reported. "Frisco's taking care of the paperwork." "Has someone tried to reach Blue?" "Yeah, I've tried, Frisco's tried, but we're both getting a lot of static. Wherever Alpha Squad is, they're in deep. I can't even get anyone to tell me which hemisphere they're on." "Call Admiral Robinson," Luke ordered as they stopped outside the entrance to the intensive care unit. "If anyone can get word to Alpha Squad, he can." Bobby moved briskly off as Mia Francisco pushed open the door and stepped out of ICU. "I thought I heard your voice." She gave Luke a hug, her eyes red from crying. "Should you be here?" Luke asked her, putting a hand on her enormous belly. Mia hugged Syd, too. "How could I not be here?" she said. Her lip trembled. "The doctor says the next few hours are critical. If she makes it through the night—" Her voice broke. "Oh, God," Syd said. "It's that bad?" Mia nodded. "Can I see her?" Luke asked. Mia nodded again. "She's in room four. There's usually a family-members-only rule with patients in ICU, but with Blue out of the country, the doctors and nurses are letting us sit with her. I called Veronica and Melody. They're both flying in in the morning. And Nell and Becca should be here in about an hour. PJ's already over at the crime scene."

Luke pushed open the door to the intensive care wing, and Syd followed him in. Nighttime didn't exist in ICU. It was as brightly lit and as filled with busy doctors and nurses as if it were high noon. Luke stopped outside room four, just looking in. Syd took his hand. Lucy looked impossibly small and fragile lying in that hospital bed. She was hooked up to all kinds of machines and monitors. Her head was swathed in bandages, her face pale—except for where it was savagely bruised. She had an angry-looking row of stitches above her left eyebrow, and her mouth looked scraped and raw, her lips swollen and split. Her left eye was purple and yellow and completely swollen shut. Wes sat next to her bed, head bowed as he held her hand. He looked up as Luke slowly went into the room, Syd following him to the foot of Lucy's bed. Wes's eyes were as red as Mia's had been. He was crying. Wes—whom Syd still thought of as a potential suspect. God, wasn't that an awful thought? Was it possible Wes could have done this to Lucy and then come here to sit by her bed—to make sure that she died? It was like something out of a bad movie. "Hey, Luce," Luke said, trying his best to sound cheerful, but barely able to do more than whisper. "I don't suppose you want to wake up and tell me what happened, huh?" Lucy didn't move. On the wall, the screen monitoring her heart continued its steady beeping. Wes gave no guilty starts. His eyes didn't move shiftily. He didn't start to sweat or shake at the thought of Lucy opening her eyes and giving out information. He just sat there, crying, holding Lucy's hand, occasionally wiping his eyes with his T-shirt sleeve. "Well, you know what?" Luke said to her. "I'm going to come back later and we can talk then, okay?" Nothing. Luke was holding Syd's hand so tightly, her fingers were starting to ache from lack of blood. "Just...hang on, Lucy," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Blue will be here soon, I promise. Just...hang on." *** Lucky stood in Blue and Lucy McCoy's second-floor bedroom, grimly taking in the crushed and twisted lamps, the knocked-over rocking chair, the mattress half off its frame, the blood smeared on the sheets and the pale yellow wall, and the broken bay window that had looked out over the McCoys' flower-filled backyard. Dawn was sending delicate, fairy-like light into the yard and, as he stepped closer to the window, the bits and pieces of broken glass glittered prettily on the grass below. Syd stood quietly by the door. He'd heard her slip into the bathroom after they'd first arrived and seen the evidence of the violent and bloody fight that had taken place in this very room. He'd heard her get sick. But she'd come out almost right away. Pale and shaking but unwilling to leave. PJ Becker came into the room, followed by one of the FInCOM agents who'd been assigned to the task force. PJ's recent promotion had pushed her way high up in FInCOM's chain of command, and the agent who was with her looked a little dazed at her presence. "Dave, you already know Lieutenant O'Donlon and Sydney Jameson. Lieutenant, Dave Sudenberg's one of our top forensics experts," PJ said. "I thought you'd be interested in hearing his take on what happened here last night, since Detective McCoy's not yet able to give us a statement." Lucky nodded and Dave Sudenberg cleared his throat. "As far as I can tell, the perpetrator entered the premises through a downstairs window," he told them. "He managed to bypass a portion of the security system without shutting the whole thing down, which was good, since the system's lights and alarms later played a large part in saving the detective's life." He pointed to the door that Syd was still standing near. "He entered this room through that door, and from the pattern of blood on the sheets, we can assume that Lucy was in bed at the time, and probably asleep when he landed the first blow—probably the one that broke her nose. He struck her with his fists—there would have been far more blood had he used something other than his hands. "Lucy came up swinging. She was probably trying to get to the weapon she kept just under the bed, but he wouldn't let her near it. She hit him with this lamp," he said, pointing to the twisted wreckage of what had once been a tall, freestanding halogen. "Preliminary tests already show that the blood on this thing isn't Lucy's. "So she clobbers him, and he goes ballistic, throws her against this wall, battering the hell out of her, and delivering what I believe was the worst of Lucy's head injuries, and wrapping his hands around her neck. But somehow, she breaks free. Somehow she doesn't lose consciousness right away. And she does the one thing that I think saved her life. She dives out the window, right through the glass, setting off the alarm system, waking the neighbors. Perp runs, and the police come and find her, half dead in the backyard." Lucky met Syd's eyes. Dear God, now he was going to be sick. Lucy had to have known that a fall like that could have killed her. Had she thought she'd have zero chance of survival by staying in the room with the attacker? Fight or submit. Had she believed either would have gotten her killed, and opted to flee, despite the health risks of jumping out a second-story window?

There was a real chance he'd never find out, that Lucy wouldn't live through the night, or that, even if she did, she'd never awaken from the coma she'd slipped into. There was a real chance Blue would come home to bury his wife. PJ moved to the window and looked all the way down at the yard below. "Dave thinks her broken collarbone and arm were from the dive she took out the window," she said grimly. "But the broken rib, broken nose, bruised throat and near-fatal head injuries were from your guy." "We've got enough of his DNA to see if it matches the semen and skin samples he left behind with his other victims," Sudenberg told them. "I've already sent samples to the lab." "What's it gonna take," Lucky asked, his chest and his throat both feeling so tight he had to push to squeeze his voice out, "to get the police or FInCOM to actually pick up the likely suspects on the list Lucy helped compile?" "It's getting done, but these things take time," PJ told him as she headed for the door. She motioned for Sudenberg to follow her. "I'll see that you're given updated status reports as they come in." Lucky nodded. "Thanks." "See you back at the hospital," PJ said. Lucky stood in his kitchen, his vision blurring as he stared out the window over the sink. Lucy had made it through the night but still showed no signs of waking. Blue could not be reached, not even with the help of Admiral Robinson. The admiral had known where Alpha Squad was though, and had been willing to break radio silence to contact them, but the mountains and rocky terrain were playing havoc with the signal. Lieutenant Mitch Shaw, one of the Admiral's Gray Group operatives, had volunteered to go in after them. To find Blue, to send him back out and to take his place on this critical mission. Best-case scenario had Shaw taking a record four days to walk into the hostile and nearly impenetrable countryside and find Alpha Squad almost right away—another highly unlikely possibility. Another four days for Blue to get out. Best-case scenario didn't have him reaching his wife's side in fewer than nine or ten days. Nine or ten days. Damn it. Damn it. He heard Syd in the doorway, but he didn't turn around. "Maybe I should go," she said quietly. "You probably want to be alone, and—" He spun around, interrupting her with a very salty version of no. “Where would you go? To your apartment? I don't want you even to think of going back there alone, do you understand? Not unless I'm with you. From now on, you don't make a move on your own, is that absolutely clear?" He was shouting at her, he realized. He was standing in his kitchen, blasting her for being considerate. But she didn't shout back at him. She didn't recoil in horror. She didn't spin on her heels and walk away in a huff. Instead, she took a step toward him, reaching out her hand for him. "Luke, this isn't your fault. You know that, right?" There was a solid lump in his throat, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't swallow it. He couldn't push it down past the tightness in his chest. “I should have made her listen to me," he whispered. "I tried to talk her into staying at the police station, but she had such faith in her damned security system." Syd was gazing at him with such compassion in her eyes. He knew that if she touched him, he'd be lost. If she touched him, everything he was fighting so hard to keep inside would break free, all the guilt and the anger and the fear—God, he was so afraid. It would escape, like water pouring over a dam. He took a step back from her. "I don't want you doing this anymore. This bait thing. Not after this. No way. All bets are off. You're going to have to stay away from me from now on. I'll make sure Bobby's with you, -." She kept coming. "Luke. That doesn't make sense. This could well be the only way we'll catch this guy. I know you want to catch this guy." He laughed, and it sounded sharp and brittle. "Understatement of the year." "Maybe we should both get some sleep. We can talk about this later, after we've had time to think it through." “There's nothing more to think about," he said. "There's too much that could go wrong. In the time it would take us to get inside the house, even from the backyard, you could be killed. You're smaller than Lucy, Syd. If he hit you the way he hit her—'' His voice broke and he had to take a deep breath before he could go on. "I won't let you risk your life that way. The thought of you being alone with that guy even for one second..." To Lucky's complete horror, the tears he was desperately fighting welled in his eyes, and this time he couldn't force them back. This time they escaped. He wiped at them savagely, but even that didn't stop them from coming.

Ah, God, he was crying. He was standing in front of Syd and crying like a two-year-old. It was all over. He was completely unmanned. Except she didn't laugh. She didn't give him one of those "wow, you are both lame and stupid" looks that she did so well. Instead, she put her arms around him and held him tightly. "It's okay if you cry," she told him softly. "I won't tell anyone." He had to laugh at that. "Yeah, but you'll know." She lifted her head to look up at him, gently pushing his hair back from his face, her eyes so soft. "I already knew." The constriction in his chest got even tighter. God, it hurt. "I'd die if anything happened to you." His voice broke as he thought about Blue, out there in some jungle somewhere, being told that the woman he loved more than life itself was lying in a hospital bed, maybe dying, maybe already dead. And then Lucky wasn't just crying anymore. He was experiencing emotional meltdown. He was sobbing the way he hadn't done since Isidro had died, clinging tightly to Syd as if maybe she could save him. His knees gave out and he crumpled, sliding down to sit on the kitchen floor. And still Syd held on to him. She didn't say a word, didn't try to make him stop. She just sat next to him, rocking him gently. Even if Lucy woke up, even if she opened her eyes tomorrow, she would have only survived. Blue could never go back and erase the trauma of what she'd been through. He could never take away the fear she must've known in what should have been the sanctuary of her bedroom, as she'd fought for her life, all alone with a man who wanted to violate her, to kill her. There would always, for the rest of their lives, be a permanent echo of that fear in her eyes. And that was if she survived. If she died... How would Blue live, how would he even be able to breathe, with his heart ripped from his chest? Would he spend the rest of his life haunted by the memory of Lucy's eyes? Would he be forever looking for her smile on a crowded street? Would the scent of her subtle perfume make him turn, searching for her, despite knowing full well that she was gone? Lucky wasn't ever going to let himself be in that place where Blue was right now. He wasn't ever getting married. Never getting married. It had been his mantra for years as he'd struggled with the concept of commitment, yet now it held special meaning. He didn't want to walk around feeling the fear that came with loving someone. He didn't want that, damn it! Except look at him. He was reduced to this quivering bowl of jelly not simply out of empathy for Blue. A solid part of the emotion that had reduced him to these stupid tears was this god-awful fear that tightened his chest and closed up his throat. The thought of Syd spending even one single second with the man who had brutalized Lucy made him crazy. The thought of her being beaten into a coma was terrifying. But the thought of Syd walking out of his life, after they'd caught and convicted the San Felipe Rapist, was nearly as frightening. He loved her. No! Dear God, where had that thought come from? An overdose of whatever bizarre hormones his emotional outburst had unleashed. Lucky drew in a deep, shuddering breath and pulled free from Syd's arms. He didn't love her. That was insane. He was Lucky O'Donlon. He didn't do love. He wiped his eyes, wiped his face, reached up for a napkin from the holder on the kitchen table and blew his nose. He lived up to his nickname by tossing the napkin directly into the trash container all the way on the other side of the room with perfect aim, then sat leaning back, exhausted, against the kitchen cabinets. No, he didn't love her. He was just a little confused, that's all. And, just to be safe, until he was able to sleep off this confusion, it would be smart for him to put a little distance between them. Now was definitely not the time to act on his raging physical attraction for this woman. As much as he would have given for the comfort of losing himself in some highly charged sex before slipping into mind-numbing sleep, he wasn't going to do it. Of course, there was also the not-so-small matter of his taking advantage of her. Assuming that she'd even let him take advantage of her after he'd revealed just how completely pathetic a wimp he was.

Syd was silent as she sat beside him. He couldn't bring himself even to glance at her as he attempted an apologetic smile. "Sheesh. I'm sorry about that." He sensed more than saw her turn so that she was sitting on her knees, facing him. But then she touched him. Her fingers were cool against the heat of his face as she gently pushed his hair back from his forehead. He looked at her then—he couldn't really avoid it, she'd leaned forward and her face was about two inches from his. Her eyes were so warm, he had to close his, for fear he'd start crying all over again. And with his eyes closed, he didn't see her lean even farther forward. But she must have, because she kissed him. She kissed him. Here in his kitchen, where no one was watching, where no one could see. It was such a sweet kiss, such a gentle kiss, her lips featherlight against his. It made his knees go even weaker, made him glad he was already sitting down. She kissed him again, and this time he was ready for her. This time he kissed her, too, catching her mouth with his, careful to be as gentle, tasting the salt of his tears on her lips with the very tip of his tongue. He heard her sigh and he kissed her again, longer this time, deeper. She opened her mouth to him, slowly, exquisitely meeting his tongue with hers, and Lucky threw it all away. Everything that he'd been trying to convince himself about putting distance between them went right out the window. To hell with his confusion. He liked confusion. He loved confusion. If this was confusion, then damn it, give him more. He reached for her, and she slid into his arms, her fingers in his hair, on his neck, on his back, her body so supple against him, her breasts so soft. He'd kissed her before, but never like this. It had never been this real. It had never held this promise, this achingly pure glimpse of attainable paradise. He kissed her again and again, slowly, lazily losing himself in the soft sweetness of her mouth, deliberately taking his time, purposely not pressuring her for anything more. These kisses were enough. He wanted her, sure, but even if they only spent the next four hours just kissing, that would be good enough. Kissing her for four hours wouldn't be taking advantage, would it? But Syd was the one who pushed them over the line. She moved onto his lap, straddling him. She started unfastening the buttons on his shirt. She kissed him possessively—long, hard, deep, hungry kisses that lifted him up and made him tumble with her into a breathless, passionate, turbulent place. A place where the entire world disappeared, where nothing existed but the softness of her eyes, the warmth of her body. She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, still kissing him. He reached to unbutton her Hawaiian shirt—his shirt— and was completely sidetracked by the softness of her body beneath the silk, by the way her breasts fit perfectly in his hands, by the desire-tightened tips of her nipples. She moved forward on his lap, pressing the heat between her legs against his arousal, nearly making him weep all over again. She wanted him as badly as he wanted her. And still she kissed him, fierce kisses now, kisses that stole his breath from his lungs, that made his heart pound in his chest. He gave up trying to unfasten her shirt and yanked it up and over her head. She unfastened the black lace of her bra, and then her bare breasts were in his hands, in his mouth. He kissed her, tasted her, pulling back to gaze at her. Small but perfect, she was quite possibly the most exquisitely feminine woman he'd ever seen. Her shoulders were so smooth, so slender. Her collarbone and the base of her throat were works of art. And her breasts...what on earth had she been thinking to keep all that covered up all the time? He pulled her close and kissed her again, his arms wrapped around all that amazing satiny skin, her breasts cool against his chest. She reached between them for the buckle on his belt. It wasn't easy to get open, but she had it unfastened and his zipper undone in a matter of seconds. Lucky's fingers fumbled at the button on her jeans, and she pulled out of his arms to kick off her sandals, to skim her pants down her legs. He did the same with his own pants, kicking off his shoes. “Where do you keep your condoms?" she asked huskily. “Bathroom. In the medicine cabinet."

For some reason that surprised her. "Really?" she said. "Not in the top drawer of your bedside table, next to your water bed?" He had to laugh. "I hate to break it to you, but I don't have a water bed." "No lava lamp?" He shook his head, grinning at her like an idiot. "And nary a single black light, either. My apologies. As a bachelor pad, it's definitely lacking." She took it in stride. “I suppose not having a water bed is better than not having any condoms." She was naked and so incredibly beautiful as she stood there, looking down at him. "As appealing an idea as it is to get it on right here on the kitchen floor, do you suppose if I went into your bedroom via a quick stop in the bathroom, I could convince you to follow me?" The bedroom. The bedroom suddenly made this all so real. Lucky had to ask. "Syd, are you sure...?" She gave him her 'I don't believe you' look. "I'm standing here naked, Luke, about to fetch a condom from your bathroom so that you and I can have raw, screaming sex. If that's not an unequivocal yes, I don't know what is." "Raw, screaming sex," he repeated, his mouth suddenly dry. "Wildly passionate, deliriously orgasmic, exquisitely delicious, savage, pounding, rapture-enducing, sweaty, nasty, scorchingly ecstatic, heartstopping, brain-meltingly raw, screaming sex." She gave him a very innocent smile. "You up for it?" Lucky could only nod yes. His vocal chords had seized up. But his legs were working. Somehow she managed to beat him into his bedroom. She tossed the condom on his bedside table and knelt on his bed, her gaze skimming his nearly naked body. She looked rather pointedly at his briefs. "Are you planning to keep those on?" "I didn't want to scare you," he said modestly. She laughed, just as he'd hoped she would. "Come here," she said. He did, and she kissed him as she pulled him back with her onto his bed. The sensation of her naked body beneath his, of the silk-iness of her legs intertwined with his was one he'd fantasized about often. Lucky had been with many, many women and found fantasy better than reality. But that wasn't so with Syd. In his fantasies about her, he hadn't even scratched the surface of how good it would feel to be with her this way, because it went so far beyond mere physical pleasure. He loved the way her eyes lit up, the way she smiled at him as if making love to him was the most fun she'd ever had in her entire life. He ran his hands down her back to the curve of her rear end. She was all his, and he laughed aloud as he touched her. He couldn't get enough of touching her. He parted her legs with gentle pressure from his thighs, and as he kissed her, he ran his hand from her breasts to her stomach and lower, cupping her, touching her lightly at first. She was so slick and hot, it was dizzying. She opened herself to him, lifting her hips and pushing his exploring fingers more deeply inside her. "I think now would be a very good time for you to lose the briefs," she breathed, tugging at his waistband. He helped her peel them off, and she sighed her approval. He shut his eyes as her hand closed around him. "I guess you don't scare easily," he murmured. "I'm terrified," she told him, lowering her head and kissing him. Her mouth was warm and wet and so soft, and sheer pleasure made fireworks of color explode behind his closed eyes. And Lucky couldn't wait. He pulled her beneath him, cradling himself between her legs, his body so beyond ready for her that he was trembling. Condom. Man, he'd nearly forgotten the condom. He reached for it on the bedside table, where she'd put it, tearing open the wrapper as he rolled off her and quickly covered himself. But he didn't get a chance to roll back on top of her, because Syd straddled him. With one smooth move, she drove him deeply inside her. If he'd been prone to heart attacks, he'd be a dead man. Fortunately, his heart was healthy despite the fact it was going at about four hundred beats per minute. Wild, she'd said. Passionate. Delirious... Lucky couldn't tell where he ended and Syd began. They moved together, perfectly in sync, kissing, touching, breathing. Delicious, savage, pounding...

He rolled them both over so that he was on top, so that he had control of their movement. He moved faster and harder and she liked it all, her body straining to meet him, to take him even more deeply inside her, her kisses feeding his fire. He was slick with sweat, her body plastered exquisitely to him as they rolled once more, bringing Syd back on top. She pushed herself up so she sat astride him, her breasts glistening with perspiration, her damp hair clinging to her face as she threw her head back and laughed. She looked down at him. “Is it just me, or is this amazingly, incredibly good?" "Good," he managed to say. "Amazingly..." She was moving slowly now, and each stroke took him closer and closer to the edge. She was smiling at him, and he reached up and touched her, her face, her throat, her breasts, and he felt the start of her release. She held his gaze and breathed his name on a low, throaty sob of air that was without a doubt the sexiest sound he'd ever heard. He pulled her close and kissed her as his own release rocketed through him. It was heart-stopping. It was brain-melting. It was rapture and ecstasy. But it wasn't sex. It was making love, because, damn it, he was in love with her.

Chapter 12 “Nothing's changed," Luke said, tracing circles around her belly button, head propped up on one elbow as he and Syd lay among his rumpled sheets. They'd slept for about five hours, and the sun was high in the sky. Luke had put in a call to the hospital—nothing had changed with Lucy's condition, either. "I really don't want to use you as bait," he continued. " honestly don't think I can do it, Syd." His hair was charmingly rumpled, and for the first time since they'd met, he was in need of a shave. It was amazing, really, but not entirely unexpected—even his stubble was golden. She touched his chin, ran her thumb across his incredible lips. "So what do we do?" "Pretend to break up." "Pretend?" she asked, praying that he wouldn't be able to tell that her heart was in her throat. She couldn't bear to look at him. "I don't want this to end," he told her. "But I need you to be safe." It was an excuse. Had to be. Because, like he'd said, nothing really had changed. Breaking up with him wouldn't make her any safer. "Look," she said, pulling away from him and covering herself with the sheet. She tried hard to keep her voice light. "I think it's pretty obvious that neither of us expected this to happen. We've had a tough couple of days and things just kind of got out of hand and—" Luke laughed in disbelief. "Is that really what you think this was? Things getting out of hand?" Syd staunchly forced herself to meet his gaze. "Wasn't it?" "No," he said flatly. "And as far as neither of us expecting this, well, I sure as hell did. I planned for it. I counted on it. I wanted it." He kissed her hard, on the mouth. "I wanted you. I still want you. But more than that, I want you to be safe." Syd was dizzy. "You planned..." "I've been hot for you for weeks, baby cakes." "We've only known each other a few weeks." "Exactly." Syd was looking into his eyes, and she believed him. My God, she really believed him. I've been hot for you for weeks.... She had no idea. Except for all the times he'd kissed her. Playing the pretend girlfriend game, he'd called it. Those kisses had seemed so real. "I thought you were making up some stupid excuse to break up because you didn't want me around," she admitted. "I thought..." He knew what she'd thought. "That this was just a one-nighter?" He flopped back on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. "You honestly thought I'd do that to you? After you told me about...the football player who shall remain nameless because the mere mention of his name enrages me?" "Well..." He lifted his head to look at her, his eyes suddenly sharp. “Did you mean for this to be a one-nighter?" “I didn't think it would ever really happen," she told him honestly. “I mean, until it was happening, and then..." She didn't know what to tell him. "We probably shouldn't have done this, because it's really going to screw up our friendship. You know, I really like you, Luke. I mean, as a friend..." Oh, brother, could she sound any more stupid? And she was lying, too, by great big omission. Yeah, she really liked him as a friend, but she loved him as a lover, too. Loved. L-O-V-E-D. As in, here, take my heart and crush it into a thousand tiny pieces. As in, here, take my heart and leave me here, emotionally bleeding to death as you move on to bigger and better things. As in, here, take my heart even though you don't really want it. It was stupid, really. She was stupid. She'd realized it when she was having sex with the guy. The fact that she was having sex with the guy should have been a dead giveaway that she'd fallen for him in the first place. But, no, she had been too dumb to realize that those warm feelings she felt every time she looked at Luke O'Donlon were far more than feelings of friendship. She'd gone and let herself fall in love with a Ken doll. Except, Luke wasn't really plastic. He was real, and he was perfect. Well, not perfect perfect,

but perfect for her. Perfect except for the fact that he didn't do serious—he'd warned her about that himself—and that his usual girl-friends had had larger bra sizes back when they were twelve than Syd had now. Perfect except for the fact that, if she let him, he would crush her heart into a thousand tiny pieces. Not intentionally. But it didn't have to be intentional to hurt. "I like you, too," he told her quietly. "But as more than a friend. Way more." When he said things like that, lying back in his bed, naked and gorgeous, all blue eyes and golden hair and tan skin, it was like playing her older sister's Mystery Date game and opening the door to the picture of the perfect, blond, tuxedo-clad young Mr. Right. It was like finding the "win a free year's supply" coupon in her bag of M&M's. It was like living the perfect Hollywood movie, the kind of romantic comedy that ended with two complete opposites in each other's arms, locked in a kiss. The kind of romantic comedy that ended way before the divorce two years later, Divorce. God, what was she thinking? It wasn't as if Luke had asked her to marry him. There was a long, long road between, "Honey, I like you as more than a friend," and "Will you marry me?" Syd cleared her throat. "It won't make any difference if we pretend to break up," she told him, "because our guy has gone after ex-girlfriends, too, remember? He's not picky. I wouldn't be any safer." "You would be if you left town," he countered. She was dumbstruck. "You want me to leave town?" "Yeah." He was serious. "No. No way. Absolutely not." Syd couldn't sit still, so she leapt out of bed. "I'm part of this task force, part of your team, remember?" She was standing there naked, glaring at him, and she grabbed the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself. Luke was trying not to smile. "I don't know," he said, "The argumentative stance worked better for me without the sheet." "Don't change the subject, because I'm not leaving." "Syd, baby, I've been trying to think of another way this could work and—" "Don't you dare baby me! Sheesh, sleep with a guy once, and he thinks he's got the right to tell you what to do! Sleep with a guy once, and suddenly you're in Patronizing City! I'm not leaving town, Luke, baby, so just forget about it!" "All right!" His temper snapped, too, and he sat forward, the muscles in his shoulders taut as he pushed himself up. "Great. I'll forget about it. I'll forget about the fact that the thought of you ending up in a hospital bed in a coma like Lucy is making me freaking crazy!" He was serious. He really was scared to death for her. As Syd gazed into his eyes, her anger instantly deflated. She sat on the edge of the bed, wishing she could compromise, but knowing that this was one fight she had to win. "I'm sorry," she said, reaching for him. "But I can't leave, Luke. This story is too important to me." "Is it really worth risking your life?" She touched his hair, his shoulder, traced the definition of the powerful muscles in his arm. "You're a fine one to talk about risking your life and whether a job is worth it." "I'm trained for it," he said. "You're not. You're a writer." She met his gaze. "And what if I never wrote anything that I thought was important? What if I always played it safe? I could be very safe, you know, and write copy for the back of cereal boxes. Do you really think that's what I should do for the rest of my life?" It was hard for him, but he shook his head, no. "I have a great opportunity here," she told him. "There's a job I really, really want as an editor and staff writer of a magazine I really, really admire. Think Maga zine. “I've never heard of it," Luke admitted. “It's targeted to young women," Syd told him, "as kind of an alternative to all those fashion magazines that tell you that you need to make yourself beautiful and thin if you want to win Mr. Right's heart—and also send you the message that you'll never be beautiful enough or thin enough." "Is that your dream job?" he asked. "To write for this magazine?'' "My dream job is to write a book. I'd love to be able to afford to take a year or two and try writing fiction," she admitted. "But at the rate I'm saving, I'm going to be ninety before that happens. I either have to win the lottery or find a patron. And the odds of either of those things happening is like four billion to one. This job with Think is the next best thing." They'd somehow gotten off the topic. "This story," Syd said, steering them back onto track, "when I write it, is going to help me get that job. But that's just part of why I don't want to leave, Luke. You need to understand—the other part is intensely personal. The other part comes from knowing that I can help catch this guy. I can help!"

"You've already helped," he told her. "If I leave, you're back to square one. You've got to start from scratch. Establish a new relationship—with whom, Luke? Some policewoman? You don't think that would look really suspicious? You don't think this guy pays attention to things like that? A guy who probably follows his victim around for days, searching for patterns, learning her schedule, watching for times when she's all alone...?" She had him, and she knew it, as he flopped back onto the bed, put his arm over his eyes and swore. "He's probably too smart, too suspicious to come near me anyway," she told him. He lifted his arm to look at her. "You don't believe that any more than I do." He reached for her, pulling her close, holding her tightly. "Promise me you won't go anywhere by yourself. Promise you'll always make sure someone from the team is watching you." "I promise," Syd said. "I'm talking about running down to the convenience store for some milk. It doesn't happen until we catch this guy, do you understand? I'm either right here, right next to you, or Bobby's breathing down your neck." "I got it," Syd said. "Although, personally, I'd prefer you breathing down my neck." "That can definitely be arranged." He kissed her, hard. "You will be safe. I'm going to make damn sure of it." He kissed her again—her throat, her breasts, her stomach, moving even lower, his breath hot against her skin. That wasn't her neck he was breathing down, but Syd didn't bother to tell him. She figured he probably knew. She closed her eyes, losing herself in the torrents of pleasure that rushed past her, over her, through her. Pleasure and emotion—thick, rich, deep emotion that surrounded her completely and made her feel as if she were drowning. When it came to the things Luke O'Donlon could make her feel, she was in way over her head. Sounds of laughter rang from Lucy McCoy's hospital room. Hope expanded inside Lucky as he ran the last few steps and pushed open the door and... He stopped short, and Syd, who was right behind him, bumped into him. Lucy still lay motionless in her hospital bed, breathing with the help of a respirator. But she was surrounded by her friends. The room was filled with women. Veronica Catalanotto sat by Lucy's bed and held her hand. Mia Francisco sat nearby, using her enormously rounded belly as a table for a bowl of raw vegetables, her legs propped up on another chair. Melody Jones, Cowboy's wife, was perched on the windowsill, her feet bare, next to Mitch Shaw's wife, Becca, who'd kept on her cowboy boots. It figured they'd sit together, be close friends. They both looked like something out of a very wholesome country music video. Melody waved at him. “Hey, Lucky. I was just telling Wes that my sister, Brittany, came out here with me. She and Andy, my nephew, are watching the kids, so that Ronnie and I can both be here. I was just suggesting that as long as Brittany's in town, we try to set her up with Wes-ley." Lucky realized that Wes Skelly was in the room, too, sitting on the floor by Lucy's bed, next to Nell Hawken, Crash's wife. They both had their backs to the wall. Wes rolled his eyes. "Why is it always me?" he complained. "Why don't you women torment Bobby for a change?" "For a change?" Bobby deadpanned. He was there, too, sitting cross-legged in front of young Tasha, who was putting his long black hair into dozens of braids of varying sizes. There was more laughter, and Veronica leaned over Lucy, as if she were hoping for something. A smile. A movement. A twitch. She looked up, caught Lucky watching her and shook her head. Nothing. The strain that was just below the surface on all of their faces showed through at the tight edges of her mouth. But she forced a smile. "Hey, Lucy, Lucky's here with Syd." She looked around the room. "Who here hasn't met Sydney Jameson? Brace yourself, ladies, no fainting please, I know we all thought it would never happen, but our Luke has been smitten at last. Syd's moving in with him." The noise of all those female voices talking at once as introductions were made and congratulations given—along with hugs and kisses—should have been enough to wake the dead, but Lucy still didn't move. And Syd was embarrassed. Lucky met her eyes, and knew exactly what she was thinking. The moving in together thing wasn't real. It was part of the girlfriend game. Despite the fact that their relationship had become intimate, he hadn't asked her to move in with him. And she hadn't accepted. He tried to imagine asking such a thing. How did a man go about it? It wasn't a marriage proposal, so there wasn't any need to get down on your knees, was there? Would you do it casually? While you were making dinner? Or maybe over breakfast? "Hey, babe, by the way...it's occurred to me that as long as you're here all the time..."

It didn't seem very romantic, far more like a convenience than a commitment. PJ Becker stuck her head in the door. "O'Donlon. About time you graced us with your appearance. Anyone in here given him a sit-rep yet?" "Situation report," Tasha told Syd. "They talk in code, but don't worry. You'll learn it in no time." "Well, I found out that Melody wants to set Wes up with her sister," Lucky said to PJ, "but I doubt that's what you meant." "Mitch left last night," Mitch's wife Becca said quietly. "As soon as Admiral Robinson called. He's going to find Blue, and send him back here, but it's probably going to take some time." "We've decided to take turns sitting with Lucy," Veronica reported. "One of us is going to be here around the clock until Blue gets back. We've worked out a schedule." "Her doctor said it was good if we talked to her and held her hand—tried to establish some kind of contact," Nell Hawken, Crash's wife, blond and delicately pretty, added. "We thought we'd try getting together—all of us, like this—in the early evening, right before dinnertime. We figured we'd have sort of a party, tell stories and talk—see if maybe Lucy would want to wake up and join us." "So far it hasn't worked," Mia said, "but we've just got to be patient. The doctor said the procedure they did to relieve the pressure from the subdural injury has made the swelling go down significantly. That's a good sign." It was amazing. Lucky was standing in a room filled with beautiful women—the wives of some of his best friends in the world. He'd had crushes on most of them at one time or another, and he'd never dated anyone—even the illustrious Miss Georgia—that he didn't compare to them and find lacking. Until now. Until Syd, with her sleek dark hair, and her heart-shaped face. He'd made her wear another of his shirts today—one that was missing the top two buttons, and the collar gapped open, revealing her throat and her incredibly delicate collarbones. But the truth was, it wasn't her body that put her into the same league as these incomparable women he adored. It was her sense of humor, her sharp wit, her brilliance— all of which shone clearly through in her incredible smile and her amazing brown eyes. Across the room, Melody Jones slid down off the win-dowsill, slipping her feet into a pair of sneakers. "I better get back. Tyler's probably driving my sister nuts." She looked at Veronica. "Take your time coming over, Ron. Frankie will be fine. In fact, he can just spend the night in the baby's room, if you want." "Thanks," Veronica said. "That would be great." Melody turned to Becca. "You don't need a ride, right? You've got your own car...?" On the other side of the room, Nell stood up and stretched. "I've got to go, too. I'll be back tomorrow, Lucy." "Whoa," Lucky said, blocking the door. "Wait a minute. Where are you going?" "Home," they said in unison. "No, you're not," he said. "There's no way in hell I'm letting any of you just go home. You're all potential targets. You're not walking out of here without protection." Melody looked at Veronica. Veronica looked at Nell and Becca. Mia stood up gracefully—no small feat—and they all turned to look at her. “He's right," she said. God, it was a logistical nightmare. All these women going in all these different directions.... Melody didn't look convinced. "It's not like I'm alone at home. My sister and the kids are there." "And I certainly don't need protection," PJ added. "My ranch is way out of town," Becca said. "I'm not really worried." Mutiny. No way was he going to let them mutiny. Lucky bristled, ready to let them know in no uncertain terms that they were all, star FInCOM agent PJ Becker included, going to follow the law that he was about to lay down. But Syd put her hand on his arm. "I'm worried," she said to the other women. She looked down at Lucy, lying there so still and silent in that bed. "And I'm betting that if Lucy really can hear everything we're saying, that she's worried, too." She leaned over the bed. "This would be a really perfect time for you to wake up, detective," she continued, "because your friends need a crash course in exactly who this monster is we're all up against. Of course, if you don't mind, I can speak for you. I saw the way he came into your house through a locked living-room window—the way he bypassed your fancy alarm system."

Syd looked up, looked directly at Melody. "I saw the blood in your bed and on your bedroom wall—your blood." She looked at Becca and her voice shook. "I saw the second-story window you dove through, risking a broken neck from the fall, because you knew that if he got his I hands around your throat again, he would kill you." She looked at PJ through the tears that brimmed in her eyes. Her voice was just a whisper now. "And I saw the gun you kept just under your bed, thinking that it—and your training as a police detective—made you safe. The gun you never even got a chance to use." The room was dead silent. Syd looked around at all of them. "If you're still not worried, think about your husbands. Think about the men who love you receiving the same awful message that Blue McCoy's going to get in just a few days, in just a few hours. Think about Blue, finding out that he may have lost Lucy forever." "Oh, my God," Veronica breathed. "Lucy just squeezed my hand!"

Chapter 13 Syd paced. And when she looked at the clock again, it was only six minutes past one—just two minutes later than it had been the last time she'd looked. Luke's house was so silent. Except, that is, for the booming sound of her pounding heart. This must be the way it felt to be a worm, stuck on the end of a fishing hook. Or a mouse slipped into a snake trap. Of course, Luke and Bobby and Thomas and Rio and Mike were hidden in the yard. They were watching all sides of the house, and listening in via strategically placed microphones. "Damn," she said aloud. "I wish these mikes were two-way. I could use a little heated debate right about now, guys. Fight, flee or surrender. I realized there was an option we haven't discussed—hide. Anyone for hide? I'm telling you, those are some really tough choices. Right now it's all I can do to choose between Rocky Road or Fudge Rip-ple." The phone rang. Syd swore. "All right," she said as it rang again. "I know." She wasn't supposed to watch TV or listen to music. Or talk. They couldn't hear potential sounds of forced entry if she was talking. "Roger that, Lieutenant O'Donlon. I'll behave, I promise." The phone stopped right in the middle of the third ring. And Syd was alone once again with the silence. The past few days had been crazy. Luke had worked around the clock to set up a safe house for the wives of the SEALs who were out of town. He and PJ Becker had organized teams of security guards and drivers who would take the women to and from the hospital and wherever else they needed to go. After Syd's little speech at the hospital, no one was complaining. Luke also rode the police and FInCOM, trying to get them to work faster in picking up the men who were on the likely suspects list Lucy had helped compile. So far, they'd only picked up six of the men on the list—most of whom had had strong alibis for a good number of the attacks. The others had willingly volunteered to submit DNA samples, and so far, none had matched. Luke also gave interviews to TV reporters, looking splendid in his gleaming white Navy Ken uniform, saying things guaranteed to enrage—or at least annoy—the man they were after. Come and get me, he all but said. Just try to come and get me or mine. He sat by Lucy's bed and held her hand, hoping that Blue would be found soon, and praying with the rest of them that that single hand-squeeze hadn't been just a muscle spasm—the explanation the doctors had offered. At night, he'd kiss Syd goodbye with real trepidation in his eyes and he'd leave her alone, pretending to help with BUD/S training, but in truth sneaking back to help guard her as she sat here in silence and alone—as serial rapist bait. At : or : a.m., he'd return through the front door and fell into bed, completely exhausted. But never too exhausted to make exquisite love to her. The phone rang. Syd nearly jumped through the roof, then instantly berated herself. It wasn't as if the San Felipe Rapist were going to call her on the phone, was it? She glanced again at the clock. It was quarter after one in the morning. It had to be Lucky. Or Bobby. Or maybe it was Veronica, calling from the hospital with news about Lucy. Please, God, let it be good news. It rang again, and she picked it up. "Hello?" “Syd." The voice was low and male and unrecognizable. "I'm sorry," she said briskly. "Who's—" "Is Lucky there?" The hair on the back of her neck went up. Dear God, what if it were the rapist, calling to make sure she was alone? "No, sorry." She kept her voice steady. "He's teaching tonight. Who's calling?" "It's Wes." Chief Wes Skelly. That information didn't make her feel any better. In fact, it made her even more tense. Wes— who smelled just like the man who'd nearly run her down on the stairs after brutally attacking Gina. Wes—who had the same hair, same build, same accentless voice. Wes, who was—

according to Bobby—having a rough year. How rough, exactly? Rough enough to completely lose it? Rough enough to turn into a homicidal maniac? "Are you safe there, all by yourself?" Wes asked. He sounded odd, possibly drunk. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe you should tell me." "No," he said. "No, you're not safe. Why don't you go to this safe house thing and stay with Ronnie and Melody?" "I think you probably know why I'm not there." Syd's heart was pounding again. She knew Luke didn't believe Wes could be the attacker, but she didn't have years of camaraderie to go on. Frankly, Wes Skelly spooked her, with his barbed-wire tattoo and his crew-cut hair. Whenever she saw him, he was grimly quiet, always watching, rarely smiling. "What?" he said. "You wanna go one on one with this guy?" He laughed. "Figures a woman who thinks she's going to get any kind of commitment from Lucky O'Donlon's a little wacky in the head." "Hey," she said indignantly. "I resent that—" He hung up abruptly, and she swore. So much for keeping her cool, keeping him talking, for coaxing a confession out of him. "Luke, that was Wes on the phone," she told the listening microphones as she dropped the receiver into the cradle on the wall. "He was looking for you, and he sounded really strange." Silence. The entire house was silent. The phone didn't ring again, nothing moved, nothing made a sound. If this were a movie, Syd thought, the camera would cut to the outside of the house, to the places where Luke and Bobby and the SEAL candidates were completely hidden, And the camera would reveal their unconscious faces and the ropes that bound them—that would keep them from coming to her rescue when she needed them. And she would need them. The camera would pull back to show the shadowy shape of a very muscular man with Wes's short hair, with Wes's wide shoulders, creeping across the yard, toward the house, Bad image. Bad image. Syd shook her head, cleared her throat. "Um, Luke, I'm a little spooked, will you please call me?" Silence. The phone didn't ring. She stared at it, and it still didn't ring. "Luke, I'm sorry about this, but I'm serious," Syd said. "I just need to know that you're out there and—" She heard it. A scuffling noise out back. Flee. The urge to run was intense, and she scurried for the living room. But the front door was bolted shut—for her own protection—and she didn't have the key. Last night that bolt had made her feel safe. Now it didn't. Now she was trapped. "I hear a noise outside, guys," she said, praying that she was wrong, that Luke was still listening in. "Out back. Please be listening." The front windows were painted shut, and the glass looked impossibly thick. How had Lucy managed to break through her bedroom window? She heard the noise again, closer to the back door this time. "Someone's definitely out there." Fight. She turned around in a full circle, looking for something, anything with which to arm herself. Luke didn't have a fireplace, so there were no fireplace pokers. There was nothing, nothing. Only a newspaper she could roll up. Perfect—provided the attacker was a bad dog. "Any time, Luke," she said. "Please." Baseball bat. Luke had told her he'd played in high school, that he still sometimes went over to the batting cages on the west side of San Felipe. He didn't have a garage, didn't have a basement. Where would a guy without those things keep a baseball bat? Front closet.

Syd scrambled for the closet, threw open the door. It was filled with U.S. Navy-issue overcoats of all weights and sizes. She pushed through to the back and found... Fishing poles. And lacrosse sticks. A set of lawn darts. And three different baseball bats. She grabbed one as she heard the kitchen door creak open. Hide. Hiding suddenly seemed the most intelligent option, and she slipped into the closet, silently closing the door behind her. Her palms were sweating, and her mouth was dry, and her heart was beating so loudly she couldn't hear anything else. She gripped the baseball bat as tightly as she could and prayed. Please God, whatever happened to her, don't let Luke be badly hurt. Don't let them find him hidden in the backyard, with his throat slit, staring sightlessly up at the sky and... Whoever was inside the house wasn't trying to be quiet anymore. Footsteps went down the hall toward the bedroom, and then faster, heading back. She heard the bathroom door slam open, heard, "Syd? Syd!" It was Luke. That was Luke's voice. Relief made her knees give out, and she sat down hard, right there in the closet, knocking over fishing poles and lacrosse sticks and God knows what else. The closet door was yanked open and there was Luke. The panic in his eyes would have been sweet if her relief hadn't morphed instantly into anger. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" She nearly came out of the closet swinging that bat. “You damn near scared me to death!" "I scared you?" He was just as mad as she was. "God, Syd, I came in here and you were gone! I thought—" "You should have called me, told me you would be here early," she said accusingly. "It's not that early," he countered. "It's nearly oh-one-thirty. What's early about that?" It was. The clock on the VCR said :. "But..." Syd regrouped, thinking fast. Why had she been so frightened? She pointed toward the kitchen. "You came in through the back door. You always come in through the front—which was locked with a deadbolt, you genius! If you had been the San Felipe Rapist, I would have been trapped!" She had him with that one. It stopped him cold and doused his anger. He looked at the lock on the door and then at her. She could see him absorbing the baseball bat that still dangled from her hand. She watched him notice the fact that she was still shaking, notice the tears that were threatening to spill from her eyes. Damn it, she wasn't going to cry in front of him. "My God," he said. "You don't have a key? Why the hell don't you have a key?" Syd shook her head, unable to say anything, using all her energy to keep from crying. Luke wasn't lying dead in the backyard. Thank God. Frowning, he looked down at his belt, and pulled his cell phone free. It was shaking silently. He flipped it open, switched it on. "O'Donlon." He listened then said, "Yeah. We're both okay. She got..." He looked at her. "Scared," Syd said, shakily lowering herself onto the couch. "I was scared. You can say it. I admit it." "She didn't know it was me coming in," Luke said into his phone, "and she opted for the hide solution to the nightmare scenario." He looked at the baseball bat. "With maybe a little fight thrown in." He took a deep breath, running his other hand back through his hair, making it stand on end. "I came in, couldn't find her and—" He froze. He stood absolutely, completely still. "It's not?" Syd's pulse was just starting to drop below one hundred, but something in his voice made it kick into higher gear again. "What's not?" she asked. Luke turned to look at her. “Thomas says he heard your requests for a phone call, but that he couldn't get through. He said he called twice before he realized he couldn't hear the phone ringing over the microphones. Something's wrong with the phone." Syd stared at him. "I got a phone call just a few minutes ago. Wes called, looking for you."

"Wes called here?" "Yeah," Syd said. "Didn't you hear at least my side of the conversation?" "I must've been already circling back," he said, "driving home—pretending I was coming from the base." He held out his hand to her. "Come here. I want you near me until we check this out." Syd took his hand and he pulled her up from the couch as he spoke to Thomas once again. "Stay in position. Full alert. I want eyes open and brains working." "This is probably nothing," he said to Syd, but she knew he didn't believe that. The lights were still on in the kitchen. Everything looked completely normal. There were a few dirty dishes in the sink, a newspaper open to the sports page on the kitchen table. As Syd watched, Luke picked up the telephone and put the receiver to his ear. He looked at Syd as he hung it up, as he spoke once more to Thomas over his cell phone. "Phone's dead. Stay in position. I'm calling for backup." A clean cut. Probably with a knife, possibly with a scissors. Lucky sat on his living-room sofa, trying to rub away his massive headache by massaging his forehead. It wasn't working. Somehow, someone had gotten close enough to the house tonight to cut the phone wire. Somehow, the son of a bitch had gotten past two experienced Navy SEALs and three bright, young SEAL candidates who had been looking for him. He hadn't gone inside, but his message had been clear. He could have. He'd been right there, just on the other side of a wall from Sydney. If he'd wanted to, he could've gone in, used that knife to kill her as dead as the phone and been gone before Lucky had ever reached the back door. The thought made him sick to his stomach. As the FInCOM and police members of the task force filtered through his house, Lucky sat with Syd on the couch, his arm securely around her shoulder—he didn't give a damn who saw. "I'm sorry," he told her for the fourteenth time. "I've been trying to figure out how he got past us." "It's all right," she said. "No, it's not." He shook his head. "We were distracted pretty much all night. It started around oh-dark-fifty when Bobby got a page from Lana Quinn. She sent him an urgent code, so he called her back. The rest of us were watching the house—it should have been no big deal. So Bob calls Lana, who tells him that Wes just came by her place, completely skunked. Wes told her he needed to talk, but then left without saying anything. She managed to get his keys away from him, but he walked to a nearby bar—a place called Dandelion's. She followed because she was worried, and sure enough, as soon as he got there, he tried to start a bar fight. She stepped in and he backed down, but he wouldn't leave with her. So she called Bobby." Lucky sighed. "Bobby called Frisco, but he's got Mia and Tasha to worry about, he can't just leave them home alone. Meanwhile, it's getting later and later. Lana's paging Bobby again, telling him she lost Wes in the crowd at Dandelion's, and now she's not sure where he's gone and—" "Wait a minute," Syd said. "Lana lost Wes?" "Well, no, not really," Lucky told her. "She thought she'd lost him for about twenty minutes, but he was only in the men's." "He was in the men's room for twenty minutes?" Lucky bristled. "No," he said. "I know what you're implying and no." She held his gaze. "Dandelion's is only about a four-minute drive from here." "Wes is not a suspect." "I'm sorry, Luke, but he's still on my list." "Lana took the keys to his bike." "A clever move," she countered. "Particularly if he wanted to establish an alibi and convince everyone that he'd actually been in the men's room for all that time— instead of here at your house, at the exact time your phone wire was cut during a distraction that he knew about."

Lucky shook his head. "No," he said. "Syd, you've got to go with me on this one. It's not Wes. It can't be. You've got to trust me." She gazed at him, looking into his eyes. She'd been scared tonight, badly. When she'd come out of that closet, that was the closest Lucky had ever seen her come to losing it. She was tough, she was strong, she was smart and she was as afraid of all this as he was. And that made her desire to catch this bastard that much crazier. Crazier and completely admirable. She nodded. "Okay," she said. "If you're that certain...he's off my list. It's not Wes." She wasn't humoring him, wasn't being patronizing. She was accepting—on faith—something that he believed in ab solutely. She trusted him that much. It was a remarkably good feeling. Remarkably good. Lucky kissed her. Right in front of the task force, in front of Chief Zale. "Tomorrow," he said, "I'll talk to Wes. See if he wouldn't mind voluntarily giving us a DNA sample, just so we can run it by the lab and then officially take him off the suspect list." "I don't need you to do that," she said. "I know." He kissed her again, trying to make light of it despite the tight feeling that was filling his chest from the inside out. "Pissing off Wes Skelly while he's got a killer hangover isn't my idea of fun. But hey, I don't have anything else to do tomorrow." "Tomorrow," Syd reminded him, "your sister's getting married."

Chapter 14 Luke O'Donlon cried at his little sister's wedding. It wasn't a surprise to Syd. In fact, she would have been surprised if he hadn't cried. He looked incredible in his dress uniform—nearly as good, in fact, as he looked naked. Ellen, his sister, was as dramatically gorgeous as he was, except while he was golden, she was dark-haired and mocha-skinned. Her new husband, Gregory Price, however, was completely average looking, completely normal—right down to his slightly thinning hair and the glasses. Syd stood at the edge of the restaurant dance floor, one of a very small number of relatives and intimate friends of the bride and groom, and watched as the newlyweds danced. Greg made Syd feel slightly better about herself. If he could dare to marry Ellen, then Syd—also extremely average looking—could certainly have a fling with Luke. "Have I told you how incredibly beautiful you look tonight?" Syd turned around to give Luke an arched eyebrow. “That's slinging it a little thick, don't you think?" She knew what she looked like. Her dress was black and basic, and yes, maybe it did hide her imperfections and accentuate the better parts of her figure, but it was a simple illusion. And yes, she had taken time with her hair and had even put on a little makeup this evening, but she was, at best, interestingly pretty. Passable. Acceptable. But not even remotely close to incredibly anything, particularly not beautiful. Luke actually looked surprised. "You think I'm—" He caught himself, and laughed. "Uh-uh," he said. "Nope. No way. I'm not going to let you pick a fight with me over the fact that I think you look great." He pulled her close and kissed her, surprising her by giving her a private kiss instead of a public one. It was one of those kisses that melted her bones, turned her to jelly, and left her dizzy, dazed and clinging to him. It was one of those kisses he gave her before he scooped her into his arms and carried her into his bedroom. It was one of those kisses he gave her when he wanted them to stop talking and start communicating in an entirely different manner. It was one of those kisses she could never, ever resist. "I think you look incredibly beautiful tonight," he murmured into her ear. "Now what you do, is you say, thank you, Luke." "Thank you, Luke," she managed. "Was that so hard?" He was smiling down at her, with his heavenly blue eyes and his gorgeous face and his sunstreaked hair. He was the one who was incredibly beautiful. It seemed impossible that the heated look in his eyes could be real, but it was. He'd somehow pulled her onto the dance floor, and as they moved slowly in time to the music, he was holding her close enough for her to know that that kiss had done the exact opposite of turning him to jelly. He wanted her. At least for now. "You two are so perfect together." Gregory's mother, platinum-haired, rail-thin, with a smile as warm as her son's, winked as she danced past them. "We'll be dancing at your wedding next, won't we, Luke?" Oh, God. How embarrassing. Syd kept her own smile pasted on as she quickly answered for Luke, saving him— and saving herself from having to listen to him stammer and choke on his hasty negative response. "I'm afraid it's a little too soon for that kind of prediction, Mrs. Price," she called to the other woman. "Luke and I haven't really known each other for that long." "Well, it's my son's wedding, and I'm predicting wonderful things for everyone," Mrs. Price enthused. "And my predictions usually do come true." "In that case," Syd murmured to Luke as the older woman moved out of earshot, trying to turn this into a total joke, "maybe she could predict a lottery win for me. I could really use the cash. My car's in serious need of a complete overhaul." As she'd hoped, Luke laughed. Crisis averted, thank God. There was nothing that created tension quite like bringing up the subject of marriage with a man who, like Luke, was commitment-shy. Syd didn't want him looking at her and feeling the walls closing in. She didn't want him to assume that just because she was female, she wouldn't be able to resist thinking about fairy-tale endings with wedding bells and happily-ever-afters. She didn't want him thinking that she was even remotely thinking about such an impossibility as marriage. Marriage. Syd and Luke, married? It was absurd.

It was insane. It was... Something she couldn't keep herself from thinking about. Especially not today. There'd been a message this afternoon on her answering machine. Think magazine had called from New York. The series of pieces she'd written on women's safety, along with her proposal for an in-depth article on catching serial criminals, had given buoyancy to the resume she'd sent them months ago. In fact, it had floated right to the top of their pile of editorial candidates' resumes. They wanted her to come for an interview with their publisher and managing editor, Eileen Hess. Ms. Hess was going to be in Phoenix for a few days at a conference. Perhaps it would be more convenient for Syd to meet with her there, rather than flying all the way to New York? It would be more affordable for Syd, too. They were a small magazine, and unfortunately they couldn't afford to pay Syd's airfare. Syd had called back to let them know that she wouldn't be able to leave California until the San Felipe Rapist was apprehended. She didn't know how long that would be, and if that meant she'd be out of the running for the job, she hoped they'd consider her in the future. She'd found out they were willing to wait. She could fly to New York next week or even next month. This job was virtually in her pocket, if she wanted it. If she wanted it. Of course she wanted it. Didn't she? Luke kissed her neck, and she knew what she really wanted. She wanted Luke, ready and willing to spend the rest of his life with her. Talk about pipe dreams. Her problem was that she had too vivid an imagination. It was far too easy for her to take this make-believe relationship and pretend it was something real. Syd closed her eyes as he kissed her again, lightly this time, on the lips, and she knew what the real problem was. Her problem was simply that she loved him. And when she was with him—which was damn near all the time—the lines between make-believe and reality began to blur. Yes, they were lovers, but no, she hadn't really moved in with him. That was just pretend. Yes, he'd told his friends that he loved her, but he'd never said those words to her, and even if he did, she wasn't sure she'd believe him, Lothario that he was. Yes, she was here with him at his sister's wedding, and yes, they looked like a real couple. But in truth, they were merely co-workers who had become friends—friends who had a good time together in bed. To think anything else would be a mistake. But, as Syd swayed to the music, held close in Luke's arms, she knew the mistake had already been made. She was in love with him. There was nothing left to do now except endure the coming pain. And, like the removal of a Band-Aid, doing it fast and getting it over with always hurt far less in the long run. After they caught the rapist, she'd go to New York. As fast as she possibly could. The call came as Lucky and Syd were leaving the reception. Ellen and Gregory had left for their honeymoon and, at nearly twenty-three-hundred hours, the party was winding down. Lucky's pager and cell phone went off simultaneously. His first thought was a bad one—that another woman had been attacked. His second thought was that it was good news. That Lucy McCoy had come out of her coma, or that they'd found Blue and he was on his way home. The number on the pager was Frisco's—and so was the voice on the other end of the phone. "Hey," Frisco said. "You're there. Good news. We caught him." It was a possibility Lucky hadn't even considered, and he nearly dropped the phone. "Repeat that." "Martin Taus," Frisco said. "Ex-regular Navy, enlisted, served here at Coronado during the spring and summer of . Discharged in late ' with lots of little dings against him—nothing big enough to warrant a dishonorable. He served time in Nevada in early ' for indecent exposure. He's been picked up for sexual assault at least twice before, both times he got off on a technicality. He was brought in early this evening for questioning by the San Felipe PD. He just finished making a videotaped confession about twenty minutes ago."

Syd was watching him, concern in her eyes. "They caught the rapist," Luke told her, hardly believing it himself. "Are they sure?" She asked the question exactly as Luke asked Frisco. "Apparently, he's been pretty specific in describing the attacks," Frisco said. "Chief Zale's getting ready to give a press conference—just in time for the eleven o'clock news. I'm heading over to the police station. Can you meet me there?" "I'm on my way," Lucky said, and hung up. Syd wasn't smiling. In fact, she looked extremely skeptical. "Do they actually have evidence, tying this guy to—" "He confessed," he told her. "Apparently in detail." "Can we talk to him?" she asked. "Let's go find out." Syd turned off the videotape and went back to her laptop computer, unable to listen for another second as the man named Martin Taus described the way he'd slammed Lucy McCoy into the wall. He knew the names of all the victims, knew the extent of their injuries. He was the right height, the right size, had the right hair—a short crew cut. After Zale's press conference, Syd and Luke had waited for hours to see Taus, only to be told that the police were limiting the people in the interview room to the three FInCOM agents from the task force. When the police had tried to take a blood sample in order to match his DNA to that left behind during the attacks, Taus had thrown a nutty. He'd threatened a lawsuit if they so much as touched one hair on his head. Normally, the police would get a warrant to search his home and take a hair sample from his hairbrush for the DNA test. But Taus was homeless. He lived under a bridge down by the water. He didn't even own a hairbrush. Huang, Sudenberg and Novak were in there with him now, trying to talk him into consenting to the test. Once they succeeded, there would be a wait of a number of days before the results came in. But those results, along with Martin Taus's confession, would prove his guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt. With that confession and a guilty plea, they'd skip the trial and go straight to sentencing. Martin Taus was going to go to jail for a long, long time. Luke looked over Syd's shoulder at her laptop's screen. She was glad she'd made him stop at home to pick it up— at his house, she corrected herself—before coming to the police station last night. During all this waiting, she'd written a variety of different articles, from features to hard news, on various aspects of the case. "Don't even think about reading over my shoulder," she warned him, her fingers flying over the keyboard, working on her story for Think magazine. She'd already sent the hard news story out electronically to the San Felipe Journal, and they'd called to tell her it was being picked up by USA Today. "So you buy it, huh?" Luke asked. "You believe this is really our guy and, just like that, it's all over?" "It does seem a little anticlimactic," she had to admit. "But real life isn't always as exciting as the movies. Personally, I prefer it this way." She looked up at him. "Are you finally ready to go?" He sat down wearily next to her at the interview-room table. It had been a long night, and they were both still dressed in their formal clothes despite the fact that it was well after : a.m. "Yeah, I just wanted to see him," he said. “I just wanted to be in the same room with him for a minute. I knew if I stood there long enough, they'd eventually let me in." "And?" "And they did. He was..." Luke shook his head. "I don't think he's our guy." "Luke, he confessed." "I could confess. That wouldn't make me the rapist." "Did you even watch the videotape? It's chilling the way he—" "Maybe I'm wrong," he countered. "I just...there was something that wasn't right. I was standing there, right next to him, but I couldn't put my finger on it." "Maybe it's just lack of sleep." "I know what lack of sleep feels like and no, it's not helping that I'm tired, but there's something else wrong," he told her. "All I'm saying is that I'm not just going to go along with Zale and stamp the case file 'solved' until the DNA tests come back with a match." Syd looked at him with dismay. "Luke, that could be days." He gave her a very tired version of his best smile. "Guess you'll just have to stay at my place for a few more days. Too bad, huh?"

She saved her file and shut down her computer, closing it up. "Actually," she said, choosing her words carefully, "I was just thinking how convenient it was that Martin Taus picked last night to get himself caught, because now I can take advantage of a really excellent opportunity and drive out to Phoenix for a job interview." He sat back in his chair, his mouth dropping open. "Since when have you been thinking about moving to Phoenix? To Arizona?" "The interview's in Phoenix," she told him. "The job's in New York. Remember? Think magazine. I told you I'd sent them my resume for a position as an editor and staff writer." "New York?" He swore. "Syd, that's worse than Phoenix! You didn't say a thing about New York!" "Well, where did you think a job like that would be?" "Here," he said. "I thought it would be here. San Diego, maybe. God, Syd, New York? Do you really want to live in New York?" "Yeah," she said. "I do." It wasn't really lying. Because she didn't really care where she lived. Her options had been split into only two possibilities. With Luke was her real first choice, but completely unrealistic. And everywhere else in the world fell under the heading without Luke. Everywhere else was exactly the same. New York, San Diego, Chicago. They would all feel exactly the same—lonely as hell, at least for a while. "Wow," Luke said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm stunned. I'm..." He shook his head. "Here I was thinking, I don't know, maybe that we had something here that was worth spending some time on." Syd couldn't keep from laughing. "Luke. Get real. We both know exactly what we've got going. It's fun, it's great, but it's not serious. You told me yourself—you don't do serious." "Well...what if I've changed my mind?" "What if you only think you've changed your mind?" she countered gently. "And what if I give up a great career move—something I've worked for and wanted for years— and your 'what if’ turns out to be wrong?" He cleared his throat. "I was thinking, um, maybe you really could move in with me." Syd couldn't believe it. Luke wanted her to move in with him? Mr. I'm-never-serious? For a nanosecond, she let herself believe it was possible. But then he winced, giving himself away. He didn't really want her to move in with him. He just wasn't used to being the one in a relationship who got dumped. It was a competitive thing. He was grabbing on to anything—no matter how stupid an idea it was in reality—in order to keep her around temporarily, in order to win. But once he had her, he'd soon tire of her. And she'd move out. Maybe not right away, but eventually. And then she'd be in Coronado without Luke. The job in New York wouldn't keep her warm at night, but neither would Luke after they'd split up. "I think," Syd said slowly, "that a decision of that magnitude deserves a massive amount of thought. On both our parts." “I've thought about it some," Luke said, "and I know it's not... perfect, but—'' "Think again," Syd said, her heart aching. She couldn't believe she was the one who was turning him down, but what he was saying wasn't real, she told herself. It wasn't honest. "Think about it while I'm in Phoenix." "New York," Lucky told Lucy McCoy as he sat beside her hospital bed. "The job's in New York. Syd's having the interview right now, this morning in Phoenix, and of course she's going to get this job. I mean, who wouldn't hire her? She's brilliant, she's funny, she's a great writer, she's...she's perfect." Lucy was silent, her brain still securely locked shut by the coma. Lucky lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Come on, Luce," he said. "Wake up. I could really use some advice." Nothing. He sighed. “I feel like a complete ass—both for letting her drive to Phoenix by herself in that crappy car of hers, and for—" He laughed. "God, Lucy, you're not going to believe what I did. I asked her to move in with me for real. What a jerk. I couldn't believe the words were actually coming out of my mouth. I mean, I felt so cheap, like why am I only doing this halfway?" He lowered his voice. "I love her. I do. I never really understood this thing you've got going with Blue. Or Joe with Ronnie. I mean, I could appreciate it, sure, but I didn't get it. Until I met Syd. And now it all makes sense. My entire life makes sense—except, for the fact that Syd is going to move to New York." "So why don't you ask her to marry you?" Lucky jumped, turning to see Veronica standing in the door. He swore. "Ron, are you taking lessons in stealth from the Captain? Jeez, way to give a guy a heart attack."

She came into the room, sat down on the other side of the bed, taking Lucy's other hand. "Hi, Lucy, I'm back." She looked up at Lucky and smiled. "Sorry for eavesdropping." "Like hell you are." "So why don't you ask Syd to marry you?" He couldn't answer. Veronica answered for him. "You're afraid." Lucky gritted his teeth and answered honestly. "I'm scared she'll turn me down, and I'm scared that she won't." "Well," Veronica said in her crisp British accent, "She'll do neither—and go to New York—unless you do something drastic." There was a commotion out in the hall, and the door was pushed open. One of the younger nurses blocked the door way with her body. "I'm sorry, sir, but it might be best if you wait for the doctor to—" "I talked to the doctor on the phone on my way over here from the airport." The voice from the hallway was soft but pure business, honeyed by a thick south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-Line drawl. "It's not best if I wait for the doctor. It's best if I go into that room and see my wife." Blue McCoy. Lucky stood up to see Lieutenant Commander Blue McCoy literally pick up the nurse and move her out of his way. And then he was in the room. "Lucy." He didn't have eyes for anyone but the woman lying in the middle of that hospital bed. Blue looked exhausted. He hadn't shaved in weeks, but his hair was wet as if he'd taken a short shower—no doubt for sanitary purposes— moments before he'd arrived. The look on his face was terrible as he gazed down at Lucy, as he took in her bruises and cuts and the stark white bandage around her head. He sat down on the edge of her bed and took her hand. "I'm here, Yankee," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm sorry it took me so long, but I'm here now." His eyes filled with tears at her complete lack of response. "Come on, Lucy, the doctor said you're going to be just fine—all you have to do is open your eyes." Nothing. "I know it's going to be hard. I know you must've gone through some kind of hell, and it's probably easier to stay asleep and just not have to face it, but I'm here, and I'll help you. Whatever you need," Blue told his wife. "It's going to be okay, I promise. Together we can make anything okay." Blue's tears escaped, and Lucky took Veronica's arm and dragged her to the door. Captain Catalanotto was in the hallway. Veronica launched herself at her husband. "Joe!" Joe Cat was an enormous man, and he enfolded her easily in his arms and kissed her. No, he inhaled her. What Joe gave to Veronica was beyond a kiss. Lucky turned away, feeling as if he'd already gotten a glimpse of something far too private. But he couldn't help but overhear Joe's rough whisper. "Are you all right?" "I am now," Veronica told him. ''Is Lucy...?" "Still nothing," she told him. "No response." "What does the doctor really say?" Joe asked. "Is there really a chance she'll just wake up?" "I hope so," she told him. Lucky had spoken to the doctor just a few hours earlier. He turned to tell Joe that but did a quick about-face. Big, bad Joe Cat was crying as he held on tightly to his wife. "Everything's going to be okay," he heard Veronica tell Joe through her own tears. "Now that Blue's here, now that you're here...everything's going to be okay. I know it." And Lucky knew then exactly what he wanted. He wanted what Lucy shared with Blue. He wanted what Joe and Veronica had found. And for the first time in his life, he thought that maybe, just maybe he'd found it, too. Because when Syd was around him, everything was okay. He was definitely going to do it. He was going to ask Syd to marry him.

The door at the end of the corridor opened, and the rest of Alpha Squad came in. Harvard, Cowboy and Crash. And Mitch Shaw was back, too. Lucky walked down to greet them, shooting Mitch a quizzical look. "By the time I found them," he explained, "they'd completed their mission and were on their way out of the mountains." "How's Lucy?" Harvard asked. "We don't want to get too close—Blue and Joe were the only ones who had time to shower." "Lucy's still in a coma," Lucky told them. "It's kind of now-or-never time, as far as coming out of it goes. Her doctors were hoping Blue's voice would help pull her back to our side." He took a step back from them. "Jeez, you guys are ripe." They smelled like a combination of unwashed dog and stale campfire smoke. Stale smoke... Lucky swore. And grabbed for his phone, punching in Syd's cell phone number. Please, God, don't let her be conserving her batteries.... She picked up after only one ring. "Hello?" "Stale cigarette smoke," Lucky said. "That's what's wrong with this Martin Taus guy." "I'm sorry," Syd said. "Who's calling? Could it possibly be my insane friend Luke O'Donlon? The man who starts conversations in the middle instead of at the beginning?" "Syd," he said. "Yes, you're funny. Thank you. Listen to me—Martin Taus isn't our guy. He's not a smoker. I stood right next to him, remember? I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it until two seconds ago. You said the man who nearly knocked you down the stairs smelled like Wes Skelly—like stale cigarette smoke, remember?" There was a long silence. Then Syd laughed. "I could've been wrong. You could've been wrong." "I could be," he agreed, "but I'm not. And you're not either. You need to be careful, Syd. You need to come right home." He corrected himself. "No, don't come home, come to the hospital. But don't get out of your car if the parking lot's deserted. Stay in your car, keep moving, call me on your cell phone and I'll come out to meet you, okay? God, I can't believe you talked me into letting you drive to Phoenix!" Another long pause. "Well," she said. "I'm sure you're dying to know—my interview went really, really well." "To hell with your interview," Lucky said in complete exasperation. "You're driving me crazy. I need you back here, I need you safe. Get your butt home and, and...marry me, damn it." He looked up and found Harvard, Cowboy, Mitch and Crash all staring at him. On the other end of the phone, Syd was equally silent. "Wow," Lucky said. "That didn't come out quite the way I'd hoped it would." Cowboy started to laugh, but when Harvard elbowed him hard in the chest, he fell instantly silent. Lucky closed his eyes and turned away. "Syd, will you please come back here so we can talk?" "Talk." Her voice sounded weak. She cleared her throat. "Yeah, that sounds smart. You're in luck. I'm nearly halfway home."

Chapter 15 Fight, flee, hide, submit. Hide was definitely not a working option in this scenario. Please be there, please be there, please be there, Syd silently chanted as she dialed Lucky's number on her cell phone. She held the steering wheel with one hand, her phone with the other as she drove. Her map was spread out on the seat beside her. "O'Donlon." "Luke, thank God!" "I'm sorry, who's this?" Luke shouted. "I'm having a little trouble hearing—there's a lot of noise over here. Hang on, let me move into..." There was a pause, and then he was back, normal-voiced. "Sorry about that. Let's start over. O'Donlon." "Luke, it's Syd. I have a little problem." He didn't hear her. He spoke over her words as soon as he heard her voice. "Hey, excellent timing! I was just about to call you. I have some great news. Lucy's back! She opened her eyes about an hour after Blue arrived, and—get this! She looks at him and she goes, ‘I’m bald. They had to shave my head.' Her first words after being in a coma for all that time. Typical woman—she nearly died and she's worrying about her hair. And it kills me that she knew. She must've been able to hear everything that was going on last week, because how else would she have known?" "Luke." "And Blue goes, 'I've always thought you'd look damn good in a crew cut, Yankee,' and it was all over. There were seven of us here—all SEALs, all crying like babies and—" "Luke." "I'm sorry. I'm nervous. I'm talking because I'm nervous, because I'm scared to death that you called me back to tell me to go to hell." Syd waited for a few seconds to make sure he was finally done. "I called you," she said, glancing into her rearview mirror, "because I've got a little problem. I'm out here, in the middle of nowhere, and I'm...I'm pretty sure that I'm being followed." Lucky's heart stopped. "This is real, right?" he said. "Not just some make-believe scenario game you're playing?" "It's real. I noticed the car behind me about fifteen miles ago." Over the telephone, Syd's voice sounded very small. "When I slow down, he slows down. When I speed up, he speeds up. And now that I'm thinking about it, I saw this car back at the gas station, last time I stopped." "Where are you?" he asked. His heart had started up again, but now it was lodged securely in his throat. He stuck his head out of the men's room, braving the noise out in the hospital cafeteria, waving until he caught Frisco's attention. He gestured for his swim buddy to follow him into the men's as Syd answered him. "Route ," she was telling him. "Just inside the California state line. I'm about forty miles south of Route , heading for Route . There's nothing out here, Luke. Not even another car, not for miles. As far as I can tell from the map, the next town isn't for another thirty miles. I tried calling the local police, but I couldn't get through. I'm not even sure what I'd say— Hi, I'm out here on the state road and there's a car behind me...? Maybe it's just a coincidence. Maybe..." "Whatever you do," Lucky said, "don't stop. Don't pull over. Keep your car moving, Syd." Frisco came into the men's room, curiosity on his face. "I need the captain and the senior chief and a state map," Lucky told him. "I think Syd's being followed by the guy who put Lucy into this hospital." Frisco had been at Chief Zale's press conference—the one in which the SFPD and FInCOM had announced that the San Felipe Rapist had been apprehended. But Frisco didn't ask any questions. He didn't waste any time. He nodded and went to get the other two men. "Syd, I'm going to figure out a way to get to you," Luke told her. "Just keep heading south and west, okay? Stay on Route , okay?" Syd took a deep breath. "Okay." "Tell me about the car behind you." He sounded so calm, so solid. She looked in the rearview mirror. "It's dark blue. Ugly. One of those big old sedans from the late seventies and..." She realized what she was saying. Dark-colored, old-model sedan. Ugly. That was how she'd described that unfamiliar car that had been parked on her street on the night Gina was attacked. Behind her, the car started to speed up. The driver pulled into the oncoming lane. "He's going to pass me," Syd told Luke, filled with a flash of relief.

The dark sedan was moving faster now, moving up alongside of her. "God, this was just my imagination," she said. "I'm so sorry, I feel so stupid and—" The sedan was keeping pace with her. She could see the driver through the window. He was big, broad, built like a football player. His hair was short and brownish blond, worn in a crew cut. And he had a pair of feature-distorting panty hose over his face. Syd screamed and hit the gas, dropping the phone as her car surged forward. "Sit-rep," Lucky shouted into his cell phone. Damn, she probably didn't remember what sit-rep was. "Syd! What's happening, damn it?" Joe Cat and Harvard pushed their way into the men's room, their faces grim. Harvard had a map, bless him. Lucky's voice shook as he briefly outlined the situation, as he took the map from Harvard's hands and opened it. "She's heading south on ." He swore as he found it on the map. "What the hell is she doing on route ? Why not ? Why didn't she cut over to Route closer to Phoenix? Why—" He took a deep breath. "Okay. I want to intercept. Fast. What are my options?" He was praying that he wasn't already too late. The phone line was still open, and he thought he heard the sound of Syd's car's noisy engine. Please, God... Joe Cat looked at Harvard. "The Black Hawk that brought us here is probably still on the roof. It had more than enough fuel..." Harvard kicked into action. "I'll round up the team." "Come on, Syd," Lucky said into his phone as he started for the roof. "Get back on the phone and tell me you're all right." The car was starting to shudder and shake. It wasn't made to travel at seventy miles per hour for more than short bursts. Syd had managed to pull out in front of the other car, but she needed both hands on the steering wheel to control the shaking. She could see her phone bumping around on the passenger's-side floor, next to her Club steering wheel lock. The phone wasn't that far away. If she could just take one hand off the wheel for a few seconds and... She grabbed for it. And missed. Lucky took a quick head count as the Black Hawk helicopter rocketed east. Joe Cat, Harvard, Cowboy, Crash, Mitch. Also Thomas King, Rio Rosetti and Mike Lee— they'd been coming into the hospital, bringing flowers to Lucy when Harvard had grabbed them and dragged them to the roof. Nine men and...one woman? FInCOM agent PJ Becker, who hated to fly in anything smaller than a , was here, too. God bless her. Her voice came through loud and clear over the radio headset Lucky had slipped on. “As Navy SEALs, you have no authority here," she told them. "So if anyone asks, this is a FInCOM operation, you got it? I'm the Officer in Charge, and you're—just think of yourselves as my posse. But that's just if anyone asks. This is your op, O'Donlon." Lucky looked at the captain. ' 'What weapons do we have on board, sir?" “Considering that we pretty much came straight from a mission that called for full battle dress, we've got enough to outfit a small army." "If this guy so much as touches Syd..." Lucky couldn't go on. But Joe Cat knew what he was saying. And he nodded. "It finally happened to you, huh, O'Donlon? This woman got under your skin." "She's irreplaceable," Lucky admitted. Syd rode the clutch, trying to push a little extra power into her car's top speed. It was working, but for how long? The temperature gauge was rising. It wasn't going to be long until she was out of time. She had to get her phone off the floor. It had been at least ten minutes since she'd dropped it—Luke had to be going nuts. She had to talk to him. She had to tell him... what? That she loved him, that she was sorry, that she wished it might've all turned out differently. With a herculean effort, she reached for the phone and... This time her hand connected with it. This time, her fingers scraped along the gritty floor mat. This time, she got it! But the effort made her swerve, and she fought to control the car with only one hand. Maybe it would be better if she died in a crash.... The thought was a wild one, and Syd rejected it instantly. That would be surrender of a permanent kind. And she'd never been fond of the surrender or submit solution to any "what if scenario. If she were going to die, she would die fighting, damn it.

She tucked the phone under her chin and took a deep breath. The line was still open. She didn't have to redial, thank God. "Luke?" "Syd, this is Alan Francisco. Lucky's in a chopper, heading toward you, fast. He gave me the phone because he was afraid he'd lose your signal moving at that kind of speed. I'm in radio contact with him, though. Are you all right? I'm sure he's going crazy...." Syd's heart sank. She wasn't going to get to talk to Luke. At least not directly. God, she'd wanted to hear his voice just one more time. "It's him," she told Frisco. "The San Felipe Rapist. In the car behind me. He pulled alongside me—he's wearing panty hose over his face. He tried to run me off the road." "Okay," Frisco said calmly. "Keep moving, Syd. Straddle the center line, don't let him get in front of you. Hang on—let me relay this information to Lucky." "Alan," she said. "My temperature gauge is about to go into the red zone. My car's about to overheat." Overheating. Syd's car was overheating. "Can we make this thing go any faster?" Lucky asked Harvard. "We're pushing it as it is," the senior chief told him. "But we're close." "Close isn't good enough," Lucky growled. "Frisco. Tell Syd..." Everyone was listening. Everyone but the one person he wanted to talk to more than anything. "Tell Syd to hang on. Tell her to try to keep moving. Tell her if this bastard gets out of his car, if she's got any power left at all, tell her to run the son of a bitch over. But if her car overheats and the engine dies, tell her to stay inside. Lock the doors. Make him break the windows to get to her. Tell her she should cover her head with something, a jacket or something, so she doesn't get cut by the glass. Tell her..." He had to say it. To hell with the fact that everyone was listening in. "Tell Syd I love her." "He said that?" Syd couldn't believe it. "He actually said those words?" "He said, tell Syd I love her," Frisco repeated. "Oh, God," Syd said, unsure whether to laugh or cry. "If he actually said that, he thinks I'm going to die, doesn't he?" Steam started escaping from under the front hood of her car. This was it. "My radiator's going," she told Frisco. "It's funny, all those debates about whether to fight or submit. Who knew I'd actually have to make that choice?" Luke wanted her to submit. He wanted her to stay in her car, wait for this behemoth to come in after her. But once he did, she wouldn't stand a chance. But maybe, if she were outside the car, she could use her steering wheel lock as a very literal club. Maybe, if she opened the door and came out swinging... "Tell Luke I'm sorry," Syd told Frisco. "But I choose fight." Her radiator was sending out clouds of steam, and her car was starting to slow. This was it. The beginning of the end. "Tell him...I love him, too." Syd cut the connection and let the phone drop into her lap as the car behind hit her squarely. She had to hold on to the steering wheel with both hands to keep her car in the middle of the road. She had to keep him from moving alongside her and running her off onto the soft shoulder. Except what would that do, really, but delay the inevitable? Still, she couldn't quit. She couldn't just give up. He rammed her again, pushing her up and over one last rise in the long, otherwise flat road stretching out in front of her, and... And then Syd saw it. A black speck, moving toward her, growing bigger by the second. It was some kind of jet plane or... no, it was a helicopter, moving faster than she'd ever seen a helicopter move in her entire life. The sedan slammed into her again, this time pushing her off the road. She plowed into the soft dirt and braced herself for another impact. But the helicopter was on top of them then, swooping down like a giant, terrible, noisy hawk bent on revenge. It slowed only slightly as it turned, circling back, and Syd saw that the doors were open. There was a sharp noise—a gunshot—and the sedan swerved to a stop just in front of her. They'd shot out his front tire! The helicopter was hovering, and at least a dozen men, armed to the teeth with enormous guns, swarmed down ropes. Out her front window, Syd watched as the man who'd been terrorizing her was pulled from his car. He was big, but they were bigger, and even though he resisted, they had him down on his stomach on the pavement in a matter of seconds.

Her cell phone rang. Syd picked it up. "Frisco?" "No." The voice was Luke's. "I borrowed the captain's phone." She looked up to find him walking toward her car, phone in one hand, gun in the other. "How's that for timing?" he asked. Syd dropped the phone and unlocked the door, and he pulled her up and out and into his arms.

Chapter 16 “His name is Owen Finn," Lucky reported to Frisco from his kitchen phone. "He was at the Academy, got into BUD/S, but didn't make it through the program. He rang out—it was during the summer of '. Apparently he was a nutcase. One of those guys who had a million opportunities handed to him on a platter, but he just kept on screwing up. And whenever he did, it was never his fault." "Yeah," Frisco said. "I know the type. 'I didn't mean to beat my wife until she ended up in the hospital. It wasn't my fault—she got me so mad.'" "Yeah, right. Four months after he quit BUD/S," Lucky told his friend, "he was charged and convicted of theft. That got him a dishonorable discharge as well as time served. When he got out, as a civilian, he got caught in a burglary attempt, did time in Kentucky as well. I guess he sat there for a few years, stewing on the fact that—in his mind at least—his abysmal record of failure started when he rang out of BUD/S. As soon as he got out of jail, he headed back to Coronado, via a short stop in Texas where he robbed a liquor store. God forbid he should actually work to earn money.” "The police psychologist thinks he probably came back here with some kind of vague idea of revenge—an idea that didn't gel until he got here. This psychologist told me and Syd that he thinks Finn got mileage out of being mistaken for a SEAL in the local bars—he was built up from all those years of pumping iron in prison. He thinks Finn's first act of violence was a date rape—a woman who willingly left the bar with him. According to the shrink, Finn enjoyed the power and the fear, and realized how he could get his pound of flesh, so to speak. He started going down his list, hitting women who were connected to the people he wanted to hurt. Some of them were women he remembered from ', some he did research to find. He was always careful only to go after the women who had definite patterns of time in which they were alone in their homes. Syd was an exception. And even then, he told the shrink he'd been planning to hit her in her motel room in Phoenix. She foiled his plan by heading back to California a day early. Thank God." Lucky closed his eyes, unable to deal with the thought of what might've happened had she stayed in Arizona as she'd first intended. "We're still waiting for Finn's DNA tests to come back, but this time I think we've got him," Lucky said. "He definitely smelled like cigarette smoke. As for Martin Taus, we're not sure yet how he was able to describe Lucy's attack so accurately. I think he must've met Finn in a bar." "How's Syd doing?" Frisco asked. Lucky laughed "She's writing," he said. "She locked herself in the guest room, and she's been writing from the minute we walked in the door. She's working on a short piece for USA Today about Finn—a kind of follow-up to those other articles she wrote. "Did she, uh..." Frisco was trying to be tactful. "Did she give you an answer yet?" "No." Lucky knew exactly what his friend was talking about. His marriage proposal. His incredibly stupid and all-too-public marriage proposal. It figured that Frisco would've heard about it. In fact, Mia was probably standing next to him, tugging on his sleeve, waiting for the word so that she could call Veronica with an update. And Veronica would talk to PJ, and PJ would tell Harvard, who would send out a memo to the rest of Alpha Squad. The fact that Lucky had actually proposed marriage wasn't being taken lightly by his friends. In fact, it was serious business. Serious business. Serious... "Hang on a sec, can you?" Lucky said into the phone. He set the receiver down on the kitchen table, then went down the hall, and knocked on the closed guest-room door. "Yeah." Syd sounded impatient. She was writing. Lucky opened the door and made it quick. "Do you have an estimate for when you'll be done?" "Two hours," she said. "Go away. Please." Lucky closed the door, went back into the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Frisco, man, I need your help." Syd sent the article electronically, and shut down her laptop computer. She stood up, stretching out her back, knowing that she'd put it off as long as she possibly could. Luke was out there in his living room, waiting so that they could talk. To hell with your interview.... Get your butt home and marry me, damn it. He couldn't have been serious. She knew he wasn't serious. He'd been upset for a variety of reasons. He didn't like the idea of losing her, of losing, period. This marriage proposal was just a knee-jerk attempt to make her stick around. Tell Syd I love her. Yeah, sure, he loved her. He'd probably said the same three words to the four billion women who'd come before Syd. She just couldn't take it seriously.

And she was going to have to tell him that. She couldn't—and wouldn't—take him seriously. She cared for him deeply, but she couldn't make such a big gamble. This was her life, after all. She was sorry, but she was going to take the job in New York. She'd leave quickly. They wanted her to start as soon as possible. So she'd pack her things and go. One sharp pain, and it would be over. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, she reminded herself. He probably wouldn't miss her for more than a week. She, on the other hand, was going to miss him for the rest of her life. She braced herself, squared her shoulders and opened the door. Luke was in the living room, standing at the front window, looking out. He turned when he heard her, and she realized with a jolt of shock that he was wearing his dress uniform. His hair was combed neatly back from his face, every strand carefully in place. He wasn't wearing just his rows of ribbons on his chest, but rather the full medals. It was a wonder he could stand up with so much extra poundage weighing him down. “Are you going somewhere?'' she asked him. "I think," he said, "that that should be my question for you." He looked so serious, standing there like that, all spit and polish, without a smile on his handsome face. Syd sat down on the couch. "Yes," she said. "I'm going to New York. There was a message on my machine. They made me an offer. They want me." "What about my offer?" Luke asked. "I want you, too." She searched his eyes, but he still wasn't smiling. There was no sign that he was kidding, no sign that he acknowledged how completely out of character this was. "You seriously expect me to believe that you want to marry me?" She could barely say the words aloud. "Yes. I need to apologize for the subpar delivery, but—" "Luke. Marriage is forever. I take that very seriously. This isn't some game that we can play until you get bored." "Do I look like I'm playing a game?" he countered. She didn't get a chance to answer because the doorbell rang. "Good," Luke said. "Just in time. Excuse me." As Syd watched, he opened his door. Thomas King stood there, Rio Rosetti and Michael Lee right behind him. They, like Luke, were wearing their dress uniforms. Their arms were full of...flowers? "Great," Luke said. "Come on in. Just put those down on the table, gentlemen. Perfect." "Hey, Syd," Thomas said. "If you don't mind waiting out on the back deck...?" Luke efficiently pushed them toward the kitchen door. "I've got a cooler out there with beer, wine and soda. Help yourselves." Syd stared at Luke, stared at the flowers. They were gorgeous—all different kinds and colors. The bouquets completely covered the coffee table. "Luke, what is this for?" "It's for you," he said. "And me." The doorbell rang again. This time it was Bobby Taylor and Wes Skelly. They both carried heavy boxes into the living room. Luke opened one and took out a bottle of champagne. He read the label. "Terrific," he said. "Thanks, guys." "There're a couple bottles of non-alcoholic stuff, too," Wes told him. "For Frisco and Mia. We got it at the health food store." "Hi, Syd," Bobby said. He pointed to the back of the house. "Deck?" he asked Luke, who nodded. He vanished, pulling Wes with him. Flowers and champagne...? "Luke, what—" Luke interrupted her. "Today you said that you love me. Were you serious?" Oh, God. She was trying so hard to be realistic about this. "I thought I was going to die." "So...you said something that wasn't really true?" he asked, sitting down next to her on the couch. "Something that you didn't really mean?" Syd closed her eyes. She'd meant it, all right. She just probably wouldn't have said it if she'd known she was going to live.

"Do you love me?" he asked. She couldn't lie to him. "Yes," she said. "But I don't—" He kissed her. "The short answer's all I want." Syd let herself look into his eyes. "It's just not that simple." "It can be." He leaned forward to kiss her again, but the doorbell rang. It was Harvard. What a surprise. He had PJ with him. And Crash and Nell Hawken. And Cowboy and Melody Jones. And Mitch and Becca Shaw. They were all dressed up, as if they were going to the opera or... "Limos R Us," Cowboy announced with a grin. "Three of 'em. White, as ordered." "Ready to roll, Lieutenant, sir," Harvard added. "Vegas, here we come." Vegas? As in Las Vegas? Wedding capital of the world? Syd stood up and looked out the window. Sure enough, three stretch limos, big enough to hold a small army, were idling at the curb. Her heart began to pound, triple time, in her chest. Was it possible Luke truly was serious...? "Hi, Syd." PJ gave her a hug and a kiss. "You okay after this afternoon?" Syd didn't have time to answer. PJ disappeared with the others, pushed into the kitchen and out the back door. "So," Luke said when they were alone once again. "You love me. And I love you. I know this job in New York is good for your career, but you also told me that if you had a chance, if you could find a patron to support you for a year or two, you'd rather quit your day job and write a book." He spread his arms. "Well, here I—" The doorbell rang. "Excuse me." This time it was Frisco and Mia. They came into the living room, followed by an elderly man in a dark suit who was carrying a large briefcase. "This is George Majors," Frisco told Luke. "He owns that jewelry store over on Ventura." Luke shook the old man's hand. "This is wonderful," he said. "I really appreciate your coming out here like this. Here, you can set up over here." He pushed aside some of the flowers on the table, pulled Syd down onto the couch. Mr. Majors opened his briefcase, and inside was a display case of rings. Diamond rings and wedding rings. Syd couldn't breathe. Luke got down on one knee beside her and took her hand. "Marry me, Syd." His eyes were so blue. She could drown in those eyes. She could lose herself forever. Frisco cleared his throat and started inching toward the kitchen door. "Maybe we should—" "Don't go anywhere. You guys are my best friends. If I can't grovel in front of you, who can I grovel in front of?" He pointed to the jeweler. "Him I don't really know, but I figure he's got to be a pretty cool guy to come all the way out here like this." He looked back at Syd. "Marry me," he said. "Live here with me, write your book, have my babies, make my life complete." Syd couldn't speak. He was serious. He was completely, totally serious. It was everything she had ever wanted. But she couldn't manage to utter even one short syllable to tell him yes. And he took her silence for hesitation. "Maybe I should put it like this," he said. "Here's the scenario, Syd. There's a guy who's never taken any romantic relationship seriously before in his life. But then he meets you, and his world turns upside-down. He loves you more than life itself, and he wants to marry you. Tonight. At the Igloo of Love Wedding Chapel in Vegas. Do you fight, flee, hide or surrender?" Syd stared to laugh. "Igloo of Love?" Luke was trying his damnedest to stay serious, but he couldn't keep a smile and then a laugh from escaping. "I knew you'd like that. With me, your life's going to be high class all the way, baby." With Luke, her life was going to be laughter and sunshine all the way. "I surrender," she whispered, and started to kiss him, but then she pulled back. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and everyone else was dressed for...a wedding. "Tonight?" she said. "God, Luke, I don't have a dress!" The doorbell rang.

It was Joe Cat and Veronica. Mia let them in. "I have found," Veronica announced, "exactly what Luke asked me to find—the most exquisite wedding dress in all of Southern California." "My God," Syd whispered to Luke. "You thought of everything." "Damn right," he told her. "I wanted to make sure you knew I was serious. I figured if you saw that all my friends were taking me seriously, then you would, too." He kissed her—and it was an extremely serious kiss. "Marry me tonight," he said. Syd laughed. "At the Igloo of Love? Definitely." Smiling into his eyes, she knew her life would never be the same. She'd got Lucky. Permanently. END

10 - Taylor’s Temptation (2001)

In loving memory of Melinda Heifer, Romantic Times reviewer—a friend of mine, and a friend of all romance. The first time I met Melinda was at an RWA book signing years ago—right after Prince Joe and Forever Blue had come out. She rushed up to me, dropped to the floor in front of my table and proceeded to kowtow! She told me she loved those two books, and couldn't wait for the next installment in the TALL, DARK & DANGEROUS series to be released. She was funny, enthusiastic and amazingly intelligent—a fierce and passionate fan of all romance, and a good friend. Melinda, this one's for you. (But then again, I think you probably knew that all my TDD books were written for you!) You will be missed. Acknowledgments: Special thanks to Mary Stella of the New Jersey Romance Writers, friend and fellow writer, for her help in creating a suitable match for Bobby Taylor.

Prologue “It was amazing." Rio Rosetti shook his head, still unable to wrap his mind around last night's explosive events. "It was absolutely amazing." Mike and Thomas sat across from him at the mess hall, their ham and eggs forgotten as they waited for him to continue. Although neither of them let it show, Rio knew they were both envious as hell that he'd been smack in the middle of all the action, pulling his weight alongside the two legendary chiefs of Alpha Squad, Bobby Taylor and Wes Skelly. "Hey, Little E., get your gear and strap on your blue-suede swim fins," Chief Skelly had said to Rio just six hours ago. Had it really only been six hours? "Me and Uncle Bobby are gonna show you how it's done." Twin sons of different mothers. That's what Bobby and Wes were often called. Of very different mothers. The two men looked nothing alike. Chief Taylor was huge. In fact, the man was a total animal. Rio wasn't sure, because the air got kind of hazy way up by the top of Bobby Taylor's head, but he thought the chief stood at least six and a half feet tall, maybe even more. And he was nearly as wide. He had shoulders like a football player's protective padding, and, also like a football player, the man was remarkably fast. It was pretty freaky, actually, that a guy that big could achieve the kind of speed he did. His size wasn't the only thing that set him apart from Wes Skelly, who was normal-size—about Rio's height at five-eleven with a similar wiry build. Bobby was at least part Native American. His heritage showed in his handsome face and in the rich color of his skin. He tanned a real nice shade of brown when he was out in the sun—a far nicer shade than Rio's own slightly olive-tinged complexion. The chief also had long, black, straight hair that he wore pulled severely from his face in a single braid down his back, giving him a faintly mystical, mysterious air. Wes, on the other hand, was of Irish-American descent, with a slightly reddish tint to his light brown hair and leprechaun-like mischief gleaming in his blue eyes. No doubt about it, Wes Skelly came into a room and bounced off the walls. He was always moving—like a human pinball. And if he wasn't moving, he was talking. He was funny and rude and loud and not entirely tactful in his impatience. Bobby, however, was the king of laid-back cool. He was the kind of guy who could sit perfectly still, without fidgeting, just watching and listening, sometimes for hours, before he gave voice to any opinions or comments. But as different as they seemed in looks and demeanor, Bobby and Wes shared a single brain. They knew each other so well they were completely in tune with the other's thoughts. Which was probably why Bobby didn't do too much talking. He didn't need to. Wes read his mind and spoke— incessantly—for him. Although when the giant chief actually did speak, men listened. Even the officers listened. Rio listened, too. He'd learned early on in SEAL training, long before he got tapped to join SEAL Team Ten's legendary Alpha Squad, to pay particular attention to Chief Bobby Taylor's opinions and comments. Bobby had been doing a stint as a BUD/S instructor in Coronado, and he'd taken Rio, along with Mike Lee and Thomas King, under his extremely large wing. Which wasn't to say he coddled them. No way. In fact, by marking them as the head of a class filled with smart, confident, determined men, he'd demanded more from them. He'd driven them harder than the others, accepted no excuses, asked nothing less than their personal best —each and every time. They'd done all they could to deliver, and—no doubt due to Bobby's quiet influence with Captain Joe Catalanotto—won themselves coveted spots in the best SEAL team in the Navy. Rewind to six hours ago, to last night's operation. SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad had been called in to assist a FInCOM/DEA task force. A particularly nasty South American drug lord had parked his luxury yacht a very short, very cocky distance outside of U.S. waters. The Finks and the DEA agents couldn't or maybe just didn't want to for some reason— Rio wasn't sure which and it didn't really matter to him— snatch the bad dude up until he crossed that invisible line into U.S. territory. And that was where the SEALs were to come in. Lieutenant Lucky O'Donlon was in charge of the op— mostly because he'd come up with a particularly devious plan that had tickled Captain Joe Cat's dark sense of humor. The lieutenant had decided that a small team of SEALs would swim out to the yacht—named Swiss Chocolate, a stupid-ass name for a boat— board it covertly, gain access to the bridge and do a little creative work on their computerized navigational system. As in making the yacht's captain think they were heading south when they were really heading northwest. Bad dude would give the order to head back toward South America, and instead they'd zoom toward Miami— into the open arms of the Federal task force. It was just too good.

Bobby and Wes had been selected by Lieutenant O'Donlon to gain covert access to the bridge of the yacht. And Rio was going along for the ride. "I knew damn well they didn't need me there," he told Thomas and Mike now. "In fact, I was aware I was slowing them down." Bobby and Wes didn't need to talk, didn't need to make hand signals. They barely even looked at each other—they just read each other's minds. It was so freaky. Rio had seen them do similar stuff on a training op, but somehow out in the real world it seemed even more weird. "So what happened, Rosetti?" Thomas King asked. The tall African-American ensign was impatient—not that he'd ever let it show on his face. Thomas was an excellent poker player. Rio knew that firsthand, having left the table with empty pockets on more than one occasion. Most of the time Thomas's face was unreadable, his expression completely neutral, eyelids half-closed. The combination of that almost-bland expression and his scars—one bisecting his eyebrow and the other branding one of his high cheekbones—gave him a dangerous edge that Rio wished his own far-too-average face had. But it was Thomas's eyes that made most people cross the street when they saw him coming. So dark-brown as to seem black, his eyes glittered with a deep intelligence—the man was Phi Beta Kappa and a member of the Mensa club. His eyes also betrayed the fact that despite his slouched demeanor, Thomas King was permanently at Defcon Five—ready to launch a deadly attack without hesitation if the need arose. He was Thomas. Not Tommy. Not even Tom. Thomas. Not one member of Team Ten ever called him anything else. Thomas had won the team's respect. Unlike Rio, who somehow, despite his hope for a nickname like Panther or Hawk, had been given the handle Elvis. Or even worse, Little Elvis or Little E. Holy Chrysler. As if Elvis wasn't embarrassing enough. "We took a rubber duck out toward the Swiss Chocolate," Rio told Thomas and Mike. "Swam the rest of the way in." The swift ride in the little inflatable boat through the darkness of the ocean had made his heart pound. Knowing they were going to board a heavily guarded yacht and gain access to her bridge without anyone seeing them had a lot to do with it. But he was also worried. What if he blew it? Bobby apparently could read Rio's mind almost as easily as he read Wes Skelly's, because he'd touched Rio's shoulder—just a brief squeeze of reassurance—before they'd crept out of the water and onto the yacht. "The damn thing was lit up like a Christmas tree and crawling with guards," Rio continued. "They all dressed alike and carried these cute little Uzi's. It was almost like their boss got off on pretending he had his own little army. But they weren't any kind of army. Not even close. They were really just street kids in expensive uniforms. They didn't know how to stand watch, didn't know what to look for. I swear to God, you guys, we moved right past them. They didn't have a clue we were there—not with all the noise they were making and the lights shining in their eyes. It was so easy it was a joke." "If it were a joke," Mike Lee asked, "then what's Chief Taylor doing in the hospital?" Rio shook his head. "No, that part wasn't a joke." Someone on board the yacht had decided to move the party up from down below and go for a midnight swim. Spotlights had switched on, shining down into the ocean, and all hell had broken loose. "But up until the time we were heading back into the water, it was a piece of cake. You know that thing Bobby and Wes can do? The telepathic communication thing?" Thomas smiled. "Oh, yeah. I've seen them look at each other and—" "This time they didn't," Rio interrupted his friend. "Look at each other, I mean. You guys, I'm telling you, this was beyond cool—watching them in action like this. There was one guard on the bridge, okay? Other than that, it was deserted and pretty dark. The captain and crew are all below deck, right? Probably getting stoned with the party girls and the guests. So anyway, the chiefs see this guard and they don't break stride. They just take him temporarily out of the picture before he even sees us, before he can even make a sound. Both of them did it—together, like it's some kind of choreographed move they've been practicing for years. I'm telling you, it was a thing of beauty." "They've been working with each other for a long time," Mike pointed out. "They went through BUD/S together," Thomas reminded them. "They've been swim buddies from day one." "It was perfection." Rio shook his head in admiration. "Sheer perfection. I stood in the guard's place, in case anyone looked up through the window, then there'd be someone standing there, you know? Meanwhile Skelly disabled the conventional compass. And Bobby broke into the navigational computers in about four seconds." That was another freaky thing about Bobby Taylor. He had fingers the size of ballpark franks, but he could manipulate a computer keyboard faster than Rio would have thought humanly possible. He could scan the images that scrolled past on the screen at remarkable speeds, too. "It took him less than three minutes to do whatever it was he had to do," he continued, "and then we were out of there—off the bridge. Lucky and Spaceman were in the water, giving us the all-clear." He shook his head, remembering how close they'd been to slipping silently away into the night. "And then all these babes in bikinis came running up on deck, heading straight for us. It was the absolute worst luck—if we'd been anywhere else on the vessel, the diversion would've been perfect. We would've been completely invisible. I mean, if you're an inexperienced guard are you going to be watching to see who's crawling around in the shadows or are you going to pay attention to the beach bunnies in the thong bikinis? But someone decided to go for a swim off the starboard side—right where we were hiding. These heavy-duty searchlights came on, probably just so the guys on board could watch the women in the water, but wham, there we were. Lit up. There was no place to hide—and nowhere to go but over the side."

"Bobby picked me up and threw me overboard," Rio admitted. He must not have been moving fast enough—he was still kicking himself for that. "I didn't see what happened next, but according to Wes, Bobby stepped in front of him and blocked him from the bullets that started flying while they both went into the water. That was when Bobby caught a few—one in his shoulder, another in the top of his thigh. He was the one who was hurt, but he pulled both me and Wes down, under the water—out of sight and out of range." Sirens went on. Rio had been able to hear them along with the tearing sound of the guards' assault weapons and the screams from the women, even as he was pulled underwater. "That was when the Swiss Chocolate took off," Rio said. He had to smile. "Right for Miami." They'd surfaced to watch, and Bobby had laughed along with Wes Skelly. Rio and Wes hadn't even realized he'd been hit. Not until he spoke, in his normal, matter-of-fact manner. "We better get moving, get back to the boat, ASAP," Bobby had said evenly. "I'm shark bait." "The chief was bleeding badly," Rio told his friends. "He was hurt worse even than he realized." And the water hadn't been cold enough to staunch the flow of his blood. "We did the best we could to tie off his leg, right there in the water. Lucky and Spaceman went on ahead—as fast as they could—to connect with the rubber duck and bring it back toward us." Bobby Taylor had been in serious pain, but he'd kept moving, slowly and steadily through the darkness. Apparently he'd been afraid if he didn't keep moving, if he let Wes tow him back to the little rubber boat, he'd black out. And he didn't want to do that. The sharks in these waters did pose a serious threat, and if he were unconscious, that could have put Rio and Wes into even more significant danger. "Wes and I swam alongside Bobby. Wes was talking the entire time—I don't know how he did it without swallowing a gallon of seawater—bitching at Bobby for playing the hero like that, making fun of him for getting shot in the ass—basically, just ragging on him to keep him alert. "It wasn't until Bobby finally slowed to a crawl, until he told us he wasn't going to make it—that he needed help—that Wes stopped talking. He took Bobby in a lifeguard hold and hauled ass, focusing all his energy on getting back to the rubber duck in record time." Rio sat back in his seat. "When we finally connected with the boat, Lucky had already radioed for help. It wasn't much longer before a helo came to evac Bobby to the hospital. "He's going to be okay," he told both Thomas and Mike again. That was the first thing he'd said about their beloved chiefs injuries, before they'd even sat down to breakfast. "The leg wound wasn't all that bad, and the bullet that went into his shoulder somehow managed to miss the bone. He'll be off the active-duty list for a few weeks, maybe a month, but after that..." Rio grinned. "Chief Bobby Taylor will be back. You can count on that"

1 Navy SEAL Chief Bobby Taylor was in trouble.

Big trouble. "You gotta help me, man," Wes said. "She's determined to go, she flippin' hung up on me and wouldn't pick up the phone when I called back, and I'm going wheels-up in less than twenty minutes. All I could do was send her e-mail—though fat lotta good that'll do." "She" was Colleen Mary Skelly, his best friend's little sister. No, not little sister. Younger sister. Colleen wasn't little, not anymore. She hadn't been little for a long, long time. A fact that Wes didn't seem quite able to grasp. "If I call her," Bobby pointed out reasonably, "she'll just hang up on me, too." "I don't want you to call her." Wes shouldered his sea-bag and dropped his bomb. "I want you to go there." Bobby laughed. Not aloud. He would never laugh in his best friend's face when he went into overprotective brother mode. But inside of his own head, he was rolling on the floor in hysterics. Outside of his head, he only lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "To Boston." It wasn't really a question. Wesley Skelly knew that this time he was asking an awful lot, but he squared his shoulders and looked Bobby straight in the eyes. "Yes." Problem was, Wes didn't know just how much he was asking. "You want me to take leave and go to Boston," Bobby didn't really enjoy making Wes squirm, but he needed his best friend to see just how absurd this sounded, "because you and Colleen got into another argument." He still didn't turn it into a question. He just let it quietly hang there. "No, Bobby," Wes said, the urgency in his voice turned up to high. "You don't get it. She's signed on with some kind of bleeding-heart, touchy-feely volunteer organization, and next she and her touchy-feely friends are flying out to flippin' Tulgeria." He said it again, louder, as if it were unprintable, then followed it up by a string of words that truly were. Bobby could see that Wes was beyond upset. This wasn't just another ridiculous argument. This was serious. "She's going to provide earthquake relief," Wes continued. "That's lovely. That's wonderful, I told her. Be Mother Teresa. Be Florence Nightingale. Have your goody two-shoes permanently glued to your feet. But stay way the hell away from Tulgeria! Tulgeria—the flippin' terrorist capital of the world!" “Wes—" "I tried to get leave," Wes told him. "I was just in the captain's office, but with you still down and H. out with food poisoning, I'm mission essential." "I'm there," Bobby said. "I'm on the next flight to Boston." Wes was willing to give up Alpha Squad's current assignment—something he was really looking forward to, something involving plenty of Cexplosives—to go to Boston. That meant that Colleen wasn't just pushing her brother's buttons. That meant she was serious about this. That she really was planning to travel to a part of the world where Bobby himself didn't feel safe. And he wasn't a freshly pretty, generously endowed, longlegged—very long-legged—redheaded and extremely female second-year law student. With a big mouth, a fiery temper and a stubborn streak, No, Colleen's last name wasn't Skelly for nothing. Bobby swore softly. If she'd made up her mind to go, talking her out of it wasn't going to be easy. “Thank you for doing this," Wes said, as if Bobby had already succeeded in keeping Colleen off that international flight. "Look, I gotta run. Literally." Wes owed Bobby for this one. But he already knew it. Bobby didn't bother to say the words aloud. Wes was almost out the door before he turned back. "Hey, as long as you're going to Boston..." Ah. Here it came. Colleen was probably dating some new guy and... Bobby was already shaking his head. "Check out this lawyer I think Colleen's dating, would you?" Wes asked. "No," Bobby said. But Wes was already gone. Colleen Skelly was in trouble.

Big trouble.

It wasn't fair. The sky was far too blue today for this kind of trouble. The June air held a crisp sweetness that only a New England summer could provide. But the men standing in front of her provided nothing sweet to the day. And nothing unique to New England, either. Their kind of hatred, unfortunately, was universal. She didn't smile at them. She'd tried smiling in the past, and it hadn't helped at all. "Look," she said, trying to sound as reasonable and calm as she possibly could, given that she was facing down six very big men. Ten pairs of young eyes were watching her, so she kept her temper, kept it cool and clean. "I'm well aware that you don't like—" "'Don't like' doesn't have anything to do with it," the man at the front of the gang—John Morrison—cut her off. "We don't want your center here, we don't want you here." He looked at the kids, who'd stopped washing Mrs. O'Brien's car and stood watching the exchange, wide-eyed and dripping with water and suds. "You, Sean Sullivan. Does your father know you're down here with her? With the hippie chick?" "Keep going, guys," Colleen told the kids, giving them what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Hippie chick. Sheesh. "Mrs. O'Brien doesn't have all day. And there's a line, remember. This car wash team has a rep for doing a good job—swiftly and efficiently. Let's not lose any customers over a little distraction." She turned back to John Morrison and his gang. And they were a gang, despite the fact that they were all in their late thirties and early forties and led by a respectable local businessman. Well, on second thought, calling Morrison respectable was probably a little too generous. "Yes, Mr. Sullivan does know where his son is," she told them levelly. "The St. Margaret's Junior High Youth Group is helping raise money for the Tulgeria Earthquake Relief Fund. All of the money from this car wash is going to help people who've lost their homes and nearly all of their possessions. I don't see how even you could have a problem with that" Morrison bristled. And Colleen silently berated herself. Despite her efforts, her antagonism and anger toward these Neanderthals had leaked out. "Why don't you go back to wherever it was you came from?" he told her harshly. "Get the hell out of our neighborhood and take your damn bleedingheart liberal ideas and stick them up your—" No one was going to use that language around her kids. Not while she was in charge. "Out," she said. "Get out. Shame on you! Get off this property before I wash your mouth out with soap. And charge you for it." Oh, that was a big mistake. Her threat hinted at violence—something she had to be careful to avoid with this group. Yes, she was nearly six feet tall and somewhat solidly built, but she wasn't a Navy SEAL like her brother and his best friend, Bobby Taylor. Unlike them, she couldn't take on all six of these guys at once, if it came down to that. The scary thing was that this was a neighborhood in which some men didn't particularly have a problem with hitting a woman, no matter her size. And she suspected that John Morrison was one of those men. She imagined she saw it in his eyes—a barely tempered urge to backhand her—hard—across the face. Usually she resented her brother's interference. But right now she found herself wishing he and Bobby were standing right here, beside her. God knows she'd been yelling for years about her independence, but this wasn't exactly an independent kind of situation. She stood her ground all alone, wishing she was holding something more effective against attack than a giant-size sponge, and then glad that she wasn't. She was just mad enough to turn the hose on them like a pack of wild dogs, and that would only make this worse. There were children here, and all she needed was Sean or Harry or Melissa to come leaping to her aid. And they would. These kids could be fierce. But then again, so could she. And she would not let these children get hurt. She would do whatever she had to do, including trying again to make friends with these dirt wads. "I apologize for losing my temper. Shantel," she called to one of the girls, her eyes still on Morrison and his goons. "Run inside and see if Father Timothy's coming out with more of that lemonade soon. Tell him to bring six extra paper cups for Mr. Morrison and his friends. I think we could probably all use some cooling off." Maybe that would work. Kill them with kindness. Drown them with lemonade. The twelve-year-old ran swiftly for the church door. "How about it, guys?" Colleen forced herself to smile at the men, praying that this time it would work. "Some lemonade?" Morrison's expression didn't change, and she knew that this was where he was going to step forward, inform her he didn't want any of their lemonade—expletive deleted— and challenge her to just try washing out his mouth. He'd then imply—ridiculously, and solely because of her pro bono legal work for the HIV Testing and AIDS Education Center that was struggling to establish a foothold in this narrow-minded but desperately needy corner of the city— that she was a lesbian and offer to "cure her" in fifteen unforgettable minutes in the closest back alley.

It would almost be funny. Except for the fact that Morrison was dead serious. He'd made similar disgusting threats to her before. But now, to her surprise, John Morrison didn't say an other word. He just looked long and hard at the group of eleven- and twelve-year-olds standing behind her, then did an about face, muttering something unprintable. It was amazing. Just like that, he and his boys were walking away. Colleen stared after them, laughing—softly—in disbelief. She'd done it. She'd stood her ground, and Morrison had backed down without any interference from the police or the parish priest Although at pounds, Father Timothy was a heart attack waiting to happen. His usefulness in a fist fight would be extremely limited. Was it possible Morrison and his clowns were finally hearing what she was saying? Were they finally starting to believe that she wasn't going to let herself be intimidated by their bogus threats and ugly comments? Behind her the hoses were still silent, and she turned around. "Okay, you guys, let's get back to—" Colleen dropped her sponge. Bobby Taylor. It was Bobby Taylor. Standing right there, behind her, in the St. Margaret's parking lot. Somehow, some way, her brother's best friend had materialized there, as if Colleen's most ferverent wishes had been granted. He stood in a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, planted in a superhero pose—legs spread and massive arms crossed in front of his equally massive chest. His eyes were hard, and his face stony as he still glared in the direction John Morrison and his gang had departed. He was wearing a version of his "war face." He and Wes had completely cracked Colleen up on more than one occasion by practicing their "war faces" in the bathroom mirror during their fartoo-infrequent visits home. She'd always thought it was silly—what did the expression on their faces matter when they went into a fight?—until now. Now she saw that that grim look on Bobby's usually so-agreeably handsome face was startlingly effective. He looked hard and tough and even mean—as if he'd get quite a bit of enjoyment and satisfaction in tearing John Morrison and his friends limb from limb. But then he looked at her and smiled, and warmth seeped back into his dark-brown eyes. He had the world's most beautiful eyes. "Hey, Colleen," he said in his matter-of-fact, no worries, easygoing voice. "How's it going?" He held out his arms to her, and in a flash she was running across the asphalt and hugging him. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke—no doubt thanks to her brother, Mr. Just-One-More-Cigarette-Before-I-Quit—and coffee. He was warm and huge and solid and one of very few men in the world who could actually make her feel if not quite petite then pretty darn close. As long as she'd wished him here, she should have wished for more. Like for him to have shown up with a million-dollar lottery win in his pocket. Or —better yet—a diamond ring and a promise of his undying love. Yes, she'd had a wild crush on this man for close to ten years now. And just once she wanted him to take her into his arms like this and kiss her senseless, instead of giving her a brotherly noogie on the top of her head as he released her. Over the past few years she'd imagined she'd seen appreciation in his eyes as he'd looked at her. And once or twice she could've sworn she'd actually seen heat—but only when he thought both she and Wes weren't looking. Bobby was attracted to her. Or at the very least she wished he were. But even if he were, there was no way in hell he'd ever act on that attraction—not with Wes watching his every move and breathing down his neck. Colleen hugged him tightly. She had only two chances each visit to get this close to him—once during hello and once during goodbye—and she always made sure to take full advantage. But this time he winced. "Easy." Oh, God, he'd been hurt. She pulled back to look up at him, and she actually had to tilt her head. He was that tall. "I'm a little sore," he told her, releasing her completely and stepping back, away from her. "Shoulder and leg. Nothing serious. You got me in the dead perfect spot, that's all." "I'm sorry." He shrugged. "It's no big deal. I'm taking some down time to get back to speed." "What happened—or can you not tell me?" He shook his head, smiling apologetically. He was such a good-looking man. And that little smile... What would he look like with his thick hair loose from the single braid he wore down his back? Although, she realized, he wasn't wearing a braid today. Instead, he wore his hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. Every time she saw him, she expected him to have his hair cut short again. But each time it was even longer.

The first time they'd met, back when he and Wes were training to become SEALs, he'd had a crew cut. Colleen gestured to the kids, aware they were all still watching. "Come on, gang, let's keep going here." "Are you all right?" Bobby stepped closer to her, to avoid the spray from the hose. "What's the deal with those guys?" "You're why they left," she realized suddenly. And even though mere minutes ago she'd wished desperately for Bobby's and her brother's presence, she felt a flare of anger and frustration. Darn it! She'd wanted Morrison's retreat to be because of her. As nice as it would be, she couldn't walk around with a Navy SEAL by her side every minute of every day. "What was that about, Colleen?" Bobby pressed. "Nothing," she said tersely. He nodded, regarding her steadily. "It didn't feel like 'nothing.'" "Nothing you have to worry about," she countered. "I'm doing some pro bono legal work for the AIDS Education Center, and not everyone is happy about it. That's what litigation's all about. Where's Wes? Parking the car?" "Actually, he's—" "I know why you're here. You came to try to talk me out of going to Tulgeria. Wes probably came to forbid me from going. Hah. As if he could." She picked up her sponge and rinsed it in a bucket. "I'm not going to listen to either of you, so you might as well just save your breath, turn around and go back to California. I'm not fifteen anymore, in case you haven't noticed." "Hey, I've noticed," Bobby said. He smiled. "But Wes needs a little work in that area." "You know, my living room is completely filled with boxes," Colleen told him. "Donations of supplies and clothing. I don't have any room for you guys. I mean, I guess you can throw sleeping bags on the floor of my bedroom, but I swear to God, if Wes snores, I'm kicking him out into the street." "No," Bobby said. "That's okay. I made hotel reservations. This week is kind of my vacation, and—" "Where is Wes?" Colleen asked, shading her eyes and looking down the busy city street. “Parking the car in Kuwait?" "Actually." Bobby cleared his throat. "Yeah." She looked at him. "Wes is out on an op," he told her. "It's not quite Kuwait, but..." "He asked you to come to Boston," Colleen realized. "For him. He asked you to play big brother and talk me out of going to Tulgeria, didn't he? I don't believe it. And you agreed? You jerk!" "Colleen, come on. He's my best friend. He's worried about you." "And you don't think I worry about him? Or you?" she countered hotly. "Do I come out to California to try to talk you out of risking your lives? Do ever say, don't be a SEAL? No! Because I respect you. I respect the choices and decisions you make." Father Timothy and Shantel emerged from the church kitchen with a huge thermos of lemonade and a stack of cups. "Everything all right?" Father T. asked, eyeing Bobby apprehensively. Bobby held out his hand. "I'm Bobby Taylor, a friend of Colleen's," he introduced himself. "A friend of my brother, Wes's," she corrected him as the two men shook hands. "He's here as a surrogate brother. Father, plug your ears. I'm about to be extremely rude to him." Timothy laughed. "I'll see if the other children want lemonade." "Go away," Colleen told Bobby. "Go home. I don't want another big brother. I don't need one. I've got plenty already." Bobby shook his head. "Wes asked me to—"

Damn Wes. "He probably also asked you to sift through my dresser drawers, too," she countered, lowering her voice. "Although I'm not sure what you're going to tell him when you find my collection of whips and chains, my black leather bustier and matching crotchless panties." Bobby looked at her, something unrecognizable on his face. And as Colleen looked back at him, for a moment she spun out, losing herself in the outer-space darkness of his eyes. She'd never imagined outer space could be so very warm. He looked away, clearly embarrassed, and she realized suddenly that her brother wasn't here. Wes wasn't here.

Bobby was in town without Wes. And without Wes, if she played it right, the rules of this game they'd been playing for the past decade could change. Radically. Oh, my goodness. "Look." She cleared her throat. "You're here, so...let's make the best of this. When's your return flight?" He smiled ruefully. "I figured I'd need the full week to talk you out of going." He was here for a whole week. Thank you, Lord. "You're not going to talk me out of anything, but you cling to that thought if it helps you," she told him. "I will." He laughed. "It's good to see you, Colleen." "It's good to see you, too. Look, as long as there's only one of you, I can probably make room in my apartment—" He laughed again. "Thanks, but I don't think that would be a very good idea." "Why waste good money on a hotel room?" she asked. "After all, you're practically my brother." "No," Bobby said emphatically. "I'm not." There was something in his tone that made her bold. Colleen looked at him then in a way she'd never dared let herself look at him before. She let her gaze move down his broad chest, taking in the outline of his muscles, admiring the trim line of his waist and hips. She looked all the way down his long legs and then all die way back up again. She lingered a moment on his beautiful mouth, on his full, gracefully shaped lips, before gazing back into his eyes. She'd shocked him with that obvious once-over. Well, good. It was the Skelly family motto: everyone needs a good shocking every now and then. She gave him a decidedly nonsisterly smile. "Glad we got that established. About time, huh?" He laughed, clearly nervous. "Um..." "Grab a sponge," she told him. "We've got some cars to wash."

2 Wes would kill him if he found out. No doubt about it. If Wes knew even half the thoughts that were steam-rolling through Bobby's head about his sister, Colleen, Bobby would be a dead man. Lord have mercy on his soul, the woman was hot. She was also funny and smart. Smart enough to have figured out the ultimate way to get back at him for showing up here as her brother's mouthpiece. If she were planning to go anywhere besides Tulgeria, Bobby would have turned around. He would have headed for the airport and caught the next flight out of Boston. Because Colleen was right. He and Wes had absolutely no business telling her what she should and shouldn't do. She was twenty-three years old— old enough to make her own decisions. Except both Bobby and Wes had been to Tulgeria, and Colleen hadn't. No doubt she'd heard stories about the war ring factions of terrorists that roamed the dirt-poor countryside. But she hadn't heard Bobby and Wes's stories. She didn't know what they'd seen, with their own eyes. At least not yet. But she would before the week was out. And he'd take the opportunity to find out what that run-in with the local chapter of the KKK had been about, too. Apparently, like her brother, Wes, trouble followed Colleen Skelly around. And no doubt, also like Wes, when it didn't follow her, she went out and flagged it down. But as for right now, Bobby desperately needed to regroup. He had to go to his hotel and take an icy-cold shower. He had to lock himself in his room and away—far away—from Colleen. Lord save him, somehow he'd given himself away. Somehow she'd figured out that the last thing that came to mind when he looked at her was brotherly love. He could hear her laughter, rich and thick, from the far end of the parking lot, where she stood talking to a woman in a beat-up station wagon, who'd come to pick up the last of the junior-size car washers. The late-afternoon sunlight made Colleen's hair gleam. With the work done, she'd changed into a summer dress and taken down her ponytail, and her hair hung in shimmering red-gold waves around her face. She was almost unbearably beautiful. Some people might not agree. And taken individually, most of the features of her face were far from perfect. Her mouth was too wide, her cheeks too full, her nose too small, her face too round, her skin too freckled and prone to sunburn. Put it all together, though, and the effect was amazing. And add those heartstoppingly gorgeous eyes... Colleen's eyes were sometimes blue, sometimes green, and always dancing with light and life. When she smiled— which was most of the time— her eyes actually twinkled. It was corny but true. Being around Colleen Skelly was like being in the middle of a continuous, joyful, always-in-fullswing party. And as for her body... Ouch. The woman was beyond hot. She wasn't one of those anemic little bony anorexic girls who were plastered all over TV and magazines, looking more like malnourished -year-old boys. No, Colleen Skelly was a woman—with a capital W. She was the kind of woman that a real man could wrap his arms around and really get a grip on. She actually had hips and breasts—and not only was that the understatement of the century, but it was the thought that would send him to hell, directly to hell. 'Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars,' do not live another minute longer. If Wes ever found out that Bobby spent any amount of time at all thinking about Colleen's breasts, well, that would be it. The end. Game over. But right now Wes—being more than three thousand miles away—wasn't Bobby's problem. No, Bobby's problem was that somehow Colleen had realized that he was spending far too much time thinking about her breasts. She'd figured out that he was completely and mindlessly in lust with her.

And Wesley wasn't around to save him. Or beat him senseless. Of course, it was possible that she was just toying with him, just messing with his mind. Look at what you can't have, you big loser. After all, she was dating some lawyer. Wasn't that what Wes had said? And these days, wasn't dating just a euphemism for in a relationship with? And that was really just a polite way of saying that they were sleeping together, lucky son of a bitch. Colleen glanced up from her conversation with the station-wagon mom and caught him looking at her butt.

Help. He'd known that this was going to be a mistake back in California—the second the plea for help had left Wes's lips. Bobby should have admitted it, right there and then. Don't send me to Boston, man. I've got a crippling jones for your sister. The temptation may be too much for me to handle,

and then you'll kill me. "I've gotta go," Bobby heard Colleen say as she straightened up. "I've got a million things to do before I leave." She waved to the kids in the back. "Thanks again, guys. You did a terrific job today. I probably won't see you until I get back, so..." There was an outcry from the back seat, something Bobby couldn't make out, but Colleen laughed. "Absolutely," she said. "I'll deliver your letters to An-alena and the other kids. And I'll bring my camera and take pictures. I promise." She waved as the station wagon drove away, and then she was walking toward him. As she approached, as she gazed at him, there was a funny little smile on her face. Bobby was familiar with the full arsenal of devious Skelly smiles, and it was all he could do not to back away from this one. "I have an errand to run, but after, we could get dinner. Are you hungry?" she asked. No, he was terrified. He sidled back a bit, but she came right up to him, close enough for him to put his arms around. Close enough to pull her in for a kiss. He couldn't kiss her. Don't you dare, he ordered himself. He'd wanted to kiss her for years. "I know this great Chinese place," she continued, twin kling her eyes at him. "Great food, great atmosphere, too. Very dark and cool and mysterious." Oh, no. No, no. Atmosphere was the dead-last thing he wanted or needed. Standing here on the blazing-hot asphalt in broad daylight was bad enough. He had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for her. No way was he trusting himself around Colleen Skelly someplace dark and cool and mysterious. She touched him, reaching up to brush something off his sleeve, and he jumped about a mile straight up. Colleen laughed. "Whoa. What's with you?" I want to sink back with you on your brightly colored bedspread, undress you with my teeth and lose myself in your laughter, your eyes and the sweet heat of your body.

Not necessarily in that order. Bobby shrugged, forced a smile. "Sorry." "So how 'bout it? You want to get Chinese?" "Oh," he said, stepping back a bit and shifting around to pick up his seabag and swing it over his shoulder, glad he had something with which to occupy his hands. "I don't know. I should probably go try to find my hotel. It's the Sheraton, just outside of Harvard Square?" "You're sure I can't talk you into spending the night with me?" It was possible that she had no idea how suggestive it was when she asked a question like that, combined with a smile like that. On the other hand, she probably knew damn well what she was doing to him. She was, after all, a Skelly. He laughed. It was either that or cry. Evasive maneuvers, Mr. Sulu. "Why don't we just plan to have lunch tomorrow?" Lunch was good. Lunch was safe. It was businesslike and well lit. "Hmm. I'm working straight through lunch tomorrow," she told him. "I'm going to be driving the truck all day, picking up donations to take to Tulgeria. But I'd love to have breakfast with you."

This time it wasn't so much the words but the way she said it, lowering her voice and smiling slightly. Bobby could picture her at breakfast—still in bed, her hair sexily mussed, her gorgeous eyes heavy-lidded. Her mouth curving up into a sleepy smile, her breasts soft and full against the almost-transparent cotton of that innocent little nightgown he'd once seen hanging in her bathroom.... Everything about her body language was screaming for him to kiss her. Unless he was seriously mistaken, everything she was saying and doing was one great big, giant green light. God help him, why did she have to be Wes Skelly's little sister? Traffic was heavy through the Back Bay and out toward Cambridge. For once, Colleen didn't mind. This was probably the last time for a while that she'd make this drive up Comm. Ave. and over the BU bridge. It was certainly the last time she'd do it in this car. She refused to feel remorse, refused even to acknowledge the twinge of regret that tightened her throat every time she thought about signing over the title. She'd done too much pro bono work this past year. It was her fault entirely, and the only way to make ends meet now was to sell her car. It was a shame, but she had to do it. At least this final ride was a memorable one. She glanced at Bobby Taylor, sitting there beside her, looking like the perfect accessory for a lipstick-red Ford Mustang, with his long hair and exotic cheekbones and those melted-chocolate eyes. Yeah, he was another very solid reason why she didn't mind at all about the traffic. For the first time she could remember, she had Bobby Taylor alone in her car, and the longer it took to reach Harvard Square, the better. She needed all the time she could to figure out a way to keep him from getting out when they arrived at his hotel. She'd been pretty obvious so far, and she wondered just how blatant she was going to have to be. She laughed aloud as she imagined herself laying it all on the table, bringing it down to the barest bottom line, asking him if he wanted to get with her, using the rudest, least-elegant language she knew. “So...what are you going to do tonight?" she asked him instead. He glanced at her warily, as if he were somehow able to read her mind and knew what she really wanted to ask him. "Your hair's getting really long," she interrupted him before he could even start to answer. "Do you ever wear it down?" "Not too often," he told her. Say it. Just say it. "Not even in bed?" He hesitated only briefly. "No, I usually sleep with it braided or at least pulled back. Otherwise it takes forever to untangle in the morning." She hadn't meant while he slept. She knew from the way he wasn't looking at her that he was well aware of what she had meant. "I guess from your hair that you're still doing the covert stuff, huh?" she asked. "Oops, sorry. Don't answer that." She rolled her eyes. "Not that you would." Bobby laughed. He had a great laugh, a low-pitched rumble that was always accompanied by the most gorgeous smile and extremely attractive laughter lines around his eyes. "I think it's fine if I say yes," he told her. "And you're right—the long hair makes it kind of obvious, anyway." "So is Wes out on a training op or is it the real thing this time?" she asked. "I don't know that myself," he admitted. "Really," he added as she shot him a skeptical glance. The traffic light was red, and she chewed her lip as she braked to a stop and stared at the taillights of the cars in front of them. "It worries me that he's out there without you." When she looked at him again, he was watching her. And he actually held her gaze for the first time since they'd gotten into her car. "He's good at what he does, Colleen," he told her gently. She loved the way he said her name. "I know. It's just... Well, I don't worry so much when he's with you." She forced a smile. "And I don't worry so much about you when you're with him." Bobby didn't smile. He didn't do much of anything but look into her eyes. No, when he looked at her like that, he wasn't just looking into her eyes. He was looking into her mind, into her soul. Colleen found herself holding her breath, hypnotized, praying that he would like what he saw. Wishing that he would kiss her. How could he look at her like that—and the way he'd looked at her in the church parking lot, too—and then not kiss her?

The car behind her honked, and she realized that the light had changed. The line of traffic had already moved. She fumbled with the stick shift, suddenly afraid she was making a huge fool of herself. One of Wes's recent e-mails had mentioned that Bobby had finally ended his on-again, off-again relationship with a woman he'd met in Arizona or New Mexico or someplace else equally unlikely, considering the man spent most of his waking hours in the ocean. Of course, that so-called recent e-mail from her brother had arrived nearly two months ago. A lot might've happened in the past two months. Bobby could well have hooked up with someone new. Or gotten back together with what's-her-name. Kyra Something. "Wes told me you and Kyra called it quits." There was absolutely no point in sitting here wondering. So what if she came across as obvious? She was tired of guessing. Did she have a chance here, or didn't she? Inquiring minds wanted to know. "Um," Bobby said. "Yeah, well... She, uh, found someone who wasn't gone all the time. She's actually getting married in October." "Oh, yikes." Colleen made a face at him. "The M word." Wes always sounded as if he were on the verge of a panic attack when that word came up. But Bobby just smiled. "Yeah, I think she called to tell me about it because she was looking for a counteroffer, but I just couldn't do it. We had a lot of fun, but..." He shook his head. "I wasn't about to leave the teams for her, you know, and that's what she wanted." He was quiet for a moment. "She deserved way more than I could give her, anyway." "And you deserve more than someone who'll ask you to change your whole life for them," Colleen countered. He looked startled at that, as if he'd never considered such a thing, as if he'd viewed himself as the bad guy in the relationship—the primary reason for its failure. Kyra Whomever was an idiot. "How about you?" he asked. "Wes said you were dating some lawyer." Oh, my God. Was it possible that Bobby was doing a little fishing of his own? "No," she said, trying to sound casual. "Nope. That's funny, but... Oh, I know what he was thinking. I told him I went to Connecticut with Charlie Johannsen. Wes must've thought..." She had to laugh. "Charlie's longtime companion is an actor. He just got cast in a new musical at Goodspeed-at-Chester." "Ah," Bobby said. "Wes will be relieved." "Wes never wants me to have any fun," she countered. "How about you?" She used Bobby's own words. "Are you seeing someone new?" "Nope. And Wes isn't, either." Okay. She would talk about Wes. She'd gotten the info she'd wanted. "Is he still carrying the torch for—" What was her name? "Laura?" Bobby shook his head. "You'll have to ask him about that." Yeah, like Wes would talk to her about this. "Lana," she remembered. "He once wrote me this really long e-mail all about her. I think he was drunk when he wrote it." "I'm sure he was." Bobby shook his head. "When you talk to him, Colleen, it's probably better not to mention her." "Oh, my God, is she dead?" "No. Do you mind if we talk about something else?" He was the one who'd brought up Wes in the first place. "Not at all." Silence. Colleen waited for him to start a new topic of conversation—anything that wasn't about Wes—but he just sat there, distracted by the sight of the river out the window. "Do you want to go see a movie later?" she finally asked. "Or we could rent a video. I've got an appointment at six-thirty with a guy who wants to buy my car. If everything goes right, I'll be done by seven-thirty, easy."

That got his attention, just the way she knew it would. "You're selling your car? This car?" When she was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, this Mustang was all she could talk about. But people's priorities changed. It wasn't going to be easy to sell it, but she refused to let it be the end of her world—a world that was so much wider now, extending all the way to Tulgeria and beyond. She made herself smile at him. "I am. Law school's expensive."

"Colleen, if you need a loan—" "I've got a loan. Believe me I've got many loans. I've got loans to pay off loans. I've got—" "It took you five years to rebuild this car. To find authentic parts and—" "And now someone's going to pay top dollar for a very shiny, very well-maintained vintage Mustang that handles remarkably badly in the snow. I live in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I don't need a car—especially not one that skids if you so much as whisper the word ice. My apartment's two minutes from the T, and frankly, I have better things to spend my money on than parking tickets and gasoline." "Okay," he said. "Okay. I have an idea. I've got some money saved. I'll lend you what you need—interest free— and we can take the next week and drive this car back to your parents' house in Oklahoma, garage it there. Then in a few years when you graduate—" "Nice try," Colleen told him. "But my travel itinerary has me going to Tulgeria next Thursday. Oklahoma's not exactly in the flight path." "Think about it this way—if you don't go to Tulgeria, you get to keep your car and have an interest-free loan." She took advantage of another red light to turn and look at him. "Are you attempting to bribe me?" He didn't hesitate. "Absolutely." She had to laugh. "You really want me to stay home? It's gonna cost you. A million dollars, babe. I'll accept nothing less." He rolled his eyes. "Colleen—" "Put up or shut up." "Seriously, Colleen, I've been to Tulgeria and—" "I'm dead serious, Robert. And if you want to lecture me about the dangers of Tulgeria, you've got to buy me dinner. But first you've got to come with me while I sell my car—make sure the buyer's really a buyer and not some psycho killer who answers vintage car ads in the Boston Globe." He didn't hesitate. "Of course I'll come with you." Jackpot. "Great," Colleen said. "We'll go take care of business, then drop your stuff at your hotel before we grab some dinner. Is that a plan?" He looked at her. "I never really stood a chance here, did I?" She smiled at him happily. "Nope." Bobby nodded, then turned to look out the window. He murmured something that Colleen wasn't quite sure she caught, but it sounded an awful lot like, "I'm a dead man."

3 Dark, cool and mysterious. Somehow, despite his best intentions, Bobby had ended up sitting across from Colleen in a restaurant that was decidedly dark, cool and mysterious. The food was great. Colleen had been right about that, too. Although she didn't seem to be eating too much. The meeting with the buyer had gone well. The man had accepted her price for the car—no haggling. It turned out that that meeting had been held in the well-lit office of a reputable escrow agent, complete with security guard. Colleen had known damn well there was absolutely no danger from psycho killers or anyone else. Still, Bobby had been glad that he was there while the buyer handed over a certified check and she handed over the title and keys to the Mustang. She'd smiled and even laughed, but it was brittle, and he'd wanted to touch her. But he hadn't. He knew that he couldn't. Even just a hand on her shoulder would have been too intimate. And if she'd leaned back into him, he would have put his arms around her. And if he'd done that there in the office, he would have done it again, later, when they were alone, and there was no telling where that might lead. No, strike that. Bobby knew damn well it would lead to him kissing her. And that could and would lead to a full meltdown, a complete and utter dissolving of his defenses and resolve. It made him feel like a total skeeve. What kind of friend could he be to Colleen if he couldn't even offer her the most basic form of comfort as a hand on her shoulder? Was he really so weak that he couldn't control himself around her? Yes. The answer was a resounding, unchallenged yes. No doubt about it—he was scum. After leaving the escrow office, they'd taken the T into Harvard Square. Colleen had kept up a fairly steady stream of conversation. About law school. About her roommate— a woman named Ashley who'd gone back to Scarsdale for the summer to work in her father's law office, but who still sent monthly checks for her share of the rent, who didn't have the nerve to tell her father that, like Colleen, she'd far rather be a public defender and a pro bono civil litigant than a highly paid corporate tax attorney. Bobby had checked into his hotel and given his bag and a tip to the bellhop. He didn't dare take it up to his room himself—not with Colleen trailing behind, no way. That transaction only took a few minutes, and then they were back out in the warm summer night. The restaurant was only a short walk into Harvard Square. As he sat down across from Colleen, as he gazed at her pretty face in the dim candlelight, he'd ordered a cola. He was dying for a beer, but there was no way he'd trust himself to have even one. If he was going to survive this, he needed all of his wits about him. They talked about the menu, about food—a nice safe topic—for a while. And then their order came, and Bobby ate while Colleen pushed the food around on her plate. She was quiet by then, too. It was unusual to be around a Skelly who wasn't constantly talking. "Are you okay?" he asked. She looked up at him, and he realized that there were tears in her eyes. She shook her head. But then she forced a smile. "I'm just being stupid," she said before the smile wavered and disappeared. "I'm sorry." She pushed herself out of the booth and would have rushed past him, toward the rest rooms at the back of the restaurant, if he hadn't reached out and grabbed her hand. He slid out of the bench seat, too, still holding on to her. It took him only a second to pull more than enough dollars to cover the bill out of his pocket and toss it onto the table. This place had a rear exit. He'd automatically noted it when they'd first came in—years of practice in preparing an escape route—and he led her to it now, pushing open the door. They had to go up a few steps, but then they were outside, on a side street. It was just a stone's throw to Brattle Street, but they were still far enough from the circus-like atmosphere of Harvard Square on a summer night to have a sense of distance and seclusion from the crowds. "I'm sorry," Colleen said again, trying to wipe away her tears before they even fell. "I'm stupid—it's just a stupid car." Bobby had something very close to an out-of-body experience. He saw himself standing there, in the shadows, next to her. Helplessly, with a sense of total doom, he watched himself reach for her, pull her close and enfold her in his arms. Oh, dear Lord, she was so soft. And she held him tightly, her arms around his waist, her face buried in his shoulder as she quietly tried not to cry.

Don't do this. Get away from her. You're asking for trouble. He must've made some kind of awful strangled sound because Colleen lifted her head and looked up at him. "Oh, no, am I hurting you?" "No," he said. No, she was killing him. And count on Colleen to worry about someone else during a moment when most people wouldn't have been thinking of anyone but themselves. Tears glistened on her cheeks and sparkled in her eyelashes, and the tip of her nose was red. Bozo the Clown, he and Wes had teased her whenever she'd cried back when she was thirteen. She wasn't thirteen anymore.

Don't kiss her. Don't do it. Bobby clenched his teeth and thought about Wes. He pictured the look on his best friend's face as he tried to explain. See, she was right there,

man, in my arms, and her mouth looked so soft and beautiful, and her body was so warm and lush and... She put her head back against his shoulder with a sigh, and Bobby realized he was running his fingers through the silk of her hair. She had hair like a baby's, soft and fine. He knew he should make himself stop, but he couldn't. He'd wanted to touch her hair for more than four years now. Besides, she really seemed to like it. "You must think I'm a loser," she murmured. "No." She laughed softly. "Yeah, well, I am. Crying over a car. How dumb can I be?" She sighed. "It's just... When I was seventeen, I'd imagined I'd have that car forever you know, hand it down to my grandchildren? I say it now, and it sounds stupid, but it didn't feel stupid back then." The deal she'd just made gave her twenty-four hours to change her mind. "It's not too late," he reminded her. He reminded himself, too. He could gently release her, take one step back, then two. He could—without touching her again—lead her back to the lights and crowd in Harvard Square. And then he'd never even have to mention anything to Wes. Because nothing would have happened. But he didn't move. He told himself he would be okay, that he could handle this—as long as he didn't look into her eyes. "No, I'm selling it," she told him, pulling back slightly to look up at him, wiping her nose on a tissue she'd taken from her shoulder pack. "I've made up my mind. I need this money. I loved that car, but I love going to law school, too. I love the work I do, I love being able to make a difference." She was looking at him so earnestly he forgot about not looking into her eyes until it was too late. Until the earnest look morphed into something else, something loaded with longing and spiked with desire. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and her lips parted slightly, and when she looked once again into his eyes, he knew. She wanted to kiss him nearly as much as he wanted to kiss her. Don't do this. Don't... He could feel his heart pounding, hear the roar of his blood surging through his body, drowning out the sounds of the city night, blocking out all reason and harsh reality. He couldn't not kiss her. How could he keep from kissing her when he needed to kiss her as much as he needed to fill his lungs with air? But she didn't give him a chance to lean down toward her. She stood on her tiptoes and brushed her mouth across his in a kiss that was so achingly sweet that he thought for one paralyzingly weak-kneed moment he just might faint. But she stepped back just a little to look at him again, to smile hesitantly into his eyes before reaching up, her hand cool against the too-hot back of his neck as she pulled his head down to kiss him again. Her lips were so soft, so cool, so sweetly uncertain, such a contrast to the way his heart was hammering and to the tight, hot sensation in his rib cage—as if his entire chest were about to burst. He was afraid to move. He was afraid to kiss her back, for fear he'd scare her to death with his hunger for her. He didn't even know how to kiss like this—with such delicate tenderness. But he liked it. Lord, he liked it an awful lot. He'd had his share of women who'd given him deep, wet, soul kisses, sucking his tongue into their mouths in a decidedly unsub-tle imitation of what they wanted to do with him later, in private. But those kisses hadn't been even a fraction as sexy as what Colleen was doing to him right now. She kissed his mouth, his chin and then his mouth again, her own lips slightly parted. She barely touched him. In fact, she touched him more with

her breath—soft, unsteady puffs of air that caressed him enticingly. He tried to kiss her the same way, tried to touch her without really touching her, skimming his hands down her back, his palms tingling from the almost-contact. It made him dizzy with anticipation. Incredible anticipation. She touched his lips with her tongue—just the very tiniest tip of her tongue—and pleasure crashed through him. It was so intense that for one blindingly unsteady moment he was afraid he might actually have embarrassed himself beyond recovery. From just a kiss. But he hadn't. Not yet, anyway. Still, he couldn't take it anymore, not another second longer, and he crushed her to him, filling his hands with the softness of her body, sweeping his tongue into her mouth. She didn't seem to mind. In fact, her pack fell to the ground, and she kissed him back enthusiastically, welcoming the ferocity of his kisses, winding her arms around his neck, pressing herself even more tightly against him. It was the heaven he'd dreamed of all these years. Bobby kissed her, again and again—deep, explosively hungry kisses that she fired right back at him. She opened herself to him, wrapping one of her legs around his, moaning her pleasure as he filled his hand with her breast. He caught himself glancing up, scanning a nearby narrow alleyway between two buildings, estimating whether it was dark enough for them to slip inside, dark enough for him to unzip his shorts and pull up her skirt, dark enough for him to take her, right there, beneath someone's kitchen window, with her legs around his waist and her back against the roughness of the brick wall. He'd pulled her halfway into the alley before reality came screaming through. Wes's sister. This was Wes's sister. He had his tongue in Wes's sister's mouth. One hand was filled with the softness of Wes's sister's derriere as he pressed her hips hard against his arousal. His other hand was up Wes's sister's shirt. Had he completely lost his mind? Yes. Bobby pulled back, breathing hard. That was almost worse, because now he had to look at her. She was breathing hard, too, her breasts rising and falling rapidly, her nipples taut and clearly outlined beneath her shirt, her face flushed, her lips swollen and moist from his kisses. But it was her eyes that almost killed him. They were smoky with desire, brimming with fire and unresolved passion. "Let's go to my apartment," she whispered, her voice even huskier than usual. Oh, God. "I can't." His voice cracked, making him sound even more pathetic. "Oh," she said. "Oh, I'm—" she shook her head "—I'm sorry, I thought... You said you weren't seeing anyone." "No." He shook his head, tried to catch his breath. "It's not that." "Then why stop?" He couldn't respond. What could he possibly say? But shaking his head again wasn't a good enough response for Colleen. "You really don't want to come back to my place and—" "I can't. I just can't." He cut her off, unable to bear finding out just which words she would use to describe what they'd do if he did go home with her tonight. Whether she called it making love or something more crudely to the point, however she couched it, it would be a total turn-on. And he was already way too turned on. She took a step toward him, and he took a step back. "You're serious," she said. "You really don't want to?" He couldn't let her think that. "I want to," he told her. "God, I want to. More than you could possibly know. I just... I can't." "What, have you taken some kind of vow of abstinence?"

Somehow he managed to smile at her. "Sort of." Just like that she understood. He saw the realization dawn in her eyes and flare rapidly into anger. "Wesley," she said. "This is about my brother, isn't it?" Bobby knew enough not to lie to her. "He's my best friend." She was furious. "What did he do? Warn you to stay away from me? Did he tell you not to touch me? Did he tell you not to—" "No. He warned me not even to think about it." Wes had said it jokingly, one night on liberty when they'd each had five or six too many beers. Wes hadn't really believed it was a warning he'd needed to give his best friend. Colleen bristled. "Well, you know what? Wes can't tell me what to think, and I've been thinking about it. For a long time." Bobby gazed at her. Suddenly it was hard to breathe again. A long time. "Really?" She nodded, her anger subdued, as if she were suddenly shy. She looked everywhere but in his eyes. "Yeah. Wasn't that kind of obvious from the way I jumped you?" "I thought I jumped you." Colleen looked at him then, hope in her eyes. "Please come home with me. I really want you to—I want to make love to you, Bobby. You're only here for a week—let's not waste a minute." Oh, God, she'd said it. Bobby couldn't bear to look at her, so he closed his eyes. "Colleen, I promised Wes I'd look out for you. That I'd take care of you." "Perfect." She bent down to pick up her bag. "Take care of me. Please." Oh, man. He laughed because, despite his agony, he found her funny as hell. "I'm positive he didn't mean it like that." "You know, he doesn't need to find out." Bobby braced himself and met her gaze. "I can't be that kind of friend to him." She sighed. "Terrific. Now I feel like a total worm." She started toward Brattle Street. "I think, considering all things, we should skip the movie. I'm going home. If you change your mind..." "I won't." "...you know where to find me." Bobby followed her about a dozen more steps, and she turned around. “Are you coming with me after all?" "It's getting late. I'll see you home." "No," Colleen said. "Thank you, but no." Bobby knew not to press it. That look in her eyes was one he'd seen far too many times on a completely different Skelly. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Me, too," she told him before she walked away. The sidewalk wasn't as crowded as it had been just a few hours ago, so Bobby let her get a good head start before he started after her. He followed her all the way home, making certain she was safe without letting her see him again. And then he stood there, outside her apartment building, watching the lights go on in her apartment, angry and frustrated and dying to be up there with her, and wondering what on earth he was going to do now.

4 Colleen had printed out the e-mail late last night, and she now held it tightly in her hand as she approached Bobby. He was exactly where he'd said he would be when he'd called—sitting on the grassy slope along the Charles River, looking out at the water, sipping coffee through a hot cup with a plastic lid. He saw her coming and got to his feet. "Thanks for meeting me," he called. He was so serious—no easygoing smile on his face. Or maybe he was nervous. It was hard to be sure. Unlike Wes, who twitched and bounced off the walls at twice his normal frenetic speed when he was nervous, Bobby showed no outward sign. He didn't fiddle with his coffee cup. He just held it serenely. He'd gotten them both large cups, but in his hand, large looked small. Colleen was going to have to hold hers with both hands. He didn't tap his foot. He didn't nervously clench his teeth. He didn't chew his lip. He just stood there and breathed as he solemnly watched her approach. He'd called at : this morning. She'd just barely fallen asleep after a night spent mostly tossing and turning—and analyzing everything she'd done and said last night, trying to figure out what she'd done wrong. She'd come to the conclusion that she'd done everything wrong. Starting with crying over a motor vehicle and ending with darn near throwing herself at the man. This morning Bobby had apologized for calling so early and had told her he hadn't been sure what time she was leaving for work today. He'd remembered that she was driving the truck, remembered their tentative plan to meet for breakfast. Last night she'd wanted him to stay for breakfast. But he hadn't—because of some stupid idea that by having a relationship with her, he'd be betraying Wes. Wes, whose life he'd most likely saved, probably countless times. Including, so it seemed, one definite time just a few short weeks ago. "I can't believe you didn't tell me you'd been shot." Colleen didn't bother saying good morning. She just thrust the copy of Wes's e-mail at him. He took it and read it quickly. It wasn't very long. Just a short, fast, grammatically creative hello from Wes, who didn't report where he was, who really just wanted to make sure Bobby had arrived in Boston. He mentioned almost in passing that Bobby had recently been shot while out in the real world—the SEALs' nickname for a real mission or operation. They had been somewhere they weren't supposed to be, Wes reported vaguely, and due to circumstances out of their control, they'd been discovered. Men with assault weapons started shooting, and Bobby had stepped in front of Wes, taking some bullets and saving his scrawny hide. "Be nice to him," Wes had written to Colleen. "He nearly died. He almost got his butt shot off, and his shoulder's still giving him pain. Treat him kindly. I'll call as soon as I'm back in the States." "If he can say all that in an e-mail," Colleen told Bobby sternly, "you could have told me at least a little about what happened. You could have told me you were shot instead of letting me think you'd hurt yourself in some normal way—like pulling a muscle playing basketball." He handed her the piece of paper. "I didn't think it was useful information," he admitted. "I mean, what good is telling you that a bunch of bad guys with guns tried to kill your brother a few weeks ago? Does knowing that really help you in any way?" "Yes, because not knowing hurts. You don't need to protect me from the truth," Colleen told him fiercely. "I'm not a little girl anymore." She rolled her eyes. "I thought we cleared that up last night." Last night. When some extremely passionate kisses had nearly led to getting it on right out in the open, in an alley not far from Harvard Square. "I got coffee and muffins," Bobby said, deftly changing the subject. "Do you have time to sit and talk?" Colleen watched as he lowered himself back onto the grass. Gingerly. Why hadn't she noticed that last night? She was so self-absorbed. "Yes. Great. Let's talk. You can start by telling me how many times you were shot and exactly where." He glanced at her as she sat down beside him, amusement in his dark eyes. "Trust Wes to be melodramatic. I took a round in the upper leg that bled kind of heavily. It's fine now—no problem." He pulled up the baggy leg of his shorts to reveal a deeply tanned, enormously muscular thigh. There was a fresh pink scar up high on his leg. Where it would really hurt a whole lot to be shot. Where there were major veins—or were they arteries?—which, if opened, could easily cause a man to bleed to death very quickly. Wes hadn't been melodramatic at all. Colleen couldn't breathe. She couldn't stop staring at that scar. Bobby could have died. "It's my shoulder that's giving me the trouble," Bobby continued, pulling his shorts leg back down. "I was lucky I didn't break a bone, but it's still pretty sore. I've got limited mobility right now—which is frustrating. I can't lift my arm much higher than this."

He demonstrated, and Colleen realized that his ponytail wasn't a fashion statement after all. He was wearing his hair like that because he wasn't physically able to put it back in his usual neat braid. "I'm supposed to take it easy," he told her. "You know, not push it for another week." He handed her a cup of coffee and held open a bag that contained about a half a dozen enormous muffins. She shook her head. Her appetite was gone. "Can you do me a favor?" she asked. "Next time you or Wes get hurt, even if it's just something really little, will you call me and let me know? Please? Otherwise I'm just going to worry about you all the time." Bobby shook his head. "Colleen..." "Don't Colleen me," she countered. "Just promise." He looked at her. Sighed. "I promise. But—" "No buts." He started to say something, then stopped, shaking his head instead. No doubt he'd spent enough time around Skellys to know arguing was useless. Instead he took a sip of his coffee and gazed out at the river. "How many times have you saved Wes's life?" she asked him, suddenly needing to know. "I don't know. I think I lost count somewhere between two and three million." The laughter lines around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Very funny." "It's just not that big a deal," he said. "It is to me," she returned. "And I'm betting it's a pretty big deal to my brother, too." "It's really only a big deal to him because I'm winning," Bobby admitted. At first his words didn't make sense. And then they made too much sense. "You guys keep score?" she asked in disbelief. "You have some kind of contest going...?" Amusement danced in his eyes. "Twelve to five and a half. My favor." "Five and a half?" she echoed. "He got a half point for getting me back to the boat in one piece this last time," he explained. "He couldn't get a full point because it was partially his fault I needed his help in the first place." He was laughing at her. Oh, he wasn't actually laughing aloud, but Colleen knew that, inside, he was silently chortling away. "You know," she said with a completely straight face, "it seems only fair that if you save someone's life that many times, you ought to be able to have wild sex with that person's sister, guilt free." Bobby choked on his coffee. Served him right. "So what are you doing tonight?" Colleen asked, still in that same innocent voice. He coughed even harder, trying to get the liquid out of his lungs. "'Be nice to him,"' she read aloud from Wes's e-mail. She held it out for him to see. "See, it says it right there." "That's not what Wes meant," Bobby managed to gasp. "How do you know?" "I know." "Are you okay?" she asked. His eyes were tearing, and he still seemed to have trouble breathing. "You're killing me." "Good. I've got to go, so—" She started to stand up. "Wait." He coughed again, tugging her back down beside him. "Please." He drew in a breath, and although he managed not to cough, he had to clear his throat several times. "I really need to talk to you about what happened last night." "Don't you mean what didn't happen?" She pretended to be fascinated with her coffee cup, with folding up the little flap on the plastic lid so that she could take a sip without it bumping into her nose.

What had happened last night was that she had found out—the hard way—that Bobby Taylor didn't want her. At least not enough to take what she'd offered. At least not as much as she wanted him. It was possible he'd only used his fear of Wes's disapproval as an excuse to keep from going home with her. After all, it had worked, hadn't it? It had worked very well. This morning she could only pretend not to care. She could be flip and say outrageous things, but the truth was, she was both embarrassed and afraid of what he might want to say to her. Of course, if ever there were a perfect time for him to confess his undying love, it would be now. She supposed it was possible that he would haltingly tell her he'd fallen in love with her years ago, that he'd worshiped her from afar for all this time and now that they'd finally kissed, he couldn't bear to be apart from her any longer. Bobby cleared his throat again. "Colleen, I, um...I don't want to lose you as a friend." Or he could say that. He could give her the "let's stay friends" speech. She'd heard it before. It would contain the word friend at least seven more times. He would say mis-

take and sorry both at least twice and honest at least once. And he'd tell her that he hoped what happened last night wouldn't change things between them. Her friendship was very important to him. "I really care about you," he told her. "But I have to be honest. What happened last night was, well, it was a mistake." Yup. She'd definitely heard it before. She could have written it out for him on a three-by-five-card. Saved him some time. "I know that I said last night that I couldn't...that we couldn't...because of Wes and, well, I need you to know that there's more to it than that." Yeah, she'd suspected that. "I can't possibly be what you really want," he said quietly. Now that was different. She'd never heard that before. "I'm not..." He started to continue, but then he shook his head and got back on track. "You mean too much to me. I can't take advantage of you, I can't. I'm ten years older than you, and—Colleen, I knew you when you were thirteen—that's just too weird. It would be crazy, it wouldn't go anywhere. It couldn't. I couldn't. We're too different and..." He swore softly, vehemently. "I really am sorry." He looked about as miserable as she was feeling. Except he probably wasn't embarrassed to death. What had she been thinking, to throw herself at him like that last night? She closed her eyes, feeling very young and very foolish—as well as ancient beyond her years. How could this be happening again? What was it about her that made men only want to be her friend? She supposed she should be thankful. This time she got the "let's stay friends" speech before she'd gone to bed with the guy. That had been the lowest of a number of low relationship moments. Or it should have been. Despite the fact that Bobby obviously cared enough not to let it get that far, he didn't care about her the way she wanted him to. And that hurt remarkably badly. She stood up, brushing off the seat of her shorts. “I know you're probably not done. You still have one more mistake and another sorry to go, but I'll say 'em for you, okay? I'm sorry, too. The mistake was mine. Thanks for the coffee." Colleen held her head up as she quickly walked away. And she didn't look back. She'd learned the hard way never to look back after the "let's stay friends" speech. And never to cry, either. After all, smart friends didn't cry when stupid, idiotic, completely clueless friends rejected them. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced them back. God, she was such a fool. Bobby lay back on the grass and stared up at the sky. In theory, telling Colleen that they should stay friends instead of rip each other's clothes off had seemed to be the least painful way of neatly dealing with something that was on the verge of turning into an emotional and physical bloodbath. Physical—because if Wes found out that Bobby had messed with his little sister, he would have been mad enough to reach down Bobby's throat and rip his lungs out. Bobby had been direct with Colleen. He'd been swift and, if not quite honest, he'd certainly been sincere. Yet somehow he'd managed to hurt her. He'd seen it in her eyes as she'd turned and walked away. Damn. Hurting her was the dead last thing he'd wanted to do. That entire conversation had been impossibly difficult. He'd been on the verge of telling her the truth—that he hadn't slept at all last night, that he'd spent the night al ternately congratulating himself for doing the right thing and cursing himself for being an idiot.

Last night she made it clear that she wanted him. And Lord knows that the last thing he honestly wanted was to stay mere friends with her. In truth, he wanted to get naked with her—and stay naked for the entire rest of this week. But he knew he wasn't the kind of man Colleen Skelly needed. She needed someone who would be there for her. Someone who came home every night without fail. Someone who could take care of her the way she deserved to be taken care of. Someone who wanted more than a week of hot sex. He didn't want another long-distance relationship. He couldn't take it. He'd just gotten out of one of those, and it wasn't much fun. And would be even less fun with Colleen Skelly—because after Wes found out that Bobby was playing around with his sister, Wes would come after him with his diving knife. Well, maybe not, but certainly he and Wes would argue. And Colleen and Wes would argue. And that was an awful lot of pain, considering Bobby would spend most of his time three thousand miles away from her, him missing her with every breath he took, her missing him, too. No, hurting Colleen was bad, but telling her the truth would hurt them both even more in the long run.

5 Colleen had just finished picking up a load of blankets collected by a women's church group and was on her way to a half dozen senior centers to pick up their donations when a taxi pulled up. It stopped directly in front of her, blocking her exit from the parking lot with a TV-cop-drama squealing of brakes. Her first thought was that someone was late to their own wedding. But other than the representative from the ladies' auxiliary who had handed over the bundles of blankets, the building had been silent and empty. Her second thought was that someone was in a major hurry to repent their sins, probably before they sinned again. She had to laugh at that image, but her laughter faded as the absolute last person she'd expected to see here at the St. Augustus Church climbed out of the cab. Bobby Taylor. His hair had partially fallen out of his ponytail, and his face was covered with a sheen of perspiration, as if he'd been running. He ignored both his sweat and his hair as he came around to the passenger side of the truck's cab. She leaned across the bench seat, unlocked the door, and he opened it. "Thank God," he said as if he really meant it. "I've been following you for an hour now." More than just his face was sweaty. His shirt was as soaked as if he'd been running a marathon in this heat. Wes. Her brother was the only reason she could come up with for Bobby to search her out so desperately. Wes had to have been injured. Or— please, God, no—dead. Colleen flashed hot and then cold. "Oh, no," she said. "What happened? How bad is it?" Bobby stared at her. "Then you haven't heard? I was ready to yell at you because I thought you knew. I thought you went out to make these pickups, anyway." "Just tell me he's not dead," she begged him. She'd lived through one dead brother—it was an experience she never wanted to repeat. "I can take anything as long as he's not dead." His expression became one of even more perplexity as he climbed into the air-conditioned cab and closed the door. "He?" he asked. "It was a woman who was attacked. She's in ICU, in a coma, at Mass General." A woman? At Mass General Hospital...? Now it was Colleen's turn to stare at him stupidly. "You didn't track me down because Wes is hurt?" "Wes?" Bobby shook his head as he leaned forward to turn the air conditioner fan to high. "No, I'm sure he's fine. The mission was probably only a training op. He wouldn't have been able to send e-mail if it were the real thing." "Then what's going on?" Colleen's relief was mixed with irritation. He had a lot of nerve, coming after her like this and scaring her to death. "Andrea Barker," he explained. "One of the chief administrators of the AIDS Education Center. She was found badly beaten—barely breathing— outside of her home in Newton. I saw it in the paper." Colleen nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I heard about that this morning. That's really awful. I don't know her that well—we talked on the phone only once. I've mostly met with her assistant when dealing with the center." "So you did know she's in the hospital." Something very much like anger flashed in his eyes, and his usually pleasantly relaxed mouth was back to a hard, grim line. Bobby Taylor was mad at her. It was something Colleen had never experienced before. She hadn't thought he was capable of getting mad—he was so laid-back. Even more mind-blowing was the fact that she truly had no clue what she'd done to get him so upset. "The article went into some depth about the problem they've—you've— You're part of them, providing legal services at no cost, right? The problem you've been having establishing a center in this one particular neighborhood in Boston. The same neighborhood where you just happened to be threatened yesterday while having a car wash...?" And Colleen understood. She laughed in disbelief. "You really think the attack on Andrea Barker had something to do with her work for the education center?" Bobby didn't shout at her the way Wesley did when he got mad. He spoke quietly, evenly, his voice dangerously soft. Combined with the spark of anger in his eyes, it was far more effective than any temper tantrum Wes had ever thrown. "And you don't?" "No. Come on, Bobby. Don't be so paranoid. Look, I heard that the police theory is she startled a burglar coming out of her house." "I heard a partial list of her injuries," Bobby countered, still in that same quietly intense voice. She had to wonder, what would ever set him off, make him raise his voice? What—if anything—would make this man lose his cool and detonate? If it ever happened, boy, look out. It would probably be quite an impressive show. "They weren't the kind of injuries a woman would get from a burglar," he continued, "whose primary goal would have been to knock her down so he

could run away as quickly as possible. No, I'm sorry, Colleen. I know you want to believe otherwise, but this woman was beaten deliberately, and if I know it, then the police know it, too. The burglar story is probably just something they threw out to the press, to make the real perpetrator think he's home-free." "You don't know that for sure." "Yes," he said. "You're right. I don't know it absolutely. But I'm percent sure. Sure enough to be afraid that, as the legal representative to the AIDS Education Center, you could be the next target. Sure enough to know that the last thing you should be doing today is driving a truck around all by yourself." He clenched his teeth, the muscles jumping in his jaw as he glared at her. That spark of anger made his eyes cold, as if she were talking to a stranger. Well, maybe she was. "Oh. Right." Colleen let her voice get louder with her growing anger. What did he care what happened to her? She was just an idiot who'd embarrassed both of them last night. She was just his friend. No, not even. The real truth was that she was just some pain-in-the-butt sister of a friend. "I'm supposed to lock myself in my apartment because there might be people who don't like what I do? Sorry, that's not going to happen." "I spoke to some people," Bobby told her. "They seem to think this John Morrison who threatened you yesterday could be a real danger." "Some people?" she asked. "Which people? If you talked to Mindy in the center's main office—well, she's afraid of her own shadow. And Charlie Johannsen is no—" "I dare you," Bobby said, "to look me in the eye and tell me that you're not just a little bit afraid of this man." She looked at him. Looked away. "Okay. So maybe I am a little—" "And yet you came out here, anyway. By yourself." She laughed in his face. "Yeah, and like you never do anything that you're a little afraid of. Like jumping out of airplanes. Or swimming in sharkinfested waters. That's a particularly tough one for you, isn't it, Bobby? Wes told me you have a thing about sharks. Yet you do it. You jump into the water without hesitation. You face down your fear and get on with your life. Don't be a hypocrite, Taylor, and expect me to do anything less." He was trying hard to be patient. "I'm trained to do those things." "Yeah, well, I'm a woman," she countered. "I've been trained, too. I've had more than ten years of experience dealing with everything from subtle, male innuendo to overt threats. By virtue of being female, I'm a little bit afraid almost every single time I walk down a city street—and I'm twice as afraid at night." He shook his head. "There's a big difference between that and a specific threat from a man like John Morrison." "Is there?" Colleen asked. "Is there really? Because I don't see it that way. You know, there have been times when I walk past a group of men sitting out on the front steps of their apartment building, and one of them says, 'Hey, baby. Want to...'" She said it. It was impossibly crude, and Bobby actually flinched. " 'Get over here now,' they say. 'Don't make me chase you to get what I know you want to give me.'" She paused for emphasis. Bobby looked appropriately subdued. "After someone," she said more quietly now, "some stranger says something like that to you—and if you want a real dare, then I dare you to find a woman my age who hasn't had a similar experience—you get a little— just a little— nervous just going out of your apartment. And when you approach a man heading toward you on the sidewalk, you feel a little flicker of apprehension or maybe even fear. Is he going to say something rude? Is he going take it a step further and follow you? Or is he just going to look at you and maybe whistle, and let you see from his eyes that he's thinking about you in ways that you don't want him to be thinking about you? "And each time that happens," Colleen told him, "it's no less specific—or potentially unreal—than John Morrison's threats." Bobby was silent, just sitting there, looking out the window. "I'm so sorry," he finally said. "What kind of world do we live in?" He laughed, but it wasn't laughter that had anything to do with humor. It was a burst of frustrated air. "The really embarrassing part is that I've been that guy. Not the one who actually says those things, I'd never do that. But I'm the one who looks and even whistles. I never really thought something like that might frighten a woman. I mean, that was never my intention." "Think next time," she told him. "Someone really said that to you?" He gave her a sidelong glance. "In those words?" She nodded, meeting his gaze. "Pretty rude, huh?" "I wish I'd been there," he told her. "I would've put him in the hospital." He said it so matter-of-factly, but she knew it wasn't just an idle threat. "If you had been there," she pointed out, "he wouldn't have said it." "Maybe Wes is right." Bobby smiled at her ruefully. "Maybe you should have a twenty-four-hour armed escort, watching your every move."

“Oh, no," Colleen groaned. "Don't you start with that, too. Look, I've got a can of pepper spray in my purse and a whistle on my key ring. I know you

don't think so, but I'm about as safe as I can be. I've been keeping the truck doors locked, I've called ahead to set up appointment times, I've—" "You forgot me," Bobby interrupted. "You should have called me, Colleen. I would have gladly come along with you right from the start." Oh, perfect. She knew without even asking that he was not going to leave, that he was here in the cab of this truck until she made the last of her pickups, dropped off both the donations and the truck, and took the T back to Cambridge. "Has it occurred to you that I might not be overly eager to spend the day with you?" she asked him. She could see his surprise. He'd never dreamed she would be so blunt and to the point. Still, he recovered nicely. And he surprised her back by being equally straightforward. "It's already too late for our friendship, isn't it?" he said. "I really blew it last night." No way was she going to let him take the blame. "I was the one who kissed you first." "Yeah, but I was the one who didn't stop you right then and there," Bobby countered. She jammed the truck into gear, silently cursing herself for being stupid enough to have even just a little hope left to be crushed. Yet there it was, flapping about like a deflated balloon on the gritty floor of the truck, right next to her shredded pride and pulverized heart. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should have been able to control myself, but I couldn't. I'm..." Colleen looked at him. She didn't mean to. She didn't want to. God forbid he see the total misery that his words brought her reflected in her eyes. But there was something in his voice that made her unable to keep from turning her head. He was looking at her. He was just sitting there, looking at her, and it was the exact same way he'd looked at her last night, right before he'd pulled her close and kissed the hell out of her. There was hunger in his eyes. Heat and need and desire. He looked away quickly, as if he didn't want her to see those things. Colleen looked away, too, her mind and heart both racing. He was lying. He'd lied this morning, too. He didn't want them to stay just friends any more than she did. He hadn't given her the "let's stay friends" speech because he had an aversion to women like her, women who actually had hips and thighs and weighed more than ninety pounds, wet. He hadn't made that speech because he found her unattractive, because she didn't turn him on. On the contrary... With a sudden clarity that should have been accompanied by angelic voices and a brilliant light, Colleen knew. She knew. Bobby had said there was more to it, but there wasn't. This was about Wes. It was Wesley who had gotten in the way of her and Bobby Taylor, as surely as if he were sitting right there between them, stinking of stale cigarette smoke, in the cab of this truck. But she wasn't going to call Bobby on that—no way. She was going to play—and win—this game, secure that she knew the cards he was holding in his hand. Bobby wasn't going to know what hit him. She glanced at him again as she pulled out of the parking lot. "So you really think Andrea's attack had something to do with her being an AIDS activist?" she asked. He glanced at her, too, and this time he managed to keep his eyes mostly expressionless. But it was back there—a little flame of desire. Now that she knew what to look for, she couldn't help but see it. "I think until she comes out of that coma and tells the police what happened, we should err on the side of caution." Colleen made herself shiver. "It's just so creepy—the thought of her being attacked right outside of her own home." "You don't have to worry about that. I'll go home with you after we're done here." Jackpot. She had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. She somehow managed to twist her mouth around into a face of displeasure. "Oh," she said. "I don't know if that's necessary—" "I'll check your place out, see what we can do to heighten the security," he told her. "Worst-case scenario, I'll camp out in the living room tonight. I know you probably don't want me to, but..." No, indeed, she did not want him camped out in her living room tonight. She wanted him in her bedroom. "Wait," Colleen said, when Bobby would've opened the truck door and climbed down, after she parked outside the next senior center on her list.

She was fishing around in her backpack, and she came up brandishing a hairbrush. "The wild-Indian hairstyle needs a little work." He had to laugh. "That's so completely un-PC." "What, telling you that your hair is a mess?" "Very funny," he said. "That's me," she said. "Six laughs a minute, guaranteed. Turn around, I'll braid it for you." How had that happened? Ten minutes ago they'd been fighting. Bobby had been convinced that their friendship was badly strained if not completely over, yet now things were back to where they'd been when he'd first arrived yesterday. Colleen was no longer completely tense, no longer looking wounded. She was relaxed and cheerful. He would even dare to call her happy. Bobby didn't know how that had happened, but he wasn't about to complain. "You don't have to braid it," he said. "A ponytail's good enough. And all I really need help with is tying it back. I can brush it myself." He reached for the brush, but she pulled it back, away from him. “I’ll braid it," she said. "If you really want to." He let her win. What harm could it do? Ever since he'd gotten injured, he'd had to ask for help with his hair. This morning he'd gone into a beauty salon not far from his hotel, tempted to cut it all off. Back in California, he'd gotten help with his hair each day. Wes stopped by and braided it for him. Or Mia Francisco—the lieutenant commander's wife. Even the captain—Joe Cat—had helped him out once or twice. He shifted slightly in the seat so Colleen had access to the back of his head, reaching up with his good arm to take out the elastic. She ran both the brush and her fingers gently through his hair. And Bobby knew immediately that there was a major difference between Colleen braiding his hair and Wes braiding his hair. They were both Skellys, sure, but that was where all similarities ended. "You have such beautiful hair," Colleen murmured, and he felt himself start to sweat. This was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. What could he possibly have been thinking? He closed his eyes as she brushed his hair back, gathering it at his neck with her other hand. And then she was done brushing, and she just used her hands. Her fingers felt cool against his forehead as she made sure she got the last stray locks off his face. She was going to braid his hair, and he was going to sit here, acutely aware of each little, last, barely-touching-him movement of her fingers. He was going to sit here, wanting her, thinking of how soft she'd felt in his arms just last night, how ready and willing and eager she'd been. She wouldn't have stopped him from pushing up her skirt and burying himself inside of her and Sweat trickled down his back. What harm was there in letting her braid his hair? None—provided no one at the Parkvale Senior Center had enough of their eyesight left to notice the uncomfortably tight fit of his pants. Provided Colleen didn't notice it, either. If she did, she would realize that he'd lied to her. It wouldn't take her long to figure out the truth. And then he'd be a dead man. Bobby tried thinking about death, about rats, about plague, about pestilence. He tried thinking about sharks— all those teeth, those mean little eyes coming right at him. He thought about the day—and that day was coming, since he was no longer in his twenties—when he'd have to leave the SEAL teams, when he'd be too old to keep up with the newer recruits. None of it worked to distract him. Colleen's gentle touch cut through it all. It was far more real than any of his worst-imagined nightmares. Yet it was remarkably easy to picture her touching him like that all over—not just on his head and his hair and the back of his neck, but all over. Oh, man... "If I were a guy," Colleen murmured, "and I had hair like this, I'd wear it down. All the time. And I would have women falling at my feet. Lining up outside my bedroom door. All the time." Bobby choked. "What?" "Most women can't keep their hands off guys with long hair," she explained. "Particularly good-looking guys like you who are completely ripped. Hey, did you pack your uniform?" She thought he was good-looking and ripped. Bobby had to smile. He liked that she thought of him that way, even though he wasn't sure it was completely true. He was a little too big, too solid to get the kind of muscle definition that someone like Lucky O'Donlon had.

Now, there was a man who was truly ripped. Of course, Lucky wasn't here right now as a comparison, which was just as well. Even though he was married, women were still drawn to him like flies to honey. "Hello," Colleen said. "Did you fall asleep?" "No," Bobby said. "Sorry." She'd asked him something. "Um..." "Your uniform?" "Oh," he said. "No. No, I'm not supposed to wear a uniform while my hair's long—unless there's some kind of formal affair that I can't get out of attending." "No this one's not formal," she told him. "It's casual— a bon voyage party at the local VFW the night before we leave. But there will be VIPs there— senators and the mayor and... I just thought it would be cool for them to meet a real Navy SEAL." "Ah," he said. She was almost done braiding his hair, and he was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. "You want me to be a circus attraction." She laughed. "Absolutely. I want you to stand around and look mysterious and dangerous. You'd be the hit of the party." She reached over his shoulder, her arm warm against his slightly damp, air-conditioner-chilled T-shirt. "I need the elastic." He tried to hand it to her, and they both fumbled. It dropped into his lap. He grabbed it quickly—God forbid she reach for it there—and held it out on his open palm for her to take. Somehow she managed to touch nearly every inch of his palm as she took the elastic. "You know what you're asking, don't you?" he said. "I'll spend the evening fending off all kinds of personal questions. Is it true SEALs know how to rip out an opponent's throat with their bare hands? How many men have you killed? Have you ever killed anyone in hand-to-hand combat? Did you like it? Is it true SEALs are rough in bed?" He let out a burst of exasperated air. "As soon as people find out I'm a SEAL, they change, Colleen. They look at me differently. The men size me up, and the women..." He shook his head. She laughed as she sat back, finally done. “Yeah, right, Taylor. You tell me that you and my brother haven't taken advantage of the way women react when they find out you're a SEAL." "No," he said. "You're right. I have taken advantage— too many times. It's just...these days I don't get much enjoyment out of it. It's not real. You know, I didn't tell Kyra I was a SEAL until we were together for two months." "Did she treat you differently when she found out?" Colleen asked. Her eyes were more green than blue today, so luminous and beautiful. "Yeah, she did," he had to admit. "It was subtle, but it was there." And she'd slept with him that very same night. Coincidence? Maybe. But unlikely. "I'm sorry," she said. "Forget I asked. You don't even have to come to this thing. It's just...I have to go, and since you're doing this twenty-four-hour bodyguard thing, I thought—" "I'll call Harvard, have him send my uniform." "No," she said. "You can go incognito. With your hair down. Wearing leather pants. I'll tell everyone you're a supermodel from Paris. See what kind of questions you get asked then." Bobby laughed as Colleen climbed down from the cab of the truck. "Hey," he said, sliding across the seat and keeping her from closing the door by sticking out his foot. "I'm glad we're still friends." "You know, I've been thinking about this friend thing," she said, standing there, hands on her hips, looking up at him. "I think we should be the kind of friends who have wild sex three or four times a day." She shot him a smile and turned toward the seniors center. Bobby sat there, staring after her, watching the sunlight on her hair and the gentle swaying of her hips as she walked away. She was kidding. Wasn't she? God, maybe she wasn't. "Help," he said to no one in particular as he followed her inside.

6 Bobby caught Colleen by the arm and pulled her back, almost on top of him, almost down the stairs that led to her third-floor apartment. At first she thought she'd won. At first she thought that all the little glances and smiles, and all the thinly veiled— and some not so thinly veiled at all— comments she'd made all afternoon were finally paying off, that she'd succeeded in driving him crazy. She thought he was pulling her toward him to kiss her, the way he'd kissed her in Harvard Square last night. Yeah, right, Colleen. Dream on. Kissing her was the last thing on his mind. "Stay behind me," he ordered, pushing her so that her nose was practically pressed into the broad expanse of his back. She realized then that her apartment door was ajar. Someone was in her apartment. Andrea Barker had come home, too, to find someone breaking into her house. And had been beaten so badly she was still in a coma. Colleen grabbed Bobby—it was about as effective as grabbing an aircraft carrier. "Don't go in there!" "I won't," he said. "At least not before I get you out of here." He was holding on to her then, too, turning toward her and practically lifting her up, about to carry her down the stairs. For the first time in her life Colleen actually felt fragile and petite and in need of rescue. She wasn't quite sure she liked it. She was scared, yes. She didn't want Bobby charging in, a one-man assault team, to find John Morrison and his gang in her living room. At the same time, if John Morrison and his gang were in her apartment, she didn't want to run away and lose the opportunity to have them all arrested. "Put me down," she ordered him. They could go downstairs, call the police from Mr. Gheary's apartment. To her surprise he did put her down, none too gently pushing her away from him. As she struggled to regain her balance, she realized he was charging up the last few stairs toward her apartment door. Toward a man who was coming out. Wearing an unbelievably loud plaid shirt. "Bobby, don't!" She wasn't the only one shouting. The owner of that shirt was shouting, too, shrieking, really, in pure terror. It was Kenneth. Bobby had him against the entryway wall, his face pressed against the faded wallpaper, his armed twisted up behind his back. "Bobby, stop! He's a friend of mine," Colleen shouted, taking the stairs two at a time, just as the door to her apartment opened wide, revealing the equally wide eyes of Ashley and her brother, Clark. She did a double take. Ashley's blue-haired brother, Clark. "What are you doing here?" she asked Ashley, who was supposed to be spending the entire summer working at her father's law firm in New York. "I escaped from Scarsdale," Ashley said faintly, staring at Bobby, who still had Kenneth pinned, his feet completely off the ground. "Clark and Kenneth came and broke me out." That explained the blue hair. Nineteen-year-old Clark knew he'd be seeing his extremely conservative father. Say no more. "Bobby, meet my roommate, Ashley DeWitt," Colleen said. "Her brother, Clark, and his friend, Kenneth. Guys, this is my brother's friend, Chief Bobby Taylor." "I'm your friend, too," Bobby reminded her as he gently lowered the kid back to the floor. "Sorry." The kid was shaken, but he pulled himself together quickly. "That was...somewhat uncomfortable, but the adrenaline rush is quite nice, thanks." "Kenneth's from England," Colleen told him. "Yeah," Bobby said, following them all into her apartment. "I caught that from the accent." Man, Colleen hadn't been kidding. It was worse in here than he'd imagined. The small living room was filled, in some cases from floor to ceiling, with boxes. Colleen was in the process of writing, in big, block letters, what seemed to be a Tulgerian address on each of them. As far as he could tell, she was only about a third of the way done.

"So you're a chief, huh?" Clark said as Bobby closed the door behind him. "What tribe?" "Oh, God! Clark, he's not that kind of chief." Ashley gave Bobby an apologetic smile. She was what he thought of as a New York blonde. Average height and slender, with a figure that was just barely curvy enough to be considered feminine, but certainly not curvy enough to be lush. Ev erything about her was neat and perfectly in place, nothing too extreme. She was cool and beautiful—kind of the way a stone statue was cool and beautiful. You didn't mind looking, but you wouldn't want to touch. Compared to Ashley, Colleen was a mess. Her hair was everywhere. Her smile was crooked. Her breasts looked as if they were about to explode out from under her T-shirt every time she moved She was too much of everything— too tall, too stacked, too blunt, too funny, too into having a good time wherever she went. Laughter spilled out of her constantly. Her eyes were never the same color from one minute to the next, but they were always, always welcoming and warm. Desire knifed through him so sharply he had to clench his fists. "Forgive my brother," Ashley continued. "He's terminally stupid." He yanked his gaze away from Colleen, aware he'd been staring at her with his tongue nearly hanging out. God, he couldn't let her catch him looking at her that way. If she knew the truth... Who was he kidding? She'd probably already guessed the truth. And now she was trying to drive him slowly insane with all those deep looks and the seemingly innocently casual way she touched him damn near constantly in passing. A hand on his arm, on his knee. Fingers cool against his face as she fixed a stray lock of his hair. Brushing against him with her shoulder. Sitting so close that their thighs touched. And the things she said to him! She thought they should be the kind of friends who had sex three or four times a day. She'd only been teasing. She liked being outrageous— saying things like that and trying to shake him up. That one had worked. "I'm a chief petty officer," Bobby explained to the kid with blue hair, working to keep up with the conversation. That kid's name was Clark. He was Ashley's brother—no doubt about that. He had the same perfectly sculpted nose and chin, slightly differently shaped eyes that were a wanner shade of gray. "I'm in the Navy." "Whoa, dude," Clark said. "With long hair like that?" He laughed. "Hey, maybe they'll take me, huh?" "Bobby's a—" Colleen cut herself off, and Bobby knew she was remembering all that he'd told her about the way most people's attitudes changed when they found out he was a SEAL. She looked at him and as their eyes met he felt the small room shrink. It was as if he'd been caught in the beam of a searchlight—he and Colleen. Ashley, Clark and Kenneth vanished in the darkness outside his peripheral vision. All he could see was Colleen and her beautiful, laughing eyes. They were very blue right now. "Bobby's a very good friend of mine," she said softly, instead of telling them he was a SEAL. "I should join the Navy," Clark's voice cut through. "Wouldn't that tick the old man off?" "I had big plans for tonight," Colleen said, still looking into Bobby's eyes. "I was going to cook dinner for Bobby and then seduce him by dancing naked in the kitchen." There she went again. More teasing. She was laughing at him—probably at the look of shock on his face. But as she turned away, as the world opened up again to include the other three people in the room, Bobby got the feeling that she wasn't completely kidding. She'd had plans for tonight, and those plans had included him. "I should go," he said, wanting to stay at least as much as he wanted to keep breathing. But he couldn't stay. No way. "No," Ashley said swiftly. "We were just going out." "No, we weren't," Clark said with disdain. "You are such a liar. You have a headache—so bad that Kenneth was going to the drugstore to get you some painkillers." He turned to Colleen. "Unless you've got some hidden here. Ash wouldn't let me search your bedroom." "Gee, I don't know why," Colleen said. "Could it maybe have something to do with the fact that the last time you searched my room I got home and called the police because I thought I'd been vandalized? Besides, you wouldn't have found any. I don't get headaches. Did you look in the bathroom?" "I'm feeling much better," Ashley interrupted. Bobby had just met her, but even he could tell that she was lying. "We're going out." "But what about that letter you were going to write to Dad?" "It can wait." Ashley motioned toward the door with her head, making big eyes at her brother. "This is Bobby Taylor. Wes's friend?" Clark stared at her blankly, as only a younger brother can stare at an older sister. “The Navy SEAL...?" "Oh," Clark said. "Oh. Right." He looked at Bobby. "You're a SEAL, huh? Cool." Colleen's smile was rueful and apologetic. "Sorry," she told Bobby. "I tried."

Clark grinned at Kenneth. "Dude! You were almost killed by a Navy SEAL! You should definitely tell the girls at that party tonight. I bet one of 'em will go home with you." "Ashley, you really don't have to go anywhere," Colleen said to her friend. "You look wiped. What happened? What'd your father do now?" Ashley just shook her head. "What's a Navy SEAL?" Kenneth asked. "And do you suppose if he actually had killed me then Jennifer Reilly might want to marry me? I mean, if you think she might go home with me if he almost killed me...." "Oh, no way!" Clark countered. "I wasn't thinking Jenn Reilly, dude! Set your sights lower, man. Think B or C tier. Think Stacy Thurmond or Candy Fremont." "You rank the women you know into tiers?" Colleen was outraged. "Get out of my house, scumball!" "Whoa," Clark said, backing up and tripping over one of the boxes. "We don't tell 'em we rank 'em. We'd never say it to their faces. They don't know. Honest." "Yes, they do," Colleen countered. "Believe me, they know." "Who is this we to whom you keep referring, scum-ball?" Kenneth asked Clark. "What tier am I in?" Colleen's voice was dangerously quiet. "A," Clark told her quickly. "Absolutely. You are so completely, gorgeously, perfectly A." Colleen cut him down with a single word—a pungent profanity that Bobby realized he'd never heard her use before. Unlike Wes, she didn't pepper her everyday speech with four-letter words. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard her say damn or even hell. It was pretty remarkable actually, considering how prone she was to blurting out whatever was on her mind. / think we should be the kind of friends who have wild sex three or four times a day. Help. "Once when I was running down by the river," Colleen told Clark tightly, "I went past these two guys who were grading all the women who ran by. The wind carried their voices to me right at the exact moment they were checking me out. They gave me a C minus—probably about the equivalent of your lower C tier." Bobby couldn't stay silent another second. "They were fools." "They were...several words I will not lower myself to use," she said, chin held high, pretending that a C-minus ranking by a pair of strangers didn't bother her one bit. Pretending she was above that. Pretending that she hadn't been hurt. "You're on my A list," Bobby said. The moment the words left his lips, he realized he'd just made a fatal mistake. Although he'd meant it as the highest compliment, he'd just admitted that he had an A list. And that would make him little better than...what had she called Clark? A scumball. "That came out really wrong," he told her quickly as her eyes started to narrow. Clark, the genius, stepped up to the plate. "See? All guys have lists. It's a guy thing," he protested, not old enough to know that all either of them could do now was grovel, apologize and pray for forgiveness. "It doesn't mean anything." "Bobby, strangle him, strangle his strange, plaid-clothed little friend," Colleen ordered him, "and then strangle yourself." "What I meant to say," Bobby told her, moving close enough to catch her chin with his hand, so she now had to look up into his eyes, "was that I find you as beautiful on the outside as you are on the inside." The searchlight clicked back on, and the rest of the world faded. Colleen was looking at him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. She was the only other person in the entire universe. No one and nothing else existed. He couldn't even seem to move his hand away from the soft smoothness of her face. "Strangle me?" Bobby heard Kenneth protest, his voice faint, as if coming from a great distance. "Why strangle me? I don't put anyone into tiers, thank you very much." "Yeah, because you can't see past Jenn Reilly," Clark countered, also from somewhere way back there, beyond Colleen's eyes and Colleen's lips. "For you, Jenn's got her own gigantic tier—and everyone else is invisible. You and Jenn are so not going to happen, man. Even if hell froze over, she would walk right past you and date Frosty the Snowman. And then she would call you later to tell you how it went because you guys are friends. Sheesh. Don't you know friendship is the kiss of death between a man and a woman?" "That was very sweet," Colleen told Bobby softly. "I forgive you." She took his hand and kissed him, right on the palm, and Bobby felt something major snap in his chest. Oh, God, he had to get out of here before it was too late. Before he reached for her and...

He turned away, forcing himself to focus on blue hair and a loud plaid. Anything but Colleen and her bone-melting smile. "Yes, I'm thwarted by the curse of being the friend." Kenneth sighed. "I'm double damned because Jennifer thinks I'm gay. I'm her gay friend. I've told her that I'm quite not, thanks, but..."

"Everyone thinks you're gay," Clark countered. "Tell me honestly, bro," he asked Bobby. "When you first saw Kenneth—I mean, Kenneth, come on, man. Only a gay dude would call himself Kenneth instead of Ken or Kenny—when you first saw him, Bobby, didn't you think—" he held out his hands to frame Kenneth, like a movie director "—gay?" Bobby didn't bother to answer. He'd spent far too much time around Wes, who was the same kind of hyped-up, whirlwind talker as this kid, to know that his answer wasn't really needed. Which was just as well, because he wasn't completely convinced that he'd be able to speak. Every time he looked into Colleen's eyes, his hands started to sweat, his chest felt squeezed and his throat tightened up. He was in desperate trouble. "You know, my father thinks you're gay, too," Clark told Kenneth. "I enjoy that about you. You frighten him, dude." "Well, I'm not gay," Kenneth said through clenched teeth. Bobby cleared his throat experimentally. A few more times and he'd have his voice back. Provided he didn't look at Colleen again. "Not that there's anything wrong with being gay," Kenneth added hastily, glancing at Bobby. "We should probably make sure we're not offending a gay Navy SEAL here—an extremely big, extremely tall gay Navy SEAL. Although I still am not quite certain as to exactly what a Navy SEAL might be." Clark looked at Bobby with new interest. "Whoa. It never even occurred to me. Are you gay?" For the first time in a good long number of minutes, there was complete and total silence. They were all looking at him. Colleen was looking at him, frowning slightly, speculation in her eyes. Oh, great. Now she thought he'd told her he only wanted to be friends because he was He looked at her, wavering, unable to decide what to say. Should he just shut up and let her think whatever she thought, hoping that it would make her keep her distance? Colleen found her voice. "Congratulations, Clark, you've managed to reach new heights of rudeness. Bobby, don't answer him—your sexual orientation is no one's business but your own." "I'm straight," he admitted. "I'm sure you are," Colleen said a little too heartily, implying that she suspected otherwise. He laughed again. "Why would I lie?" "I believe you," she said. "Absolutely." She winked at him. "Don't ask, don't tell. We'll just pretend Clark didn't ask." Suddenly this wasn't funny anymore, and he laughed in disbelief. "What, do you want me to do...?" Prove it? He stopped himself from saying those words. Oh, God. She was giving him another of those killer smiles, complete with that two-thousand-degree incinerating heat in her eyes. Yes, she did want him to prove it. She didn't say it in words, but it was right there, written all over her face. She hadn't believed he was gay for one minute. She'd been baiting him. And he'd walked right into her trap. She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively, implying that she was only teasing, but he knew better.

Help. Please, God, let there be voice mail waiting for him, back in his hotel room. Please, God, let Wesley have called, announcing that he was back in the States and on his way to Boston. Please, God... "Now that we've got that mystery solved, the two burning questions of the night that remain are why did you come back to Boston," Colleen said to her roommate, "and why blue?" She turned and looked at Clark's hair critically. "I'm not sure it's you...dude." "What is a Navy SEAL?" Kenneth reminded her. "Burning question number three. I keep picturing beach balls and Seaworld, and I'm confident that's not quite right." "SEALs are part of the U.S. military's special forces," Colleen said. "They're part of the Navy, so they spend a lot of time in and around the water— swimming, scuba diving, underwater demolition even. But SEAL stands for sea, air and land. They also jump out of airplanes and crawl across the desert and through the jungle, too. Most of the time no one knows that they're there. They carry great big guns—assault weapons, like commandos —but nearly all of their operations are covert." She looked at Clark. "Which means secret. Clandestine—. percent of the time they insert and extract from their mission location without firing a single bullet." She turned back to Bobby. "Did I miss anything vital? Besides the fact that you SEALs frequently kill people— usually with your bare hands—and that you're known for being exceedingly rough in bed?" Bobby started to laugh. He couldn't help it. And then Colleen was laughing, too, with the others just staring at them as if they were crazy.

She was so alive, so full of light and joy. And in less than a week she was going to get on an airplane and fly to a dangerous place where she could well be killed. And, Lord, what a loss to the world that would be. The thought was sobering. "Please don't go," he said to her. Somehow she knew he was talking about the trip to Tul-geria. She stopped laughing, too. "I have to." "No, you don't. Colleen, you have no idea what it's like there." "Yes, I do." Ashley pulled her brother and Kenneth toward the door. "Coll, we're going to go out for a—" "No, you're not." Colleen didn't look away from Bobby. "Kick Thing A and Thing B out onto the street, but if you're getting one of your headaches, you're not going anywhere but to bed." "Well then, I'll be in my room," Ashley said quietly. "Come on, children. Let's leave Aunt Colleen alone."

"Hasta la vista, baby." Clark nodded to Bobby. "Dude." "Thanks again for not killing me," Kenneth said cheerfully. They went out the door, and Ashley faded quietly down the hallway. Leaving him alone in the living room with Colleen. "I should go, too." That would definitely be the smart thing. As opposed to kissing her. Which would definitely be the opposite of the smart thing. But he couldn't seem to get his feet to move toward the door. "You should come into the kitchen," she countered. "Where there are chairs that aren't covered with boxes. We can actually sit down." She took his hand and tugged him into the kitchen. Somehow his feet had no problem moving in that direction. "Okay," she said, sitting at the kitchen table. "Spill. What happened in Tulgeria?" Bobby rubbed his forehead. "I wish it was that easy," he said. "I wish it was one thing. I wish I was wrong, but I've been there a half dozen times, at least, and each time was more awful than the last. It's bad and getting worse, Colleen. Parts of the country are a war zone. The government's lost control everywhere but in the major cities, and even there they're on shaky ground. Terrorist groups are everywhere. There are Christian groups, Muslim groups. They work hard to kill each other, and if that wasn't enough, there's in-fighting among each of the groups. Nobody's safe. I went into a village and—" Lord, he couldn't tell her—not the details. He didn't want to tell her any of it, but he made himself. He looked her straight in the eye and said it. "Everyone was dead. A rival group had come in and... Even the children, Colleen. They'd been methodically slaughtered." She drew in a breath. "Oh, no!" "We went in because there were rumors that one of the terrorist groups had gotten hold of some kind of chemical weapon. We were there to meet a team of Army Rangers, escort 'em out to a waiting submarine with samples of whatever they'd found. But they came up empty. These people had nothing. They had hardly any regular ammunition, let alone any kind of chemical threat. They killed each other with swords—these big machete-style things, with these curved, razor-sharp blades. "No one is safe there." He said it again, hoping she was listening. "No one is safe." She looked pale, but her gaze didn't waver. "I have to go. You tell me these things, and I have to go more than ever." "More than half of these terrorists are zealots." He leaned across the table, willing her to hear him, to really hear him. “The other half are in it for the black market— for buying and selling anything. Including Americans. Especially Americans. Collecting ransom is probably the most lucrative business in Tulgeria today. How much would your parents pay to get you back?" "Bobby, I know you think—" He cut her off. "Our government has a rule—no negotiating with terrorists. But civilians in the private sector... Well, they can give it a go—pay the ransom and gamble that they'll actually get their loved one back. Truth is, they usually don't. Colleen, please listen to me. They usually don't get the

hostages back." Colleen gazed at him searchingly. "I've heard rumors of mass slaughters of Tulgerian civilians in retaliation by the local government." Bobby hesitated, then told her the truth. "I've heard those rumors, too." "Is it true?" He sighed. "Look, I know you don't want to hear this, but if you go there you might die. That's what you should be worrying about right now. Not—"

"Is it true?" God, she was magnificent. Leaning across the table to ward him, palms down on the faded formica top, shoulders set for a fight, her eyes blazing, her hair on fire. "I can guarantee you that the U.S. has special forces teams investigating that right this very moment," he told her. "NATO warned Tulgeria about such acts of genocide in the past. If they're up to their old tricks and if we find out about it—and if they are, we will, I guarantee it—then the U.S. ambassador and his staff will be pulled out of Tulibek immediately. The U.S. will cut all relations with the Tulgerian government. The embassy will be gone— potentially overnight. If that happens while you're there..." Bobby took a steadying breath. "Colleen, if you go, you'll be in danger every minute of that entire week." "I want to show you something," she said. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

7 The photographs were in her bedroom. Colleen grabbed the envelope from her dresser, stopping to knock softly on Ashley's door on her way back to the kitchen. "Come in." The room was barely lit, with the shades all pulled down. Ash was at her computer, and despite the dim lighting, Colleen could see that her eyes were red and swollen. She'd been crying. "How's the headache?" Colleen asked. "Pretty bad." "Try to sleep." Ashley shook her head. "I can't. I have to write this." "Write what?" "A brief. To my father. That's the only way he'll ever pay attention to me—if I write him a legal brief. Isn't that pathetic?" Colleen sighed. It was pathetic. Everything about Ashley's relationship with her father was pathetic. She'd ac tually gotten caller-ID boxes for all of their telephones, so they'd know not to answer when Mr. DeWitt called. Colleen loved it when her own father called. "Why don't you do it later?" she said to her friend. "After the headache's gone." Ashley's headaches were notoriously awful. She'd been to the doctor, and although they weren't migraines, they were similar in many ways. Brought on by tension and stress, the doctor had said. Great ailment for a future lawyer to have. "I'll help you with it," Colleen continued. "You need to tell me what happened—why you haven't called or e-mailed me since mid-May. I assume it's all connected?" It was. She could see that from the look on Ashley's face. "Just let me get rid of Bobby, okay?" "Don't you dare!" Indignation gave Ashley a burst of energy. "Colleen, my God! You've had a thing for this guy for years! He's gorgeous, by the way. And huge. I mean, you told me he was big, but I had no idea. How tall is he?" "I don't know exactly. Six-six? Maybe taller." "His hands are like baseball mitts." "Yeah," Colleen said. "And you know what they say about guys with big hands." "They have big gloves," they said in unison. Colleen grinned, and Ashley even managed a weak smile. But it was fleeting. "I can't believe my rotten timing. Of all the times to come running back to Cambridge and get in the way..." Ashley rested her forehead in her hands, elbows on her desk. "I saw him looking at you, Coll. All you have to do is say the word and he'll spend the night." "He gave me the friends speech," Colleen told her. "You're kidding!" "Let's see—would that be something that I, designated best friend to the entire world's male population, would kid about? No, I don't think so." "I'm sorry." "Yeah, well..." Colleen forced a smile. "Personally I think he's lying—that he's got some kind of code-of-honor thing going, you know, because I'm his best friend's sister. I have to convince him that it's okay, that he doesn't have to fall in love and marry me—that I just want us to have some fun." Although if he did happen to fall in love with her... No, she couldn't let herself think that way. That path was fraught with the perils of disappointment and frustration. All she wanted was to have fun, she reminded herself again, wishing the words hadn't sounded so hollow when she'd said them aloud. "He's probably wondering what happened to you," Ashley pointed out. Colleen went out the door, stopping to look at her friend, her hand on the knob. "I'll be back in about thirty minutes to get your full report on Scarsdale and your dear old dad." "That's really not necessary—" "I know you," Colleen said. "You're not going to sleep until we talk, so we're going to talk."

Bobby heard the door shut, heard Colleen coming back down the hall to the kitchen. He'd heard the soft murmur of voices as she'd stopped to speak to her roommate. The soundproofing in this old place was virtually nonexistent. That meant that grabbing her when she came back into the room, and having hot, noisy sex right there, on top of the kitchen table was definitely not an option. Oh, man, he had to get out of here. He stood up, but Colleen came into the room, blocking his escape route. "Sit," she ordered. "Just for a few more minutes. I want to show you something." She took a photograph out of an envelope and slid it across the table toward him. It was a picture of a small girl, staring solemnly into the camera. She had enormous eyes— probably because she was so skinny. She was all narrow shoulders, with a pointy chin, dressed in ill-fitting clothes, with a ragged cap of dark-brown hair. She looked to be about six or seven years old, with the kind of desperate and almost feral air about her that would have made Bobby watch her from the corner of his eye had he happened upon her in the street. Yeah, he'd watch her, all right, and secure his wallet in an inside pocket. "This was Analena," Colleen told him, "two years ago—before my student Children's Aid group adopted her." She put another picture on the table. "This was taken just last month." It was the same girl, only now her hair was longer-thick and glossy. She was smiling—laughing—as she ran across a field, kicking a soccer ball. Her cheeks were pink and healthy looking, and although she was still rail thin, it was because she was growing. She was gangly, gawky. She no longer looked as if she would snap in two. And the feral look was gone. She was a child again. Colleen laid a letter in front of him—written in a large, loopy child's hand. "Dearest Colleen," he read silently: I dream last night that I visit you in U.S. of A. It such wonderful dream—I want to no wake up. I hope you okay that I gifted Ivan with futball you gifted me. He try to steal many times, I think, why not he keep? My English, she is getting better, no? It is gift from you—from America books and tape player and batteries you send. Blessed gift. More better than futball. Ivan make bad noise, don't think this. Still, I teach Ivan English words. Some day he thank me, thank you, also. Send more letter soon. Love, Analena. Colleen pulled other photos from the envelope. They were pictures of other kids. "Analena and about twenty-five other children live in an orphanage, St. Christof’s, deep inside Tulgeria's so-called war zone," she told him, "which also happens to be the part of the country that sustained the most damage from the earthquake. My Children's Aid group has been corresponding —for over two years—with the nuns who run St. Christof’s. We've been trying to find a legal loophole so we can get those children out of Tulgeria. These are unwanted children, Bobby. Most are of mixed heritage—and nobody wants them. The terrible irony is that we have lists of families here in the U.S. who want them desperately— who are dying to adopt. But the government won't let them go. They won't pay to feed them, yet they won't give them up." The pictures showed the bleakness of the orphanage. Boarded-up windows, peeling paint, bombed-out walls. These children were living in a shell of a former house. In all of the pictures, the nuns—some clad in old-fashioned habits, some dressed in American jeans and sneakers— were always smiling, but Bobby could see the lines of strain and pain around their eyes and mouths. "When this earthquake happened," Colleen continued, still in that same soft, even voice, "we jumped at the chance to actually go in there." She looked Bobby squarely in the eyes. "Bringing relief aid and supplies to the quake victims is just our cover. We're really going in to try to get those children moved out of the war zone, to a safer location. Best-case scenario would be to bring them back to the States with us, but we know the chances of that happening are slim to none." Bobby looked at her. "I can go," he said. "Colleen, I'll do this for you. I'll go instead of you." Yes, that would work. He could get some of the other men in Alpha Squad to come along. Rio Rosetti, Thomas King and Mike Lee were all young and foolish. They'd jump at the chance to spend a week's vacation in the number-one most dangerous hot spot in the world. And Spaceman— Lieutenant Jim Slade. He was unmarried, too. He'd help if Bobby asked. But no way would Bobby ask any of his married friends to spend any of their too-infrequent leave time away from their families, risking their lives. "This could work," he told her, but she was already shaking her head. "Bobby, I'm going." She said it firmly, absolutely, calmly. As if this was a fact that wasn't going to change no matter what he said or did. "I'm the liaison with the Tulgerian minister of Public Health. I believe he's our one hope of getting those children moved out of immediate danger. He knows me, he trusts me—I'm going." "If you're going, I'm going, too," he told her just as absolutely. She shook her head. "No, you're not."

He sighed. "Look, I know you probably think I'm just interfering, but—" Colleen smiled. "No, you don't understand. I'd love it if you could come along. Honest. It would be great. But be practical, Bobby. We're leaving in less than a week. It's taken us nearly three weeks to get permission to enter the country and bring aid—despite the fact that people there are wandering around hungry, their homes destroyed by this earthquake. You'll have to go through the same diplomatic channels and—" “No, I won't." She made a face at him. "Yeah, right. What, are you going to call some admiral and snap your fingers and...?" "I won't snap my fingers at Admiral Robinson," Bobby told her. "That would be rude." She stared at him. "You're serious. You're really going to call an admiral?" He nodded as he glanced at his watch. It was a little too late to call tonight. The admiral and his wife, Zoe, had twins. Max and Sam. The twins were pure energy in human form—as Bobby well knew. He baby-sat them once when the admiral and his wife were out in California, when their regular sitter had canceled at the last minute. Max and Sam were miniature versions of their father. They both had his striking-blue eyes and world-famous smile. Jake would've just finished reading them a story and putting them to bed. Bobby knew he would then go in search of his wife, maybe make them both a cup of herbal tea and rub her shoulders or feet.... "I'll call him tomorrow morning," Bobby said. Colleen smiled. She didn't believe he was tight enough with an admiral to be able to give the man a call. "Well, it would be nice if you could go, but I'm not going to hold my breath." She gathered up the pictures and put them back in the envelope. "How many people are going?" he asked. "You know, in your group?" "About twelve." Twelve unprepared, untrained civilians running around loose.... Bobby didn't swear—at least not aloud. "Most of them will actually be distributing supplies to the quake victims. They'll be hooking up with the Red Cross volunteers who are already in place in the country," she continued. "Of the twelve, there are five of us who'll be concentrating on getting those children moved." Five was a much better, much more compact number. Five people could be whisked out of sight and removed from danger far more easily than twelve. "Who's meeting you at the airport?" he asked. "We've rented a bus and made arrangements to be picked up by the driver," she told him. A bus. Oh, man. "How many guards?" Colleen shook her head. "One. The driver insisted. We're still arguing over that. We don't want any guns. Our connection to the Red Cross—" "Colleen, you'll need armed guards," he told her. "Way more than just one man hired by the driver. Three or four at the least. Even just for the short trip between the airport and your hotel. And you'll need twice as many if you're going up north." “But—" "The Red Cross means nothing in Tulgeria. In fact, it's often used as a bull's-eye for terrorists. Don't put the emblem on the bus, don't wear it on your clothes." She was looking at him as if he were speaking Greek. "Are you serious?" "Dead serious. And instead of a single bus, we should get you three or four Humvees. Something smaller and faster, that'll be less of a target." "The bus is so that we can move the children if we get the opportunity," she told him. Oh, damn. Yeah, they would definitely need a bus for that. "Okay," he said. "I'm going to do what I can to get Admiral Robinson involved—to make this an official operation for one of his Gray Group teams. But if it's official, there's a chance I won't be able to go. I'm still not percent—" "I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Colleen said. "If we go in there looking like some kind of commando team..." "Whoever goes in with you, they'll be covert. There'll be three or four guys hanging around with assault weapons for show as if they were hired guards. But everyone else on the team will blend in with your group. I promise." She looked at him. "You promise. Except you're not going to be there." "I may not be there," he said. "But I'm sure as hell going to try."

Colleen smiled. "You know, every time someone says that they'll try, I think of that scene in The Empire Strikes Back with Luke Skywalker and Yoda. You know, the one where Yoda says, 'Try not. Do or do not.'" "Yeah, I know that scene," Bobby told her. "And I'm sorry, but—" She reached across the table and touched his hand. "No, don't apologize. I didn't mean to sound as if I were accusing you of anything. See, the truth is I've fought so many losing battles for so many years that I really appreciate someone who tries. In fact, a try is all I ever ask for anymore. It may not work out, but at least you know you gave it a shot, right?" She wasn't talking about him coming to Tulgeria. She was talking about the way he'd kissed her. And the way he'd pushed her away, refusing to see where that kiss might lead. Refusing even to try. Bobby wasn't sure what to say. He felt like the worst kind of coward. Too scared even to try. Even when her hand was on top of his, her fingers so cool against the heat of his skin. Even when he wished with all of his heart that she would leave her hand right there for a decade or two. But Colleen took her hand away as she stood. He watched as she placed the envelope with the pictures on the cluttered surface of a built-in desk in the corner of the room. "You know, I've met most of the people who want to adopt these kids," she told him. "They're really wonderful. You look into their eyes, and you can see that they already love these children just from seeing their pictures, from reading their letters." Her voice wavered. "It just breaks my heart that those kids are in danger, that we can only try to help them. It kills me that there are no guarantees." Bobby stood up. He didn't mean to. And as soon as he found himself on his feet, he forced himself to stop. To not move toward her, not take her into his arms. The last time he did that, he'd completely lost control. But Colleen turned to face him. She came toward him. She reached for him, taking hold of both of his hands. "It's important to me that you know I'm not doing this purely to drive Wes crazy." Her fingers were cool and strong and, again, he didn't want to let her go. Help. "I know." But she didn't come any closer. She just smiled and squeezed his hands. "Good," she said as she released him. "So go. You're free. Escape. Lucky you—I need to hang with Ashley tonight. Guess I'll have to dance naked for you another night." Her eyes sparkled as she laughed at him, at the pained look he couldn't keep off his face. The door was right there. She'd given him permission to leave. He could have walked through it, walked out of her apartment, walked to a place where he—and she—were safe. Instead he didn't move. "Why do you keep doing that?" She opted not to play dumb. She knew he was talking about her suggestive comments. "You're such an easy target and I want..." "What?" He really wanted to know. Badly enough that he almost touched her again. Almost. "You want what, Colleen?" "You." He'd known she was gutsy. And when she teased, she could be pretty outrageous. But he'd never expected her to say that. She lowered her eyes as if she were suddenly shy. "I always have, you know." She spoke barely loud enough for him to hear her, but he did. He heard. His ears were working perfectly. It was his lungs that were having trouble functioning. "So now you know," she said quietly. When she looked up at him, her smile was rueful. "How's that for a powerful rebuttal to the 'I just want to be friends' speech?" He couldn't respond. He didn't have any idea at all of what to say. She wanted him. She always had. He felt like laughing and crying. He felt like grabbing her, right there in the kitchen. He felt like running—as hard and as fast and as far as he possibly could. "I figure either I'm right, and you didn't mean what you said this morning," she told him. "Or I'm wrong, and I'm a complete idiot who deserves humiliation and rejection twice in two days." Bobby kept his mouth shut, wishing he were the kind of man who could just run for the door—and keep running when he hit the street. But he knew that he wasn't going to get out of there without saying something. He just wasn't sure what that something should be. Tell the truth and admit he hadn't meant what he'd said? That was one hell of a bad idea. If he did that, she'd smile and move closer and closer and... And he'd wake up in her bed. And then Wes would kill him. Bobby was starting to think he could maybe handle death. It would be worth it for a chance at a night with Colleen.

What he would never be able to live with was the look of betrayal in his best friend's eyes. He clamped his mouth shut. "I know I act as if it's otherwise," Colleen continued, turning away from him and fiddling with half a dozen organic apples that were on the kitchen counter. As she spoke, she arranged them into a pattern. Big, then little, then big. "But I haven't had too much experience. You know. With men, I mean. In fact, all I've had are a couple of really crummy short-term relationships. I've never been with someone who really wants me—I mean other than for the fact that I'm female and convenient." With the apples neatly arranged in two perfect rows, she turned to face him, to look him in the eye. "I know you say you don't—want me, that is. But I see something really different when I look into your eyes. And...Bobby, I just want to know what that's like—to be made love to the way you kissed me last night. It felt so right and..." She took a deep breath. Smiled shakily. "So. You've been warned. Now you know. You also know that I'm not going to be talked out of going to Tulgeria. So if your admiral guy doesn't come through for you, you can tell my brother you did everything you could to keep me off that plane. And you can go back to California with a clear conscience. And I think you probably should go—if you really did mean what you said about just wanting to be friends. If you stay, though, you better put on your fireproof suit. Because starting tomorrow I'm turning up the heat." "You really said that?" Ashley laughed. "What did he do?" After her little speech, Bobby hadn't grabbed her and kissed her. But then again, Colleen hadn't really thought he would. “What did he say?" Ash persisted. "Nothing," Colleen told her friend. "He looked a little pale—kind of like he was going to faint. So I told him we'd talk more tomorrow and I pushed him out the door." Truth was, she hadn't wanted to hear what he might have to say in response to her painfully honest confession. She'd pretty much been flashing hot and cold by then herself—alternately clapping herself on the back for her bravery and deriding herself for pure stupidity. What if she were completely wrong? What if she were completely misinterpreting everything she'd seen in his eyes? What if he hadn't really been looking at her with barely concealed longing and desire? What if it had just been a bad case of indigestion? "I had to try," Colleen told Ashley—and herself as well. Ash was sitting cross-legged on her bed, hugging her beat-up, raggedy stuffed bear—the one she'd been given when she was three and had chicken pox. The one she still slept with despite the fact that she'd just turned twenty-four. It was ironic. Colleen's friend had everything. Money. A beautiful face. A slim, perfect body. Weight that didn't fluctuate wildly given her moods. A . grade point average. Impeccable taste. Of course, Colleen had something Ashley didn't have. And Colleen wouldn't have traded that one thing for Ashley's looks and body, even if her friend had thrown in all the gold in Ft. Knox, too. Not a chance. Because Colleen had parents who supported her, percent. She knew, without a doubt, that no matter what she did, her mom and dad were behind her. Unlike Mr. DeWitt, who criticized Ashley nonstop. Colleen couldn't imagine what it had been like growing up in that house. She could picture Ash as a little girl, desperately trying to please her father and never quite succeeding. "Ashley, what's this? A Father's Day gift? A ceramic bowl? You made it yourself on the wheel in pottery class? Oh, well, next time you'll do much better, won't you?" It was true, Colleen's own parents weren't perfect. No one's parents were. But hers loved her unconditionally. She'd never doubted that. "You ready to talk about what happened?" she asked Ashley now. Her friend sighed. "I'm so stupid." Colleen just waited. "There was a new associate in my father's firm," Ash finally said. "Brad Hennesey." Tears filled her eyes, and she tried to laugh. "God, I'm such an idiot. I can't even say his name without..." She gestured to her face. Colleen handed her a box of tissues and waited while Ashley blew her nose. "He was so nice," Ash told her. "I mean, I didn't expect him not to be nice to me, because I'm the boss's daughter, but he seemed so genuine, and..." "Oh, no," Colleen said. She was pretty sure she knew where this was going, and she prayed she was wrong.

"I did something really dumb," Ash admitted. "We started dating, and he was so..." She laughed but it was loaded with pain. "Yeah, he was completely perfect-smart and gorgeous with all those white teeth and that Land's End model body, and we loved the same books and movies, and... And I fell in love with him. God! How could I be so stupid?" Colleen waited, praying that she was wrong. "But then I found out that my father had hired him purposely. Brad was part of his plan to guarantee that I'd come home after law school and join the firm. He was going to be made partner instantly upon our engagement. I hear myself telling you this, and it sounds so ludicrous. Can you believe any of this?" She could. She'd met Ashley's father. "Ah, Ash," Colleen said. "How did you find out?" "Brad told me," Ashley said. "He confessed everything. He called me in the middle of the night and told me he had to see me. Right then. So he came over to the house and we went into the garden and... He was really upset and he told me he was in love with me. He said he'd fallen for me, and he told me that he had to come clean before it went any further, that he couldn't live with himself any longer." "But that's good," Colleen countered. "Isn't it? He was honest when it mattered the most." "Colleen, he accepted a position where the job description included tricking the boss's daughter into marrying him." Ashley was still aghast at the idea. "What kind of person would do that?" "One who maybe saw your picture?" Colleen suggested. Ashley stared at her as if she were in league with Satan. "I'm not saying it's a good thing," she added quickly. "But how bad could the guy be if he really did fall in love with you?" "Did he?" Ashley asked darkly. "Or is he just saying that he did? Is this confession just another lie?" Oh, ick. Colleen hadn't thought of it that way. But Ash was right. If she were trying to con someone into marrying her, she'd pretend to be in love with them, confess everything and beg for forgiveness. That would save her butt in the event that the truth ever did surface after the wedding. "He slept with me, Colleen," Ashley said miserably. "And my father was paying him." "Yeah," Colleen said, "I don't think your father was paying him to do that, though." "It feels that way." Ashley was one of those women who still looked beautiful when she cried. "You know the really stupid thing?" Colleen shook her head. "No." "I didn't have the nerve to confront my father." Ashley's lip trembled. "I just ran away. I hid." "But you're writing him a letter," Colleen pointed out. "That's a start." "Clark keeps telling me I should take one of those as-sertiveness training courses. You know, the kind where you go out into the mountains with only a canteen of water and a hunting knife and come back after having killed a bear?" Colleen laughed at the absurdity of that. "You'd take advice from a man with blue hair?" Ash laughed, too. It was shaky, but it was laughter. "You know what I think you should do?" Colleen said. “I think you should go back and have this raging, passionate affair with Brad. Flaunt it in your father's face. Make it really public. And then, next May, when you graduate from law school, you dump the creep and flip your father the bird. You pass the California bar exam, and take a job as a public defender in East L.A. and you do pro bono work for the community on the side just to really tick him off. That's what I would do." "You could do that?" Ashley asked. "Really? Have that kind of a relationship with a man without falling even further in love? Without getting in too deep?" Colleen thought about Bobby Taylor, about what would happen if she did succeed in talking her way into his bed. She thought about waking up beside him, smiling into his beautiful eyes as he bent to kiss her. She thought about driving him to the airport and watching his broad back and his long, easygoing stride as he headed into the terminal, as he walked away. From her. Without looking back. She thought about the way that would make her heart die inside of her. Just a little bit. Just enough to change her forever. "No," she said quietly. "I guess I couldn't, either."

8 '' Wait," Bobby said. "Zoe, no, if he's taking a day off, don't..." Bother him. But Zoe Robinson had already put him on hold. "Hey, Chief!" Admiral Jake Robinson sounded cheerful and relaxed. "What's up? Zo tells me you're calling from Boston?" "Uh, yes, sir," Bobby said. "But, sir, this can wait until tomorrow, because—" "How's the shoulder?" the admiral interrupted. Admirals were allowed to interrupt whenever they wanted. "Much better, sir," Bobby lied. It was exactly like Admiral Robinson to have made certain he'd be informed about the injuries of anyone on the SEAL teams—and to remember what he'd been told. "These things take time." It was also like Robinson to see through Bobby's lie. "Slow and steady, Taylor. Don't push it too hard." "Aye, sir. Admiral, I had no idea that your secretary would patch me through here, to your home." "Well, you called to talk to me, didn't you?" "Yes, sir, but you're an admiral, sir, and—" "Ah." Robinson laughed. "You wanted it to be harder to reach me, huh? Well, if you need me to, I'll call Dottie in my office and tell her to put you on hold for a half an hour." Bobby had to laugh, too. "No, thank you. I'm just... surprised." "I don't take everyone's call," Jake Robinson's voice was serious now. "In fact, Dottie's probably kissed off half a dozen captains, commanders and lieutenant commanders already this morning. But when I set up the Gray Group, Chief, I made a point to make myself available / to the men I call to go out on my missions. You work for me— you need me? You got me. You probably don't know it, but you were on a Gray Group mission when you were injured. That cycled your name to the top of the list." "I wasn't told, but...I knew." "So talk to me, Chief. What's going on?" Bobby told him. "Sir, I've become aware of a situation in which a dozen U.S. citizens—mostly students from here in Boston—are about to walk into Tulgeria with a single, locally hired armed guard." Robinson swore, loudly and pungently. Bobby told the admiral about the earthquake relief organization. About the bus and the children in the orphanage. About the fact that these American Good Samaritans were not going to be talked out of making this trip. "What's your connection to this group, Chief?" Robinson asked. "Girlfriend?" "Negative, sir," Bobby said hastily. "No, it's Wes Skelly's sister. She's one of the volunteers who's going." "What, did Skelly send you to Boston to talk her out of it?" Robinson laughed. "God, you're a good friend to him, Bobby." "He's out of the country, Admiral, and I had the time. Besides, he'd do the same for me." "Yeah, and I suspect your sister is a little easier to handle than this sister of Skelly's—what's her name?" "Colleen, sir." "Is Colleen Skelly as much like her brother as I'm imagining her to be, God help us all?" Bobby laughed again. "Yes and no, sir. She's..." Wonderful. Beautiful. Amazingly sexy. Intelligent. Perfect. "She's special, sir. Actually, she reminds me of Zoe in a lot of ways. She's tough, but not really—it's just a screen she hides behind, if you know what I mean." "Oh, yes. I do." The admiral laughed softly. "Oh, boy. So, I know it's none of my business, but does Wes know that you've got a thing for his sister?" Bobby closed his eyes. Damn, he'd given himself away. There was no point in denying it. Not to Jake. The man may have been an admiral, but he was also Bobby's friend. "No, he doesn't." "Hmm. Does she know?" Good question. "Not really." "Damn." "I mean, she's incredible, Jake, and I think—no, I know she's looking for a fling. She's made that more than clear but I can't do it, and I'm..."

"Dying," Jake supplied the word. "Been there, done that. If she really is anything like Zoe, you don't stand a chance." He laughed. "Colleen Skelly, huh? With a name like that, I'm picturing a tiny redhead, kind of built like her brother—compact. Skinny. With a smart mouth and a temper." "She's a redhead," Bobby said. "And you're right about the mouth and the temper, but she's tall. She might even be taller than Wes. And she's not skinny. She's..." Stacked. Built like a brick house. Lush. Voluptuous. All those descriptions felt either disrespectful or as if he were exchanging locker-room confidences. "Statuesque," he finally came up with. "Taller than Wes, huh? That must tick him off." "She takes after their father, and he's built more like their mother's side of the family. It ticks Colleen off, too. She's gorgeous, but she doesn't think so." "Genetics. It's proof that Mother Nature exists," Jake said with a laugh. "She's got a strong sense of irony, doesn't she?" "I need you to help me, sir." Bobby brought their conversation back to the point. "Colleen's determined to go to Tulgeria. This whole trip is an international incident waiting to happen. If this isn't something you want to get Alpha Squad or the Gray Group involved in, then I'm hoping you can give me—" "It is," the admiral said. "Protection of U.S. citizens. In a case like this I like to think of it as preventative coun-terterrorism. The Tulgerian government will bitch and moan about it, but we'll get you in. We'll tell the local officials that we need two teams," he decided. "One'll accompany Colleen Skelly and her friends, the other'll go in covert. The timing is really good on this, Taylor. You're actually the one doing me the favor here." Admiral Robinson didn't say it. He couldn't say it, but Bobby knew he was going to use this seemingly standard protection op as a chance to send in an additional highly covert and top-secret team on an entirely different mission. It was probably related to the ongoing investigation of those rumors that the Tulgerian government was mass slaughtering its own citizens. God, what a world. "Alpha Squad will be back from their current training op in three days, tops," Robinson continued. "I'll have them rerouted here to the East Coast— to Little Creek. We'll both meet them there, Chief, you'll fill them in and work out a plan, then bring them back up to Boston to hash out the details with Colleen Skelly and her idealistic friends." The admiral wanted Bobby to be part of the op. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I may have misled you about the status of my shoulder. I still have limited movement and—" "I'm thinking you're valuable because you've already established rapport with the civilians," Jake cut him off. "But I'll let it be your choice, Bobby. If you don't want to go—" "Oh, no sir, I want to go." It was a no-brainer. He wanted to be there, himself, to make sure Colleen stayed safe. Yes, it would have been easier to toss the entire problem into Admiral Robinson's capable hands and retreat, swiftly and immediately, to California. But Wes would be back in three days. Bobby could handle keeping his distance from Colleen for three days. Couldn't he? "Good," Jake said. "I'll get the ball rolling." "Thank you, sir." "Before you go, Chief, want some unsolicited advice?" Bobby hesitated. "I'm not sure, sir." The admiral laughed—a rich burst of genuine amusement. "Wrong answer, Taylor. This is one of those times that you're supposed to 'Aye, aye, sir' me, simply because I'm an admiral and you're not." "Aye, aye, sir." "Trust your heart, Chief. You've got a good one, and when the time comes, well, I'm confident you'll know what to do." "Thank you, sir." "See you in a few days. Thanks again for the call." Bobby hung up the phone and lay back on his hotel room bed, staring up the ceiling.

When the time comes, you'll know what to do. He already knew what he had to do. He had to stay away from Colleen Skelly, who thought— God help them both—that she wanted him.

What did she know? She was ridiculously young. She had no clue how hard it was to sustain a relationship over long distances. She had no idea how difficult it was for anyone to be involved with a SEAL, let alone someone ridiculously young. She was mistaking her desire for a physical relationship with a man she had a crush on, with her very real need for something more powerful and more permanent. She said she wanted passion—well, he could give her that. He had no doubt. And maybe, if he were really lucky, she'd be so completely dazzled that she'd fall in love with him. Yeah, right, then where would she be? In love with a man who spent most of his time out of the country with her brother—provided her brother would ever forgive him enough to speak to him again. But the key words there were out of the country. Colleen would get tired of that fast enough. Eventually she'd be so tired of being second place in his life that she'd walk away. And he wouldn't stop her. But she'd want him to. And even though she was the one who left him, she'd end up hurt. The last thing he wanted in the world was to leave her hurt.

Follow your heart. He would. Even though it meant killing this relationship before it even started. Even though it was the hardest thing he'd ever done. *** Colleen slid the back door of the truck closed with a resounding bang. "Okay," she said, as she attached a combination lock that was more to keep the door from bouncing open as they drove into Boston than to deter thieves. "Did someone lock my apartment?" Kenneth looked blankly at Clark, and Clark looked blankly at Kenneth. Colleen gave up on them and looked at Bobby, who nodded. "I took care of it," he said. It was no surprise. He was dependable. Smart. Sexier than a man had the right to be at ten in the morning. Their eyes met only briefly before he looked away—still it was enough to send a wave of heat through her. Shame. Embarrassment. Mortification. What exactly had she said to him last night? I want you. In broad daylight, she couldn't believe her audacity. What had she been thinking? Still, he was here. He'd shown up bright and early this morning, hot cup of coffee in hand, to help lug all of the boxes of emergency supplies out of her living room and into the Relief Aid truck. He'd said hardly anything to her. In fact, he'd only said, "Hi," and then got to work with Clark and Kenneth, hauling boxes down the entryway stairs and out to the truck. Bad shoulder or not, he could carry two at once without even breaking a sweat. Colleen had spent the past ninety minutes analyzing that "Hi," as she'd built wall upon wall of boxes in the back of the truck. He'd sounded happy, hadn't he? Glad to see her? Well, if not glad to see her, he'd sounded neutral. Which was to say that at least he hadn't sounded unhappy to see her. And that was a good thing. Wasn't it? Everything she'd said to him last night echoed in her head and made her stomach churn. Any minute now they were going to be alone in the truck. Any minute now he was going to give her the friends speech, part two. Not that she'd ever been persistent and/or stupid enough before to have heard a part-two speech. But she had a good imagination. She knew what was coming. He would use the word flattered in reference to last night's no-holds-barred, bottom-line statement. He would focus on their differences in age, in background, in everything. One major difference between them that she already knew was that she was an idiot. Colleen climbed in behind the wheel and turned the key. Bobby got in beside her, picking her backpack up off the floor and placing it between them on the wide bench seat, like some kind of protective shield or definitive border. She and her brother Ethan and her sister Peg, both who'd been closest to her in age among the seven Skelly children, had made similar boundaries in the far back seat of their father's Pontiac station wagon. Don't cross this line or else. "Hey," Clark shouted over the roar of the diesel engine. "Can we bum a ride into Kenmore Square? You're going that way, right?" "Sure," she said. "Squeeze in." She felt Bobby tense. And then he moved. Quickly. He opened the passenger-side door, and would have leaped out to let the younger men sit in the middle—no doubt to keep from sitting pressed up against her—but Kenneth was already there, about to climb in. As Colleen watched, Bobby braced himself and slid down the seat toward her.

She took her pack and set it on the floor, tucked between the seat and her door. He moved as close as he possibly could without touching her. It was amazing, really, that he could be that close yet have absolutely no physical contact. He smelled like baby shampoo and fresh laundry with a hint of the coffee that he seemed to drink each morning by the gallon. His hair was back in a ponytail again. She couldn't imagine him letting her braid it later today. She couldn't do it now, not the way they were sitting. And she knew that after Clark and Kenneth got out of the truck, Bobby wasn't going to let her get close enough to braid his hair ever again—not after what she'd said to him last night. "Sorry," she said, her voice low. "I guess I must have embarrassed you to death last night." "You scared me to death," he admitted, his voice pitched for her ears only. "Don't get me wrong, Colleen, I'm flattered. I really am. But this is one of those situations where what I want to do is completely different from what I should do. And should's got to win." She looked up at him and found her face inches from his. A very small number of inches. Possibly two. Possibly fewer. The realization almost knocked what he'd just said out of her mind. Almost.

What he wanted to do, he'd said. True, he'd used the word flattered as she'd expected, but the rest of what he was saying was... Colleen stared at that mouth, at those eyes, at the perfect chin and nose that were close enough for her to lean forward, if she wanted to, and kiss. Oh, she wanted to. And he'd just all but told her, beneath all those ridiculous shoulds, that he wanted her, too. She'd won. She'd won!

Look at me, she willed him, but he seemed intent upon reading the truck's odometer. Kiss me. "I spoke to Admiral Robinson, who greenlighted U.S. military protection for your trip," he continued. "He wants me to remain in place as liaison with your group, and, well—" his gaze flicked in her direction "—I agreed. I'm here. I know what's going on. I have to stick around, even though I know you'd rather I go away." “Whoa, Bobby." She put her hand on his knee. "I don't want you to go anywhere." He glanced at her briefly again as he gently took her hand and deposited it back into her own lap. "The thing is..." He fixed his gaze on a point outside the truck. "I can't stay in the, uh—" he closed his eyes briefly "—the capacity in which you want me to stay." She laughed in disbelief. "But that's crazy!" He leaned forward to look out the passenger-side door, checking to see why Clark was taking so long to get in. Her roommate's brother was holding on to the door, blue head down, intent upon scraping something off the bottom of his shoe. "The admiral told me that Wes'll be back in about three days," Bobby told her. Three days. That meant they didn't have a lot of time to "Once he's back, it'll be easier for me to, you know, do the right thing. Until then..." "Do the right thing?" she repeated, loudly enough that Kenneth looked uncomfortable. "How could this," she gestured between them, "not be the right thing when everything about it feels so perfect?" Bobby glanced back toward Kenneth and Clark before finally meeting and holding her gaze. "Please, Colleen, I'm begging you—don't make this more difficult for me than it has to be," he said, still softly, and she knew, just like that, that she hadn't won. She'd lost. He wanted her, too, but he was begging her—begging her—not to push this attraction that hung between them too far. He wanted her, but he didn't want her. Not really. Not enough to let what he was feeling take priority over all their differences and all his asinine personal rules. Colleen felt like crying. Instead she forced a smile. "Too bad, Taylor, it would have been amazingly great," she told him. His smile was forced, too. He closed his eyes, as if he couldn't bear looking at her, and shook his head slightly. "I know," he said. "Believe me, I know." When he opened his eyes, he looked at her, briefly meeting her gaze again. He was sitting close—close enough for her to see that his eyes truly were completely, remarkably brown. There were no other flecks of color, no imperfections, no inconsistencies. But far more hypnotizing than the pure, bottomless color was the brief glimpse of frustration and longing he let her see. Either on purpose or accidentally, it didn't matter which. It took her breath away. "I need about three more inches of seat before I can close this door," Clark announced. He shifted left in a move reminiscent of a football player's offensive drive, making Kenneth yelp and ramming Bobby tightly against Colleen.

Completely against Colleen. His muscular thigh was wedged against her softer one. He had nowhere to put his shoulder or his arm, and even though he tried to angle himself, that only made it worse. Suddenly she was practically sitting in the man's lap.

"There," Clark added with satisfaction as he closed the truck door. "I'm ready, dudes. Let's go." Just drive. Colleen knew the smartest thing to do was to just drive. If traffic was light, it would take about fifteen minutes to reach Kenmore Square. Then Clark and Kenneth would get out, and she and Bobby wouldn't have to touch each other ever again. She could feel him steaming, radiating heat from the summer day, from the work he'd just done, and he shifted, trying to move away, but he only succeeded in making her aware that they both wore shorts, and that his bare skin was pressed against hers. She was okay, she told herself. She'd be okay as long as she kept breathing. Colleen reached forward to put the truck into drive. Raising her arm to hold the steering wheel gave Bobby a little more space—except now his arm was pressed against the side of her breast. He tried desperately to move away, but there was nowhere for him to go. "I can't lift my arm enough to put it on the back of the seat," he said in a choked-sounding voice. "I'm sorry." Colleen couldn't help it. She started to laugh. And then she did the only thing she could do, given the situation. She threw the truck into Park and turned and kissed him. It was obviously the last thing he'd expected. She could taste his disbelief. For the briefest moment he tried to pull away, but then she felt him surrender. And then he kissed her back as desperately and as hungrily as she kissed him. It was a kiss at least as potent as the one they'd shared in the alley. Did he always kiss like this, with his mouth a strange mix of hard and soft, with a voracious thirst and a feverish intensity, as if she were in danger of having her very life force sucked from her? His hands were in her hair, around her back, holding her in place so that he could claim her more completely. And claim her he did. Colleen had never been kissed quite so possessively in all her life. But, oh, she liked it. Very much. Quiet, easygoing Bobby Taylor kissed with a delirious abandon that was on the verge of out of control. He pulled her toward him, closer, tugging as if he wanted her on his lap, straddling him. As if he wanted...

9 There were protestors. On the sidewalk. In front of the AIDS Education Center. With signs saying NIMBY. Not In My Back Yard. Bobby, following Colleen's directions, had taken a detour after letting Clark and Kenneth out near Kenmore Square. Colleen had something to drop at the center—some papers or a file having to do with the ongoing court battle with the neighborhood zoning board. She'd been filling up the silence in the truck in typical Skelly fashion, by telling Bobby about how she'd gotten involved doing legal work for the center, through a student program at her law school. Although she'd yet to pass the bar exam, there was such a shortage of lawyers willing to do pro bono work like this—to virtually work for free for desperately cash-poor nonprofit organizations—student volunteers were allowed to do a great deal of the work. And Colleen had always been ready to step forward and volunteer. Bobby could remember when she was thirteen—the year he'd first met her. She was just a little kid. A tomboy— with skinned knees and ragged cutoff jeans and badly cut red hair. She was a volunteer even back then, a member of some kind of local environmental club, always going out on neighborhood improvement hikes, which was just a fancy name for cleaning up roadside trash. Once, he and Wes had had to drive her to the hospital to get stitches and a tetanus shot. During one of her tromps through a particularly nasty area, a rusty nail went right through the cheap soles of her sneakers and into her foot. It had hurt like hell, and she'd cried—a lot like the way she'd cried the other night. Wiping her tears away fast, so that, with luck, he and Wes wouldn't see. It had been a bad year for her. And for Wes, too. Bobby had come home with Wes earlier that year—for a funeral. Wes and Colleen's brother, Ethan, had been killed in a head-on with a tree, in a car driven by a classmate with a blood-alcohol level high enough to poison him. God, that had hurt. Wes had been numb for months after. Colleen had written to Bobby, telling him she'd joined a grief counseling group connected to Mothers Against Drunk Drivers. She'd written to ask Bobby to find a similar support group for Wes, who had loved Ethan best out of all his brothers and sisters, and was hurt the worst by the loss. Bobby had tried, but Wes didn't want any of it. He ferociously threw himself into training and eventually learned how to laugh again. "Pull over," Colleen said now. "There's no place to stop." "Double park," she ordered him. “I’ll get out—you can stay with the truck." "No way," he said, harshly throwing one of Wes's fa vorite—although unimaginative and fairly offensive—adjectives between the two words. She looked at him in wide-eyed surprise. He'd never used that word in front of her before. Ever. Her look wasn't reproachful, just startled. Still, he felt like a dirtball. "I beg your pardon," he said stiffly, still angry at her for kissing him after he'd begged her—begged her—not to, angry at himself, as well, for kissing her back, "but if you think I'm going to sit here and watch while you face down an angry mob—" "It's not an angry mob," she countered. "I don't see John Morrison, although you better believe he's behind this." He had to stop for the light, and she opened the door and slipped down from the cab. "Colleen!" Disbelief and something else, something darker that lurched in his stomach and spread fingers of ice through his blood, made his voice crack. Several of those signs were made with two-by-fours. Swung as a weapon, they could break a person's skull. She heard his yelp, he knew she had, but she only waved at him as she moved gracefully across the street. Fear. That cold dark feeling sliding through his veins was fear. He'd learned to master his own personal fear. Sky diving, swimming in shark-infested waters, working with explosives that, with one stupid mistake, could tear a man into hamburger. He'd taken hold of that fear and controlled it with the knowledge that he was as highly skilled as a human being could be. He could deal with anything that came along—anything, that is, that was in his control. As for those things outside of his control, he'd developed a zen-like deal with the powers that be. He'd live life to its fullest, and when it was his turn to go, when he no longer had any other options, well then, he'd go—no regrets, no remorse, no panic. He wasn't, however, without panic when it came to watching Colleen head into danger. There was a lull in the traffic, so he ran the light, pulling as close to the line of parked cars in front of the building as possible. Putting on his flashers, he left the truck sitting in the street as he ran as fast as he could to intercept Colleen before she reached the protestors.

He stopped directly in front of her and made himself as big as possible—a wall that she couldn't get past. "This," he said tightly, "is the last time you will ever disobey me." "Excuse me," she said, her mouth open in outraged disbelief. "Did you just say...disobey?” He'd pushed one of her buttons. He recognized that, but he was too angry, too upset to care. He was losing it, his voice getting louder. "In Tulgeria, you will not move, you will not lift a finger without my or Wes's permission. Do you understand?" She laughed at him, right in his face. "Yeah, in your dreams." "If you're going to act like a child—unable to control yourself—" "What are you going to do?" she countered hotly. "Tie me up?" "Yes, dammit, if I have to!" Bobby heard himself shouting. He was shouting at her. Bellowing. As loudly as he shouted in mock fury at the SEAL candidates going through BUD/S training back in Coronado. Except there was nothing mock about his fury now. She wasn't in danger. Not now. He could see the protestors, and up close they were a far-less-dangerous-looking bunch than he'd imagined them to be. There were only eight of them, and six were women—two quite elderly. But that was moot. She'd completely ignored his warning, and if she did that in Tulgeria, she could end up very dead very fast. "Go on," she shouted back at him, standing like a boxer on the balls of her feet, as if she were ready to go a few rounds. "Tie me up. I dare you to try!" As if she honestly thought she could actually beat him in a physical fight. As if she truly believed he would ever actually raise a hand against her or any other woman. No, he'd never fight her. But there were other ways to win. Bobby picked her up. He tossed her over his good shoulder, her stomach pressed against him, her head and arms dangling down his back. It was laughably easy to do, but once he got her there, she didn't stay still. She wriggled and kicked and howled and punched ineffectively at his butt and the backs of his legs. She was a big woman, and he wrenched his bad shoulder holding her in place, but it wasn't that that slowed him. No, what made him falter was the fact that her T-shirt had gapped and he was holding her in place on his shoulder with his hand against the smooth bare skin of her back. He was holding her legs in place—keeping her from kicking him—with a hand against the silkiness of her upper thighs. He was touching her in places he shouldn't be touching her. Places he'd been dying to touch her for years. But he didn't put her down. He just kept carrying her down the sidewalk, back toward the truck that was double parked in front of the center. His hair was completely down, loose around his face, and she caught some of it with one of her flailing hands, Caught and yanked, hard enough to make his eyes tear. "Ouch! God!" That was it. As soon as he got back to his room, he was shaving his head. "Let! Me! Go!" "You dared me," he reminded her, swearing again as she gave his hair another pull.

"I didn't think you were man enough to actually do it!" Oh, ouch. That stung far worse than getting his hair pulled. "Help!" she shrieked. "Someone help! Mrs. O'Hal-laran!" Mrs. who...? "Excuse me, young man..." Just like that, Bobby's path to the truck was blocked by the protestors. One of the elderly women stood directly in front of him now, brandishing her sign as if it were a cross and he were a vampire. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him from behind her thick glasses. Take Back the Night, the sign said. Neighborhood Safety Council. "He's being a jerk, Mrs. O'Hallaran," Colleen answered for him. "A complete idiotic, stupid, male-chauvinist jerk. Put me down, jerk!" "I know this young lady from church," the elderly woman—Mrs. O'Hallaran—told him, her lips pursed in disapproval, "and I'm certain she doesn't deserve the indignity of your roughhousing, sir." Colleen punched him in the back as she kneed him as hard as she could. She caught him in the stomach, but he knew she'd been aiming much lower. She'd wanted to bring him to his knees. "Put me down!"

"Colleen, do you want us to call the police?" one of the two men asked. She knew these people. And they knew her—by name. From church, the old lady had said. Colleen had never even remotely been in danger. Somehow that only served to make him even more mad. She could have told him she knew them, instead of letting him think... He put her down. She straightened her shirt, hastily pulling it back down over her exposed stomach, giving him a glimpse of her belly button, God help him. She ran her fingers quickly through her hair, and as she did, she gave him a look and a smile that was just a little too smug, as if she'd won and he'd lost. He forced himself to stop thinking about her belly button and glared at her. "This is just some kind of game to you, isn't it?" "No," she said, glaring back, "this is my life. I'm a woman, not a child, and I don't need to ask anyone's permission before I 'so much as lift my finger,' thank you very much." "So you just do whatever you want. You just walk around, doing whatever you want, kissing whoever you want, whenever you want—" Bobby shut himself up. What the hell did that have to do with this? Everything. She'd scared him, yes, by not telling him why she was so confident the protestors didn't pose a threat, and that fear had morphed into anger. And he'd also been angry, sure, that she'd completely ignored his warning. But, really, most of his anger came from that kiss she'd given him, less than an hour ago, in front of her apartment building. That incredible kiss that had completely turned him upside down and inside out and... And made him want far more than he could take. Worse and worse, now that he'd blurted it out, she knew where his anger had come from, too. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, reaching up to push his hair back from his face. He stepped away from her, unable to bear the softness of her touch, praying for a miracle, praying for Wes suddenly to appear. His personal guardian angel, walking down the sidewalk, toward them, with that unmistakable Skelly swagger. Colleen had mercy on him, and didn't stand there, staring at him with chagrin and pity in her luminous blue-green eyes. God, she was beautiful. And, God, he was so pathetic. He'd actually shouted at her. When was the last time he'd raised his voice in genuine anger? He couldn't remember. She'd turned back to the protestors and was talking to them now. "Did John Morrison tell you to come down here with these signs?" They looked at each other. As Bobby watched, Colleen spoke to them, telling them about the center, reassuring them that it would be an improvement to the neighborhood. This wasn't an abortion clinic. They wouldn't be handing out copious handfuls of free needles or condoms. They would provide HIV testing and counseling. They would provide AIDS education classes and workshops. She invited them inside, to introduce them to the staff and give them a tour of the facility, while Bobby stayed outside with the truck. A parking spot opened up down the street, and as he was parallel parking the beast, the truck's phone rang. It was Rene, the coordinator from the Relief Aid office, wondering where they were. She had ten volunteers ready to unpack the truck. Should they wait or should she let them take an early lunch? Bobby promised that Colleen would call her right back. He was a half a block away from the center when he saw the protestors take their signs and go home. Knowing Colleen, she'd talked half of them into volunteering at the cen ter. The other half had probably donated money to the cause. She came out and met him halfway. "I don't know why John Morrison is so determined to cause trouble. I guess I should be glad he only sent protestors this time, instead of throwing cinder blocks through the front windows again.” "Again?" Bobby walked her more swiftly toward the truck, wanting her safely inside the cab and out of this wretched neighborhood. "He did that before?" "Twice," she told him. "Of course, he got neighborhood kids to do the dirty work, so we can't prove he was behind it. You know, I find it a little ironic that the man owns a bar. And his place is not some upscale hangout... it's a dive. People go there to get seriously tanked or to connect with one of the girls from the local 'escort service,' which is really just a euphemism for Hookers R Us. I'm sure Morrison gets a cut of whatever money

exchanges hands in his back room, the sleaze, and we're a threat to the neighborhood...? What's he afraid of?" "Where's his bar?" Bobby asked. She gave him an address that meant nothing to him. But with a map he'd find it easily enough. He handed her the keys. "Call Rene on the cell phone and tell her you're on your way." She tried to swallow her surprise. "You're not coming?" He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes for more than the briefest fraction of a second. "Oh," she said. It was the way she said it, as if trying to hide her disappointment that made him try to explain. "I need to take some time to..." What? Hide from her? Yes. Run away? Absolutely. Pray that he'd last another two and a half days until Wes arrived? "Look, it's all right," she said. "You don't need to—" "You're driving me crazy," he told her. "Every time I turn around, I find myself kissing you. I can't seem to be able to stop." "You're the only one of us who sees that as a bad thing." "I'm scared to death to be alone with you," he admitted. "I don't trust myself to be able to keep the distance I need to keep." She didn't step toward him. She didn't move. She didn't say anything. She just looked at him and let him see her wanting him. He had to take a step back to keep himself from taking a step forward, and then another step and another, and pulling her into his arms and... "I've got to..." he said. "Go..." He turned away. Turned back. She still didn't say anything. She just waited. Standing there, wanting him. It was the middle of the day, on the sidewalk of a busy city street. Did she really think he'd do something as crazy as kiss her? Ah, God, he wanted to kiss her. A goodbye kiss. Just one last time. He wanted to do it, to kiss her again, knowing this time that it would, indeed, be the last time. He wanted—desperately—for her to kiss him the way she'd kissed him in the darkness of the backstreet off Harvard Square. So lightly. So sweetly. So perfectly. Just one more time like that. Yeah, like hell he could kiss her just one more time. If he so much as touched her again, they were both going to go up in flames. “Get in the truck," he somehow managed to tell her. “Please." For one awful moment he was certain she was going to reach for him. But then she turned and unlocked the door to the truck. "You know, we're going to have to talk about that 'obey' thing," she said. "Because if you don't lighten up, I'm going to recommend that we don't accept your admiral's protection. We don't have to, you know." Oh, yes, they did. But Bobby kept his mouth shut. He didn't say another word as she climbed into the truck from the passenger's side, as she slid behind the wheel and started the big engine. As he watched, she maneuvered the truck onto the street and, with a cloud of exhaust, drove away. Two and a half more days. How the hell was he going to survive?

10 Colleen cleaned out her refrigerator. She washed the bathroom floor and checked her e-mail. She called the center's main office to find out the status of Andrea Barker, who'd been attacked just outside her home. There was no change, she was told. The woman was still in a coma. Bobby still hadn't called. Colleen had picked up the phone once or twice, but each time talked herself out of calling his hotel. Finally, at :, the apartment building front door buzzer rang. Colleen leaned on the intercom. "Bobby?" "Uh, no." The male voice that came back was one she didn't know. "Actually, I'm looking for Ashley DeWitt?" "I'm sorry," Colleen said. "She's not here." "Look, I drove up from New York. I know she was coming here and... Hold on a sec," the voice said. There was a long silence, and then a knock directly on her apartment door. Colleen looked out through the peephole. Brad. Had to be. He was tall and slender, with dark-blond hair and a yacht-club face. She opened the door with the chain still on and gave him a very pointedly raised eyebrow. "Hi," he said, trying to smile. He looked awful. Like he hadn't slept in about a week. "Sorry, someone was coming out, so I came in." "You mean, you sneaked in." He gave up on the smile. “You must be Colleen, Ash's roommate. I'm Brad—the idiot who should be taken out and shot." Colleen looked into his Paul-Newman-blue eyes and saw his pain. This was a man who was used to getting everything he wanted through his good looks and charisma. He was used to being Mr. Special, to winning, to being envied by half of the world and wanted by the other half. But he'd blown it, big-time, with Ashley, and right now he hated himself. She shut the door to remove the chain. When she opened it again, she stepped back to let him inside. He was wearing a dark business suit that was rumpled to the point of ruin-as if he'd had it on during that entire week he hadn't been sleeping. He needed a shave, too. "She's really not here," Colleen told him as he followed her into the living room. "She went to visit her aunt on Martha's Vineyard. Don't bother asking, because I don't know the details. Her aunt rents a different house each summer. I think it's in Edgartown this year, but I'm not sure." "But she was here. God, I can smell her perfume." He sat down, heavily, on the sofa, and for one awful moment Colleen was certain that he was going to start to cry. Somehow he managed not to. If this was an act, he deserved an Oscar. "Do you know when she'll be back?" he asked. Colleen shook her head. "No." "Is this your place or hers?" He was looking around the living room, taking in the watercolors on the walls, the art prints, the batik-patterned curtains, the comfortable, secondhand furniture. "Most of this stuff is mine," Colleen told him. "Although the curtains are Ashley's. She's a secret flower child, you know. Beneath those designer suits is a woman who's longing to wear tie-dyed T-shirts." "Did she, uh, tell you what I did?" Brad asked. "Yup." He cleared his throat. "Do you think..." He had to start again. "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?" "No," Colleen said. Brad nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I don't think she will, either." He stood up. "The ferry to the Vineyard is out of Woods Hole, right?" "Brad, she went there because she doesn't want to see you. What you did was unconscionable." "So what do you recommend I do?" he asked her. "Give up?" His hands were shaking as if he'd had too much coffee on the drive up from New

York. Or as if he were going into withdrawal without Ashley around. Colleen shook her head. "No," she said. "Don't give up. Don't ever give up." She looked at the telephone—it still wasn't ringing. Bobby wasn't calling. That left only one alternative. She had to call him. Because she wasn't going to give up, either. She followed Brad to the door. "I quit my job," he told her. "You know, working for her father. If Ashley calls, will you tell her that?" "If she calls," Colleen said, “I’ll tell her you were here. And then, if she asks, I'll tell her what you said. But only if she asks." "Fair enough." "What should I tell her if she asks where you are?" He started down the stairs. "Edgartown. Tell her I'm in Edgartown, too." Bobby stared at the phone as it rang, knowing it was Colleen on the other end. Had to be. Who else would call him here? Maybe Wes, who had called earlier and left a message. It rang again. Bobby quickly did the math, figuring out the time difference.... No, it definitely wasn't Wes. Had to be Colleen. A third time. Once more and the voice mail system would click on. He reached for it as it began to ring that final time, silently cursing himself. "Taylor." "Hi, it's me." "Yeah," he said. "I figured." "And yet you picked it up, anyway. How brave of you." "What's happening?" he asked, trying to pretend that everything was fine, that he hadn't kissed her—again—and then spent the entire afternoon and evening wishing he was kissing her again. "Nothing," Colleen said. "I was just wondering what you were up to all day." "This and that." Mostly things he didn't want to tell her. That when he wasn't busy lusting after her, he'd been checking out John Morrison, for one. From what Bobby could tell from the locals, Morrison was mostly pathetic, Although, in his experience, pathetic men could be dangerous, too. Mostly to people they perceived to be weaker than they were. Like women. "Is your door locked?" Colleen lowered her voice seductively. "Is yours?" Oh, God. "This isn't a joke, Colleen," he said, working hard to keep his voice even. Calm. It wasn't easy. Inside he was ready to fly off the handle, to shout at her again. "A woman you work with was attacked—" "Yes, my door is locked," she said. "But if someone really wants in, they can get in, since my windows are all open wide. And don't ask me to close and lock them, because it's hot tonight." It was. Very hot. Even here in his air-conditioned hotel room. Funny, but it had seemed nice and cool right up until a few minutes ago. When the phone rang. He'd showered earlier in an attempt to chill out, but his hair, still down around his shoulders, was starting to stick to his neck again. As soon as he got off the phone with Colleen, he'd put it into a ponytail. Shoot, maybe he'd take another shower. A nice, freezing-cold one this time. "Colleen," he said. Despite his attempts to sound calm, there was a tightness to his voice. "Please don't tell me you sleep with your windows unlocked." She laughed. "All right," she said. "I won't tell you." Bobby heard himself make a strangled sound. "You know, if you want me to be really, absolutely safe, you could come over," she told him. "Although, you've got air-conditioning over there, don't you? So you should really ask me to come to the hotel. I could take a cab and be there in five minutes." He managed a word this time. "Colleen..." "Okay," she said. "Right. Never mind. It's a terrible idea. Forget it. Just forget about the fact that I'm here, sitting on my bed, all alone, and that you're just a short mile away, sitting on yours, presumably also all alone. Forget about the fact that kissing you is on my list of the five most wonderful things

I've ever done in my life and—" Oh, man. "I can't do it," he said, giving up on not trying to sound as desperate as he felt. "Dammit, even if you weren't Wes's sister, I'm only here for a few more days. That's all I could give you. I can't handle another long-distance relationship right now. I can't do that to myself." "I'll take the days," she said. "Day. Make it singular if you want. Just once. Bobby—" "I can't do that to you." But oh, sweet heaven, he wanted to. He could be at her place in five minutes. Less, One kiss, and he'd have her clothes off. Two, and... Oh, man. "I want to know what it's like." Her voice was husky, intimate across the phone line, as if she were whispering in his ear, her breath hot against him. "Just once. No strings, Bobby. Come on..." Yeah, no strings—except for the noose Wes would tie around his neck when he found out. Wes, who'd left a message for Bobby on his hotel voice mail... "Hey, Bobby! Word is Alpha Squad's heading back to Little Creek in a few days to assist Admiral Robinson's Gray Group in Tulgeria as part of some kind of civilian protection gig. Did you set that up, man? Let me guess, Leenie dug in her heels, so you called the Jakester. Brilliant move, my friend. It would be perfect—if Spaceman wasn't being such a total jerk out here on my end. "He's making all this noise about finally getting to meet Colleen. Remember that picture you had of her? It was a few months ago. I don't know where you got it, but Spaceman saw it and wouldn't stop asking about her. Where does she go to school? How old is she? Yada-yada-yada, on and on about her hair, her eyes, her smile. Give me a break! As if I'd ever let a SEAL within twenty-five feet of her— not even an officer and alleged gentleman like Spaceman, no way. Look, I’ll call you when we get into Little Creek, In the meantime, stick close to her, all right? Put the fear of God or the U.S. Navy into any of those college jerks sniffing around her, trying to get too close. Thanks again for everything, Bobby. I hope your week hasn't been too miserable." Miserable wasn't even close. Bobby had left misery behind a long time ago. "Maybe we should have phone sex," Colleen suggested.

"What?" Bobby dropped the receiver. He moved fast and caught it before it bounced twice. "No!" She was laughing at him again. "Ah, come on. Where's your sense of adventure, Taylor? What are you wearing? Isn't that the way you're supposed to start?" "Colleen—" She lowered her voice. "Don't you want to know what I've got on?" "No. I have to go now." Bobby closed his eyes and didn't hang up the phone. Yes. Oh, man. "My nightgown," she told him, her voice even softer. Slightly breathy now. Deep and husky, her voice was unbelievable even when she wasn't trying to give him a heart attack. Right now, she was trying, and it was pure sex. "It's white. Cotton." She left long pauses between her words, as if giving him plenty of time to picture her. "Sleeveless. It's got buttons down the front, and the top one fell off a long time ago, leaving it a little...daring, shall we say? It's old—nice and soft and a little worn-out." He knew that nightgown. He'd seen it hanging on the back of her bathroom door the last time he and Wes had visited. He'd touched it by mistake when he'd come out of the shower, thinking it was his towel. It wasn't. It was very soft to the touch. Her body, beneath it, would be even softer. "Want me to guess what you're wearing?" she asked. Bobby couldn't speak. "A towel," she said. "Just a towel. Because I bet you just showered. You like to shower at night to cool down before you go to bed, right? If I touched you," her voice dropped another notch, "your skin would be clean and cool and smooth. "And your hair's down—it's probably still a little damp, too. If I were there, I'd brush it out for you. I'd kneel behind you on the bed and—" "If you were here," Bobby said, interrupting her, his voice rough to his own ears, "you wouldn't be brushing my hair." "What would I be doing?" she shot back at him. Images bombarded him. Colleen, flashing him her killer smile just before she lowered her head and took him into her mouth. Colleen, lying back on his bed, hair spread on his pillows, breasts peaked with desire, waiting for him, welcoming him as he came to her. Colleen, head back as she straddled him, as he filled her, hard and fast and deep and Reality intervened. Phone sex. Dear sweet heaven. What was she doing to him? Beneath the towel—yes, she was right about the towel he wore around his waist—he was completely aroused.

"What would you be doing? You'd be calling a cab to take you home," he told her. "No, I wouldn't. I'd kiss you," she countered, "and you'd pick me up and carry me to your bed." "No, I wouldn't," he lied. "Colleen, I have...I really have to go now. Really." "Your towel would drop to the floor," she said, and he couldn't make himself hang up the phone, both dreading and dying to hear what she would say next. "And after you put me down, you'd let me look at you." She drew in a breath, and it caught—a soft little gasp that made him ache from wanting her. "I think you're the most beautiful man I've ever seen." He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. "I think you're crazy." His voice cracked. "No. Oh, your shoulders are so wide, and your chest and arms...mmmmm." She made a sound deep in her throat that was so sexy he was sure he was going to die. Stop this. Now. Somehow he couldn't make his lips form the words. "And the muscles in your stomach, leading down to..." She made another sound, a sigh, this time. "Do you know how incredibly good you look naked? There's...so much of you. I'm a little nervous, but you smile at me, and your eyes are so soft and beautiful, I know you'd never hurt me." Bobby stood up. His sudden, jerky movement was reflected in the mirror above the dresser, on the other side of the dimly lit room. He looked ridiculous standing there, his towel tenting out in front of him. He must've made some anguished noise, because she quieted him. "Shhh. It's okay." But it wasn't. Nothing about this was okay. Still, he couldn't hang up. He couldn't make her stop. He couldn't stand the sight of himself like that, standing there like some absurd, pathetic clown, and he took the towel off, flinging it across the room. Only now he stood there naked. Naked and aching for someone he couldn't have. Not really. "After I look at you for a long time..." Her voice was musical. Seductive. He could have listened to her read a phone book and gotten turned on. This was driving him mad. "I unbutton my nightgown. I've got nothing on underneath, nothing at all, and you know it. But you don't rush me. You just sit back and watch. One button at a time. "Finally, I'm done, but...I'm shy." She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was very small. "I'm afraid you won't...like me." She was serious. She honestly thought "Are you kidding? I love your body," Bobby told her. "I dream about you wearing that nightgown. I dream about—" Oh, my God. What was he doing? "Oh, tell me," she breathed. "Please, Bobby, tell me what you dream." "What do you think I dream?" he asked harshly, angry at her, angry at himself, knowing he still wasn't man enough to hang up the phone and end this, even though he knew damn well that he should. "I dream exactly what you're describing right now. You in my bed." His voice caught on his words. "Ready for me." "I am," she told him. "Ready for you. Completely. You're still watching, so I...I touch myself—where I'm dying for you to touch me." She made a noise that outdid all of the other noises she'd been making, and Bobby nearly started to cry. Oh, man, he couldn't do this. This was Wes's sister on the other end of this phone. This was wrong. He turned his back to the mirror, unable to look at his reflection. "Please," she gasped, "oh, please, tell me what you dream when you dream about me." Oh, man. "Where did you learn to do this?" He had to know. "I didn't," she said breathlessly. "I'm making it up as I go along. You want to know what I dream about you?" No. Yes. It didn't matter. She didn't wait for him to answer. "My fantasy is that the doorbell rings, and you're there when I answer it. You don't say anything. You just come inside and lock the door behind you. You just look at me and I know. This is it. You want me. "And then you kiss me, and it starts out so slowly, so delicately, but it builds and it grows and it takes over everything—the whole world gets lost in the shadow of this one amazing kiss. You touch me and I touch you, and I love touching you, but I can't get close enough, and somehow you know that, and you make my clothes disappear. And you still kiss me and kiss me, and you don't stop kissing me until I'm on my back on my bed, and you're—" her voice dropped to a whisper "—inside of me." "That's what I dream," Bobby whispered, too, struggling to breathe. "I dream about being inside you." Hell. He was going to burn in hell for saying that aloud.

Her breath was coming in gasps, too. "I love those dreams," she told him. "It feels so good..." "Yes..." "Oh, please," she begged. "Tell me more...." Tell her... When he closed his eyes, he could see Colleen beneath him, beside him, her body straining to meet his, her breasts filling his hands and his mouth, her hair a fragrant curtain around his face, her skin smooth as silk, her mouth soft and wet and delicious, her hips moving in rhythm with his.... But he could tell her none of that. He couldn't even begin to put it into words. "I dream of touching you," he admitted hoarsely. "Kissing you. Everywhere." It was woefully inadequate, compared to what she'd just described. But she sighed as if he'd given her the verbal equivalent of the Hope Diamond. So he tried again, even though he knew he shouldn't. He stood there, listening to himself open his mouth and say things he shouldn't say to his best friend's sister. "I dream of you on top of me." His voice sounded distant and husky, thick with desire and need. Sexy. Who would have thought he'd be any good at this? "So I can watch your face, Colleen." He dragged out her name, taking his time with it, loving the way it felt in his mouth, on his tongue. Colleen. "So I can look into your eyes, your beautiful eyes. Oh, I love looking into your eyes, Colleen, while you..." "Oh, yes," she gasped. "Oh, Bobby, oh—" Oh, man.

11 Just after midnight the phone rang. Colleen picked it up on the first ring, knowing it was Bobby, knowing that he wasn't calling for a replay of what they'd just done. Pretended to do. Sort of. She didn't bother even to say hello. "Are you okay?" He'd been so freaked out earlier that she'd made up an excuse to get off the phone, thinking he needed time alone to get his heart and lungs working again. But now she was wondering if that hadn't been a mistake. Maybe what he'd really needed was to talk. "I don't know," he answered her. "I'm trying to figure out which level of hell I'm going to be assigned to." "He's able to make a joke," Colleen said. "Should I take that as a good sign?" "I wasn't joking. Dammit, Colleen, I can't do that ever again. I can't. I shouldn't have even—" "All right," she said. "Look, Guilt Man, let it go. I steamrolled over you. You didn't stand a chance. Besides, it's not as if it was real." "No?" he said. "That's funny, because from this end, it sounded pretty authentic." "Well, yeah," she said. "Sure. On a certain level it was. But the truth is, your participation was nice, but it wasn't necessary. All I ever really have to do is think about you. If you want to know the truth, this isn't the first time I've let my fantasies of you and me push me over the edge—" "Oh, my God, don't tell me that!" "Sorry." Colleen made herself stop talking. She was making this worse, telling him secrets that made her blush when she stopped to think about it. But his feelings of guilt were completely unwarranted. "I've got to leave," he told her, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady. "I have to get out of here. I've decided—I'm going down to Little Creek early. I'll be back in a few days, with the rest of Alpha Squad." With Wes. One step forward, two steps back. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't go into detail with my brother about—" "I'm going to tell him that I didn't touch you. Much. But that I wanted to." "Because it's not like I make a habit of doing that— phone sex, I mean. And since you obviously didn't like it, I'm not going to—" "No," he interrupted her. "You know, if I'm Guilt Man, then you're Miss Low Self-Esteem. How could you even think I didn't like it? I loved it. Every excruciating minute. You are unbelievably hot, and you completely killed me. If you got one of those numbers, you could make a fortune, but you damn well better not." "You loved it, but you don't want to do it again?" Bobby was silent on the other end of the line, and Colleen waited, heart in her throat. “It's not enough," he finally said. "Come over," she said, hearing her desire coat her voice. "Please. It's not too late to—" "I can't." "I don't understand why not. If you want me, and I want you, why can't we get together? Why does this have to be so hard?" "If we were a pair of rabbits, sure," Bobby said. "It would be simple. But we're not, and it's not. This attraction between us...it's all mixed up with what I want, which is not to get involved with someone who lives three thousand miles away from me, and with what I want for you, which is for you to live happily ever after with a good man who loves you, and children if you want them, and a career that makes you jump out of bed with pleasure and excitement every single morning for the rest of your life. And if that's not complicated enough, there's also what I know Wes wants for you—which is more than just a man who loves you, but someone who will take care of you, too. Someone who's not in the Teams, someone who's not even in the Navy. Someone who can buy you presents and vacations and houses and cars without having to get a bank loan. Someone who'll be there, every morning, without fail." "He also wants to make sure that I don't have any fun at all, the hypocrite. Making noise about how I have to wait until I'm married, when he's out

there getting it on with any and every woman he can." "He loves you," Bobby told her. "He's scared you'll end up pregnant and hating your life. Abandoned by some loser. Or worse—tied to some loser forever." "As if I'd sleep with a loser." Bobby laughed softly. "Yeah, well, I think I might fall into Wes's definition of a loser, so yes, you would." "Ho," Colleen said. "Who's Mr. Low Self-Esteem now?"

"Wes's definition," he said again. "Not necessarily mine." "Or mine," she countered. "It's definitely not mine." "So, okay," he told her. "We toss the fact that I want to make love to you for about seventy-two hours straight into that mess of what you want and I want and Wes wants. Boom. What happens upon impact? You get lucky, I get lucky, which would probably be transcendental—no, not probably, definitely. So that's great...or is it? Because all I can see, besides the immediate gratification of us both getting off, is a boatload of pain. "I risk getting too...I don't know, attached to someone who lives three thousand miles away from me. "I risk my relationship with your brother.... "You risk your relationship with your brother.... "You risk losing any opportunities that might be out there of actually meeting someone special, because you're messing around with me." Maybe you're the special one. Colleen didn't dare say it aloud. He obviously didn't think so. "I've got a flight into Norfolk that leaves Logan just after hours," he said quietly. "I'm going into the Relief Aid office in the morning. I've got a meeting set up at hours to talk about the security we're going to be providing in Tulgeria—and what we expect from your group in terms of following the rules we set up. I figured you'd want to sit in on that." "Yeah," Colleen said. "I'll be there." And how weird was that going to be—meeting his eyes for the first time since they'd...since she'd... She took a deep breath. "I'll borrow a truck, after, and give you a lift to the airport." "That's okay. I'll take the T." He spoke quickly. "What, are you afraid I'm going to jump you, right there in the truck, in the airport's short-term parking lot?" "No," he said. He laughed, but it was grim instead of amused. "I'm afraid I'm going to jump you. From here on in, Colleen, we don't go anywhere alone." "But—" "I'm sorry. I don't trust myself around you." "Bobby—" "Good night, Colleen." "Wait," she said, but he'd already hung up. One step forward, two steps back. Okay. Okay. She just had to figure out a way to get him alone. Before —-: p.m.—tomorrow. How hard could that be? The Relief Aid office was hushed and quiet when Bobby came in at . The radio—which usually played classic rock at full volume—was off. No one was packing boxes of canned goods and other donations. People stood, talking quietly in small groups. Rene pushed past him, making a beeline for the ladies' room, head down. She was crying. What the...? Bobby looked around, more carefully this time, but Colleen was nowhere in sight. He saw Susan Fitzgerald, the group's leading volunteer, sitting at the row of desks on the other side of the room. She was on the phone, and as he watched, she hung up. She just sat there, then, rubbing her forehead and her eyes behind her glasses. "What's going on?" he asked. "Another quake hit Tulgeria this morning," she told him. "About a.m., our time. I'm not sure how it happened, whether it was from a fire caused by

downed power lines or from the actual shock waves, but one of the local terrorist cells had an ammunitions stockpile, and it went up in a big way. The Tulgerian government thought they were under attack and launched a counteroffensive." Oh, God. Bobby could tell from the look on Susan's face that the worst news was coming. He braced himself. "St. Christof’s—our orphanage—sustained a direct hit from some sort of missile," Susan told him. "We lost at least half of the kids." Oh, Christ. "Does Colleen know?" Susan nodded. "She was here when the news came in. But she went home. Her little girl—the one she'd been writing to—was on the list of children who were killed." Analena. Oh, God. Bobby closed his eyes. "She was very upset," Susan told him. "Understandably." He straightened up and started for the door. He knew damn well that Colleen's apartment was the last place he should go, but it was the one place in the world where he absolutely needed to be right now. To hell with his rules. To hell with everything. "Bobby," Susan called after him. "She told me you're leaving for Virginia in a few hours. Try to talk her into coming back here when you go. She really shouldn't be alone." Colleen let the doorbell ring the same way she'd let the phone ring. She didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to see anyone, didn't want to have to try to explain how a little girl she'd never met could have owned such an enormous piece of her heart. She didn't want to do anything but lie here, on her bed, in her room, with the shades pulled down, and cry over the injustice of a world in which orphanages were bombed during a war that really didn't exist. Yet, at the same time, the last thing she wanted was to be alone. Back when she was a kid, when her world fell apart and she needed a shoulder to cry on, she'd gone to her brother Ethan. He was closest in age to her—the one Skelly kid who didn't have that infamous knee-jerk temper and that smart-mouthed impatience. She'd loved him, and he'd died, too. What was it with her...that made the people she loved disappear? She stared up at her ceiling, at the cracks and chips that she'd memorized through too many sleepless nights. She should have learned by now just to stop loving, to stop taking chances. Yeah, like that would ever happen. Maybe she was stupid, but that was one lesson she refused to learn. Every single day, she fell in love over and over. When she walked past a little girl with a new puppy. When a baby stared at her unblinkingly on the trolley and then smiled, a big, drooly, gummy grin. When she saw an elderly couple out for a stroll, still holding hands. She lost her heart to them all. Still, just once, she wanted more than to be a witness to other people's happy endings. She wanted to be part of one. She wanted Bobby. She didn't care when the doorbell stopped ringing and the phone started up again, knowing it was probably Bobby, and crying even harder because she'd pushed too hard and now he was leaving, too. Because he didn't want her love, not in any format. Not even quick and easy and free—the way she'd offered it. She just lay on her bed, head aching and face numb from the hours she'd already cried, but unable to stop. But then she wasn't alone anymore. She didn't know how he got in. Her door was locked. She hadn't even heard his footsteps on the floor. It was as if Bobby had just suddenly materialized, next to her bed. He didn't hesitate, he just lay down right next to her and drew her into his arms. He didn't say a word, he just held her close, cradling her with his entire body. His shirt was soft against her cheek. He smelled like clean clothes and coffee. The trace of cigarette smoke that usually lingered on his shirt and even in his hair had finally been washed away. But it was late. If he was going to get to Logan in time to catch his flight to Norfolk... "You have to leave soon," she told him, trying to be strong, wiping her face and lifting her head to look into his eyes. For a man who could make one mean war face when he wanted to, he had the softest, most gentle eyes. "No." He shook his head slightly. "I don't." Colleen couldn't help it. Fresh tears welled, and she shook from trying so hard not to cry. "It's okay," he told her. "Go on and cry. I've got you, sweet. I'm here. I'll be here for as long as you need me." She clung to him.

And he just held her and held her and held her. As she fell asleep, still held tightly in his arms, his fingers running gently through her hair, her last thought was to wonder hazily what he was going to say when he found out that she could well need him forever. Bobby woke up slowly. He knew even before he opened his eyes that, like Dorothy, he wasn't in Kansas anymore. Wherever he was, it wasn't his apartment on the base, and he most certainly wasn't alone. It came to him in a flash. Massachusetts. Colleen Skelly, She was lying against him, on top of him, beneath him, her leg thrown across his, his thigh pressed tight between her legs. Her head was on his shoulder, his arms beneath her and around her, the softness of her breasts against his chest, her hand tucked up alongside his neck. They were both still fully dressed, but Bobby knew with an acceptance of his fate—it was actually quite calming and peaceful, all things considered —that after she awoke, they wouldn't keep their clothes on for long. He'd had his chance for a clean escape, and he'd blown it. He was here, and there was no way in hell he was going to walk away now. Wes was just going to have to kill him. But, damn, it was going to be worth it. Bobby was going to die with a smile on his face. His hand had slipped up underneath the edge of Colleen's T-shirt, and he took advantage of that, gliding his fingers across the smooth skin of her back, up all the way to the back strap of her bra, down to the waistband of her shorts. Up and back in an unending circle. Man, he could lie here, just touching her lightly like this, for the rest of his life. But Colleen stirred, and he waited, still caressing the softness of her skin, feeling her wake up and become as aware of him as he was of her. She didn't move, didn't pull away from him. And he didn't stop touching her. “How long did I sleep?" she finally asked, her voice even huskier than usual. "I don't know," he admitted. "I fell asleep, too." He glanced at the windows. The light was starting to weaken. "It's probably around —seven o'clock." ''Thank you," she said. "For coming here." "You want to talk about it?" Bobby asked. "About An-alena?" "No," she said. "Because when I say it out loud, it all sounds so stupid. I mean, what was I thinking? That I was going to bring her here, to live with me? I mean, come on—who was I kidding? I don't have room—look at this place. And I don't have money—I can barely pay my own bills. I couldn't live here without Ashley paying for half of everything. I had to sell my car to stay in law school. And that's with the school loans. And how am I supposed to take care of a kid while I'm going to school? I don't have time for an instant family—not now while I'm in law school. I don't have time for a husband, let alone a child, And yet..." She shook her head. “When I saw her pictures and read her letters... Oh, Bobby, she was so alive. I didn't even get a chance to know her, but I wanted to—God, I wanted to!" “If you had met her, you would have fallen completely in love with her." He smiled. "I know you pretty well. And she would've loved you, too. And you would have somehow made it work," he told her. "It wouldn't have been easy, but there are some things you just have to do, you know? So you do it, and it all works out. I'm sorry you won't get that chance with Analena." She lifted her head to look at him. "You don't think I'm being ridiculous?" "I would never think of you as ridiculous," he told her quietly. "Generous, yes. Warm. Giving. Loving, caring..." Something shifted. There was a sudden something in her eyes that clued him in to the fact that, like him, she was suddenly acutely, intensely aware of every inch of him that was in contact with every inch of her. "Sexy as hell," he whispered. "But never ridiculous." Her gaze dropped to his mouth. He saw it coming. She was going to kiss him, and his fate would be sealed. He met her halfway, wanting to take a proactive part in this, wanting to do more than simply be unable to resist the temptation. Her lips were soft, her mouth almost unbearably sweet. It was a slow, languorous kiss—as if they both knew that from here on in, there was no turning back, no need to rush. He kissed her again, longer this time, deeper—just in case she had any last, lingering doubts about what was going to happen next. But before he could kiss her again, she pulled away. There were tears in her eyes.

"I didn't want it to happen this way," she said. He tried to understand what she was telling him, tried to rein himself in. "Colleen, if you don't want me to stay—" "No," she said. "I do want you to stay. I want you. Too much. See, I lay awake last night, figuring out ways to get you back here. I was going to make something up, try to trick you into coming here after the meeting and then..." Comprehension dawned. She'd gotten what she'd wanted. He was here. But at what price? An earthquake and a war. A body count that included people she'd loved. "No," he told her, not wanting her to believe that. "I would've shown up here sooner or later. Even if I'd gotten on that plane—and I'm not sure I would have been able to—I would've called you from Little Creek tonight. I wouldn't have been able to resist." She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hands. "Really?" "The things you do to me with just a telephone... Man, oh, man." Tears still clung to her eyelashes, and her nose was slightly pink. But she was laughing. As he held her gaze, he remembered the things she said to him last night and let her see that memory reflected in his eyes. She blushed slightly. "I've really never done that before," she told him. "I mean, the phone part." She blushed again as she looked away, embarrassed by what she'd just again admitted. He needed her to know what merely thinking about her—about that—did to him. He pulled her chin back so that she had to look into his eyes, as he answered her with just as much soul-baring honesty. "Maybe someday you'll let me watch." Someday. The word hung between them. It implied that there was going to be more than just tonight. "You don't do long-distance relationships," she reminded him. "No," he corrected her. "I don't want to do it that way. I have in the past, and I've hated it. It's so hard to—" “I don't want to be something that's hard,'' she told him. "I don't want to be an obligation that turns into something you dread dealing with." He steeled himself, preparing to pull away from her, out of her arms. "Then maybe I should go, before—" “Maybe we should just make love and not worry about tomorrow," she countered. She kissed him, and it was dizzying. He kissed her back hungrily, possessively—all sense of laziness gone. He wanted her, now. He needed her. Now. Her hands were in his hair, freeing it completely from the ponytail that had already halfway fallen out. She kissed him even harder, angling her head to give him better access to her mouth—or maybe to give herself better access to his mouth. Could she really do this? Make love to him tonight and only tonight? Her legs tightened around his thigh, and he stopped thinking. He kissed her again and again, loving the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms. He reached between them, sliding his hand up under her shirt to fill his hand with her breast. She pulled back from him to tug at his T-shirt. She wanted it off, and it was easier simply to give up—temporarily—trying to kiss and touch as much of her as he possibly could, and take his shirt off himself. His shoulder was still stiff, and the only way he could get a T-shirt on or off was awkwardly. Painfully. One arm at a time. Before he even got it off, she'd started on his shorts, her fingers cool against his stomach as she unfastened the button and then the zipper. She had his shorts halfway down his legs by the time he tossed his shirt onto the floor. He helped her, kicking his legs free, and then there he was. On her bed in only his briefs, while she was still fully clothed. He reached for her, intending to rid her of her T-shirt and shorts as efficiently as she'd taken care of his, but she distracted him by kissing him. And then he distracted himself by touching her breasts beneath her shirt, by unfastening her bra and kissing her right through the cotton, by burying his face in the softness of her body. It wasn't until he tried to push her shirt up over her breasts so that he could see her as well as touch and kiss, that he felt her tense. And he remembered.

She was self-conscious about her body. Probably because she wasn't stick thin like the alleged Hollywood ideal. The hell with that—she was his ideal. She was curvaceous. Stacked. Voluptuous. She was perfection. Man, if he were her, he would walk around in one of those little nonexistent tank tops that were so popular. She should wear one without a bra, and just watch all the men faint as she passed by. Someday he'd get her one of those. She could wear it here, in the privacy of her room, if she didn't want to wear it in public. Man, he hadn't thought he could get any harder, any hotter, but just the thought of her wearing something like that, just because he liked it—just for him— heated him up another notch. She would do it, too. After he made her realize that he truly worshiped her body, that he found her unbelievably beautiful and sexy, she would be just as adventurous about that as she was with everything else. Phone sex. Sweet heaven. Phone sex was all about words. About saying what he wanted, about saying how he felt. He hadn't been very good at it—not like Colleen. Unlike her, words weren't his strong suit. But he had to do it again now. He had to use words to reassure her, to let her know just how beautiful he thought she was. He could do it with body language, with his eyes, with his mouth and his hands. He could show her, by the way he made love to her, but even then, he knew she wouldn't completely believe him. No, if he wanted to dissolve that edge of tension that tightened her shoulders, he had to do it with words. Or did he? Maybe he could do a combination of both show and tell. "I think you're spectacular," he told her. "You're incredible and gorgeous and..." And he was doing this wrong. She wasn't buying any of it. He touched her, reaching up beneath her shirt to caress her. He had the show part down. He wanted to taste her, and he realized with a flash that instead of trying to make up compliments filled with meaningless adjectives, he should just say what he wanted, say how he felt. He should just open his mouth and speak his very thoughts. "I want to taste you right here," he told her as he touched her. "I want to feel you in my mouth." He tugged her shirt up just a little, watching her face, ready to take it even more slowly if she wanted him to. But she didn't tense up, so he drew it up a little more, exposing the underside of her breast, so pale and soft and perfect. And then he forgot to watch her eyes because there was her nipple, peeking out. He'd been holding his breath, he realized, and he let it out in a rush. "Oh, yeah." She was already taut with desire, and he lowered his head to do just what he'd described. She made a sound that he liked, a sound that had nothing to do with being self-conscious and everything to do with pleasure. He drew her shirt up then, up and over her head, and she sat up to help him. And there she was. As he pulled back to look at her, he opened his mouth and let his thoughts escape. Unfortunately, his expression of sincere admiration was one of Wes's favorite, more colorful turns of phrase. Fortunately, Colleen laughed. She looked at him, looked at the expression he knew was on his face, the pure pleasure he let shine from his eyes. “You're so beautiful," he breathed. "I've died and gone to heaven." "Gee," she said, "and I don't even have my pants off." He grabbed her by the waist of her shorts, flipping her back onto the bed and, as she whooped in surprised laughter, he corrected that. In five seconds flat she was naked and he was kissing her, touching, loving the feel of all that smooth, perfect skin against him. And when he pulled back to really look at her, there wasn't a bit of tension in the air. But this talking thing was working so well, why stop? "Do you know what you do to me?" he asked her as he touched, kissed, explored. He didn't give her time to answer. He just took one of her own exploring hands, and pressed it against him. "You are so sexy, that happens to me every time I see you," he whispered, looking into her eyes to let her see the intense pleasure that shot through

him at her touch. "Every time I think of you." She was breathing hard, and he pulled her to him and kissed her again, reaching between them to help her rid him of his briefs. Her fingers closed around him, and he would have told her how much he liked that, but words failed him, and all he could do was groan. She seemed to understand and answered him in kind as he slipped his hand between her legs. She was so slick and soft and hot, he could feel himself teetering on the edge of his self-control. He needed a condom. Now. But when he spoke, all he could manage to say was her name. Again she understood. "Top drawer. Bedside table." He lunged for it, found it. An unopened, cellophane-wrapped box. He both loved and hated the fact that the box was unopened. Growling with frustration, he tried to rip the damned thing in half. Colleen took it from his hands and opened it quickly, laughing at the way he fumbled the little wrapped package, getting in the way, touching and kissing him as he tried to cover himself.

Slow down. She'd told him herself that she hadn't had much experience. He didn't want to be too rough, didn't want to hurt her or scare her or... She pulled him back with her onto the bed in a move that Xena the Warrior Princess would have been in awe of. And she told him, in extremely precise language, exactly what she wanted. How could he refuse? Especially when she kissed him, when she lifted her hips and reached between them to find him and guide him and... He entered her far less gently than he'd intended, but her moan was one of pure pleasure. "Yes," she told him as he pushed himself even more deeply inside her. "Oh, Bobby, yes..." He kissed her, touched her, stroked her, murmuring things that he couldn't believe were coming out of his mouth, things that he loved about her body, things he wanted to do to her, things she made him feel—things that made her laugh and gasp and murmur equally sexy things back to him, until he was damn near blind with passion and desire. Gentle had long-gone right out the window. He was filling her, hard and fast, and she was right there with him, urging him on. She told him when she began to climax—as if he wouldn't know from the sound of her voice. As if he couldn't feel her shatter around him. Still, he loved that she told him, and her breathless words helped push him over the edge. And just like that he was flying, his release rocketing through him with so much power and force he had to shout her name, and even that wasn't enough. He wanted to tell her how she made him feel, about the sheer, crystal perfection of the moment that seemed to surround him, shimmering and wonderful, filling his chest until it was hard to breathe, until he wanted to cry from its pure beauty. But there were no words that could describe how he felt. To do it justice, he would have to invent a completely new vocabulary. Bobby realized then that he was lying on top of her, crushing her, completely spent. His shoulder felt as if he'd just been shot all over again—funny, he hadn't felt even a twinge until now and Colleen was crying. "Oh, my God," he said, shifting off her, pulling her so that she was in his arms. "Did I hurt you? Did I...?" "No!" she said, kissing him. "No, it's just...that was so perfect, it doesn't seem fair. Why should I be so lucky to be able to share something so special with you?" "I'm sorry," he said, kissing her hair, holding her close. He knew she was thinking about Analena. "Will you stay with me?" she asked. "All night?" "I'm right here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere." "Thank you." Colleen closed her eyes, her head against his chest, her skin still damp from their lovemaking. Bobby lay naked in Colleen's bed, holding her close, breathing in her sweet scent, desperately trying to fend off the harsh reality that was crashing down around him. He'd just made love with Colleen Skelly. No, he'd just had sex with Colleen Skelly. He'd just got it on with Wes's little sister. He'd put it to her. Nailed her. Scored. That was the way Wes was going to see it—not sweetly disguised with pretty words like making love.

Last night he'd had phone sex with Colleen. Tonight he'd done the real deal. Just one night, she wanted. Just one time. Just to find out what it would be like. Would she stick to that? Give him breakfast in the morning, shake his hand and thank him for the fun experience and send him on his way? Bobby wasn't sure whether to hope so or hope not. He already wanted too much. He wanted— No, he couldn't even think it. Maybe, if they only made love this once, Wes would understand that it was an attraction so powerful—more powerful than both of them—that couldn't be denied. Bobby tried that on for size, tried to picture Wes's calm acceptance and rational understanding and Nah. Wes was going to kill him. No doubt about that. Bobby smiled, though, as he ran his hand down Col leen's incredible body. She snuggled against him, turning so that they were spooned together, her back to his front. He tucked his good arm around her, filling his hand with the weight of her breasts. Oh, man. Yeah, Wes was going to kill him. But before he did, Bobby would ask them to put four words on his tombstone: It Was Worth It.

12 Colleen woke up alone in her bed. It was barely even dawn, and her first thought was that she'd dreamed it. All of it. Everything that had happened yesterday and last night—it was all one giant combination nightmare and raging hot fantasy. But Bobby's T-shirt and briefs were still on her floor, Unless he'd left her apartment wearing only his shorts, he hadn't gone far. She could smell coffee brewing, and she climbed out of bed. Muscles she didn't even know existed protested—further proof that last night hadn't been a dream. It was a good ache, combined with a warmth that seemed to spread through her as she remembered Bobby's whispered words as he'd... As they'd... Who knew that such a taciturn man would be able to express himself so eloquently? But even more eloquent than his words was the expres siveness of his face, the depth of emotion and expressions of sheer pleasure he didn't try to hide from her as they made love. They'd made love. The thought didn't fill her with laughter and song as she'd imagined it would. Yes, it had been great. Making love to Bobby had been more wonderful than she'd ever dared to dream. More special and soul shattering than she'd imagined. But it didn't begin to make up for the deaths of all those children. Nothing could do that. She found her robe and pulled it on, sitting back on the edge of the bed, gathering her strength. She didn't want to leave her room. She wanted to hide here for the rest of the week. But life went on, and there were things that needed to be done for the children who'd survived. And in order to get them done, there were truths that had to be faced. There were going to be tears shed when she went into the Relief Aid office. She was also going to have to break the news to the church youth group that had helped raise money for the trip. Those kids had exchanged letters and pictures with the children in Tulgeria. Telling them of the tragedy wasn't going to be easy. And then there was Bobby. He had to be faced, too. She'd lied to him. Telling him that she'd be content with only one night. Well, maybe it hadn't been a lie. At the time, she'd talked herself into believing it was possible. But right now all she felt was foolish. Deceitful. Pathetic. Desperate. She wanted to make love to him again. And again. And again, and again. Maybe he wanted her again, too. She'd read—exten sively—that men liked sex. Morning, noon and night, according to some sources. Well, it was morning, and she would never discover whether he was inclined to run away or to stay a little longer unless she stood up and walked out of this room. She squared her shoulders and did just that. And after a quick pit stop in the bathroom—where she also made sure her hair wasn't making her look too much like the bride of Frankenstein—she went into the kitchen. Bobby greeted her with a smile and an already-poured cup of coffee. "I hope I didn't wake you," he said, turning back to the stove where both oatmeal and eggs were cooking, "but I didn't have dinner last night, and I woke up pretty hungry." As if on cue, her stomach growled. He shot her another smile. "You, too, I guess." God, he was gorgeous. He'd showered, and he was wearing only his cargo shorts, low on his hips. With his chest bare and his hair down loose around his shoulders, he looked as if he should be adorning the front of one of those romance novels where the kidnapped white girl finds powerful and lasting love with the exotically handsome Indian warrior. The timer buzzed, and as Colleen watched, the Indian warrior look-alike in her kitchen used her pink-flowered oven mitts to pull something that looked remarkably like a coffee cake out of her oven. It was. He'd baked a coffee cake. From scratch. He smiled at her again as he put it carefully on a cooling rack, He'd set her kitchen table, too, poured her a glass of cranberry juice. She sat down as he served them both a generous helping of eggs and bowls of oatmeal.

It was delicious. All of it. She wasn't normally a fan of oatmeal, but somehow he'd made it light and flavorful instead of thick and gluey. "What's on your schedule for today?" he asked, as if he normally sat across from her at breakfast and inquired about her day after a night of hot sex. She had to think about it. "I have to drop a tuition check at the law school before noon. There's probably going to be some kind of memorial service for—" She broke off abruptly. "You okay?" he asked softly, concern in his eyes. Colleen forced a smile. "Yeah," she told him. "Mostly. It's just...it'll take time." She took a deep breath. They'd been discussing her day. "I'll need to spend some time this afternoon spreading the word about the memorial service. And I should probably go into the Relief Aid office later, too. There's still a lot to do before we leave." He stopped eating, his fork halfway to his mouth. "You're still planning on going...?" He didn't let her speak. He laughed and answered for her. "Of course you're still planning on going. What was I thinking?" He put down his fork. "Colleen, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to get down on my knees and beg you not to go?" Before she could answer, he rubbed his forehead and swore. "I take that back," he continued. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm a little...off balance today." "Because...we made love last night?" she asked softly. He looked at her, taking in her makeup-free face, her hair, the thin cotton of her robe that met with a deep vee between her breasts. "Yes," he admitted. "I'm a little nervous about what happens next." She chose her words carefully. "What do you want to have happen next?" Bobby shook his head. "I don't think what I want should particularly factor in. I don't even know what I want." He picked up his fork again. "So I'm just going to save my guilt for later and enjoy having breakfast with you—enjoy how beautiful you look in the morning." He did just that, eating his eggs and oatmeal as he gazed at her. What he really liked was looking at her breasts— she knew that after last night. But he never just ogled her. Somehow, he managed to look at her inoffensively, respectfully, looking into her eyes as well, looking at her as a whole person, instead of just a female body. She looked back at him, trying to see him the same way. He was darkly handsome, with bold features that told of his Native American heritage. He was handsome and smart and reliable. He was honest and sincere and funny and kind. And impossibly buff with a body that was at least a two thousand on a scale from one to ten. "Why aren't you married?" she asked him. He was also ten years older than she was. It seemed impossible that some smart woman hadn't grabbed him up. Yet, here he was. Eating breakfast in her kitchen after spending the night in her bed. "Both you and Wes," she added, to make the question seem a little less as if she were wondering how to sign up for the role of wife. He paused only slightly as he ate his oatmeal. “Marriage has never been part of my short-term plan. Wes's either. The responsibility of a wife and a family... It's pretty intense. We've both seen some of the guys really struggle with it." He smiled. "It's also hard to get married when the women you fall in love with don't fall in love with you." He laughed softly. "Harder still when they're married to someone else." Colleen's heart was in her throat. "You're in love with someone who's married...?" He glanced up at her, a flash of dark eyes. “No, I was thinking of...a friend." He made his voice lighter, teasing. "Hey, what kind of man do you think I am, anyway? If I could be in love with someone else while I messed around with you...?" Relief made her giddy. "Well, I'm in love with Mel Gibson and I messed around with you last night." He laughed, pushing his plate away from the edge of the table. He'd eaten both the pile of eggs and the mound of oatmeal and now he glanced over at the coffee cake, taking a sip of his cooling coffee. "Is that really what we did last night?" Colleen asked him. "Messed around?" She leaned forward and felt her robe gap farther open. Bobby's gaze flickered down, and the sudden heat in his eyes made her breathless. He may claim not to know what was going to happen next, but she did. And it didn't have anything to do with the coffee cake. "Yeah," he said. "I guess so. Isn't it?" "I don't know," she said honestly. "I don't have a lot of experience to compare it to. Can I ask you something?" Bobby laughed again. "Why do I get the feeling I should brace myself?" "Maybe you better," she said. "It's kind of a weird question, but it's something I need to know." "Oh, man. Okay." He put down his mug, held on to the table with both hands.

"Okay." Colleen cleared her throat. "What I want to know is, are you really good in bed?" Bobby laughed in genuine surprise. "Wow, I guess not," he said. "I mean, if you have to ask..." "No," she said. "Don't be dumb. Last night was incredible. We both know that. But what I want to know is if you're some kind of amazing superlover, capable of heating up even the most frigid of women—" "Whoa," he said. "Colleen, you are so completely the farthest thing from frigid that—" "Yes," she said, "that's what I thought, too, but..." "But someone told you that you were," he guessed correctly. "Damn!" "My college boyfriend," she admitted. "Dan. The jerk." "I feel this overpowering urge to kill him. What did he tell you?" "It wasn't so much what he said, but more what he implied. He was my first lover," she admitted. "I was crazy about him, but when we—I never managed to— You know. And he quit after the third try. He told me he thought we should just be friends." "Oh, God." Bobby winced. "I thought it had to be my fault—that there was something wrong with me." Colleen had never told all of this to anyone. Not even Ashley, who had heard a decidedly watered-down version of the story. "I spent a few years doing the nun thing. And then, about a year and a half ago..." She couldn't believe she was actually telling him this, her very deepest secrets. But she wanted to. She needed him to understand. "I bought this book, a kind of a self-help guide for sexually challenged women—I guess that's a PC term for frigid these days. And I discovered fairly early on that the problem probably wasn't entirely mine." "So, you haven't—" Bobby was looking at her as if he were trying to see inside her head. "I mean, between last night and the jerk, you haven't...?" "There's been no one else. Just me and the book," she told him, wishing she could read his mind, too. Was this freaking him out, or did he like the fact that he'd essentially been her first real lover? "Trying desperately to learn how to be normal." "Yeah, I don't know," Bobby shook his head. "It's probably hopeless. Because I am somewhat legendary. And it's a real shame, but if you want to have any kind of satisfying sex life, you're just going to have to spend the rest of your life making love to me." Colleen stared at him. "That was a joke," he said quickly. "I'm kidding. Colleen, last night I didn't do anything special. I mean, it was all special, but you were right there with me, the entire time. Except..." "What?" She searched his face. "Well, without having been there, it's hard to know for sure, but...my guess is that you were—I don't know—tense at the thought of getting naked, and the jerk was a little quick on the trigger. He probably didn't give you time to relax before it was all over. And in my book, that's more his fault than yours." "He was always telling me he thought I should lose weight," Colleen remembered. "Not in so many words. More like, 'Gee, if you lost ten pounds you'd look great in that shirt.' And, 'Why don't you find out what kind of diet Cindy Crawford is on and try that? Maybe that'll work.' That kind of thing. And you're right, I hated taking off my clothes in front of him." Bobby just shook his head as he looked at her. God, when he looked at her like that, he made her feel like the most beautiful, most desirable woman in the world. "I liked taking off my clothes for you," she told him softly, and the heat in his eyes got even more intense. "I'm glad," he whispered. "Because I liked it, too." Time hung as she gazed into his eyes, as she lost herself in the warmth of his soul. He still wanted her. He wanted more, too. But then he looked away, as if he were afraid of where that look was taking them. Guilt, he'd said before, and she knew if she didn't act quickly, he was going to walk out of her apartment and never come back. At least not without a chaperone. "Don't move," she told him. She pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. "Stay right there." She was down the hall and in the bedroom in a flash, grabbing what she needed. Bobby turned to look at her as she came back into the kitchen, still sitting where she'd commanded him to stay. He quickly looked away from her, and she realized that her robe had slipped open even farther—the deep vee now extending all the way down to her waist. She didn't adjust it, didn't pull it closed. She just moved closer, so that she was standing beside him. Close enough that she was invading his

personal space. But she didn't touch him. Didn't even speak. She just waited for him to turn his head and look up at her. He did just that. Looked at her. Looked away again. Swallowed hard. "Colleen, I think—" Now was definitely not the time for thinking. She sat on his lap, straddling him, forcing him to look at her. Her robe was completely open now, the belt having slipped its loose knot. He was breathing hard—and trying not to. "I thought we decided this was going to be a one-night thing. Just to get it out of our systems." "Am I out of your system?" she asked, knowing full well that she wasn't. "No, and if I'm not careful, you're going to get under my skin," he admitted. "Colleen, please don't do this to me. I spent the night convincing myself that as long as we didn't make love again, I'd be okay. And I know it's a long shot, but even your brother might understand that something like this could happen between us—once." His words would have swayed her—if he hadn't touched her, his hands on her thighs, just lightly, as if he couldn't stop himself, couldn't resist. She shrugged her robe off her shoulders, and it fell to the floor behind her, and then there she was. Naked, in the middle of her kitchen, with daylight streaming in the windows, warming her skin, bathing her in golden sunshine. Bobby's breath caught in his throat, and as he looked at her, she felt beautiful. She saw herself as if through his eyes, and she was beautiful. It felt unbelievably good. She shifted forward, pressing herself against him, feeling him, large and hard beneath his shorts. No doubt about it. He still desired her. He made a sound, low in his throat. And then he kissed her. His passion took her breath away. It was as if he'd suddenly exploded, as if he needed to kiss her to stay alive, to touch as much of her as he possibly could or else he'd die. His hands were everywhere, his mouth everywhere else. It was intoxicating, addicting—to be wanted so desperately. It was almost as good as being loved. She reached between them and unfastened his shorts as she kissed him, taking him into her hand, pressing him against her, letting him know that she wanted him desperately, too. She still held the condom she'd taken from her bedroom, although the little paper wrapper was tightly scrunched in her hand. She tore it open, and Bobby took it from her, covering himself and then—oh, yes!—he was inside of her. He tried, but he couldn't keep from groaning aloud, from holding her close and burying his face in her breasts. She moved slowly, stroking him with her body, filling herself completely with him. Making love to Bobby Taylor was just as amazing in the daylight as it had been last night. She pulled back slightly to watch him as she moved on top of him, and he held her gaze, his eyes sparking with heat beneath heavy eyelids. She couldn't get enough of him. She pressed against him, wanting more, wanting forever, wanting him never to leave, wanting this moment never to end. Wanting him to fall in love with her as completely as she'd fallen in love with him. Oh, no, what had she done? She didn't love him. She couldn't love him. She must've made some kind of noise of frustration and despair, because he stood up. He just lifted himself from the chair, with her in his arms, with his body still buried deeply inside her. Even deeper now that he was standing. Colleen gasped, and then had to laugh as he carried her—effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing—across the room, her arms around his neck, her legs now locked around his waist. He didn't stop until he'd pressed her up against the wall by the refrigerator. The muscles in his chest and arms stood out, making him seem twice as big. Making her seem almost small. Still... "Don't hurt your shoulder," she told him. "What shoulder?" he asked hoarsely, and kissed her. It was so impossibly macho, the way he held her, her back against the wall, the way he possessed her so completely with his mouth. His kiss was far from gentle, and that was so exciting, it was almost ridiculous. Still, there was no denying that she found it sexy beyond belief, to be pinned here, like this, as he kissed her so proprietarily. She was expecting more roughness, expecting sex that was hard and fast and wild, but instead he began a long, lingering withdrawal, then an equally deliberate penetration that filled her maddeningly slowly. It was sexier than she could have dreamed possible—this man holding her like this, taking his time to take her completely. On his terms.

He kissed her face, her throat, her neck as if he owned her. And he did. She felt her release begin before she was ready for it, before he'd even begun that slow, sensuous slide inside of her for the third heart-stopping time. She didn't want this to end, and she tried to stop herself, to hold him still for a moment, but she was powerless. And she didn't mind. Because she loved what he was doing. She loved his strength and his power, loved the fact that he was watching her with such intense desire in his eyes. Loved that even though he was pretending to be in control, she knew that he wasn't. She owned him as absolutely as he owned her. More. She held his gaze while she melted around him, while she flew apart from wave upon endless wave of pleasure. He smiled, a fierce, proud, fairly obnoxious male grin. It would have made her roll her eyes a day or so ago, but today she found she loved it. She loved being pure female to his pure male. It didn't mean she was weaker. On the contrary. She was his perfect match, his opposite, his equal. “I loved watching you do that last night," he murmured as he kissed her again. "And I love it even more this morning." He was her first real lover in the physical sense of the word. And he was also the first man she'd ever known who liked who she was—not merely the promise of the person he could mold her into becoming. "I want to do that to you again," he said. "Right now. Is that okay with you?"

Colleen just laughed. He lifted her away from the wall and carried her down the hall to her bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.

13 Bobby was floating. He was in that place halfway between sleep and consciousness, his face buried in Colleen's sweet-smelling hair, his body still cradled between the softness of her legs. So much for willpower. So much for resolving not to make love to her again. So much for hoping that Wes would forgive him for one little, single transgression. Ah, but how he'd loved making love to her again. And no red-blooded, heterosexual man could've resisted the temptation of Colleen Skelly, naked, on his lap. And really, deep in his heart, he knew it didn't matter. Wes was going to go ape over the fact that Bobby had slept with Colleen. Realistically, how much worse could it be to have slept with her twice? What difference could it possibly make? To Wes? None. Probably. Hopefully. But the difference it made to Bobby was enormous. As enormous as the difference between heaven and hell. Speaking of heaven, he was still inside of her, he realized, forcing himself to return to earth. Falling asleep immediately after sex was not a smart move when using condoms as the sole method of birth control. Because condoms could leak. He should have pulled out of her twenty minutes ago. And for that matter, he should also have been aware that he was still on top of her, crushing her. But she hadn't protested. In fact, she still had her arms tightly wrapped around him. He shifted his weight, pulling away from her and reaching between them to... Uh-oh. "Uh, Colleen...?" Bobby sat up, suddenly fully, painfully, completely alert. She stirred, stretched, sexy as hell, a distraction even now, when he should have been completely nondistractible. "Don't leave yet, Bobby," she murmured, still half asleep. "Stay for a while, please?" "Colleen, I think you better get up and take a shower." Condoms sometimes did something far worse than leak. "The condom broke." She laughed as she opened her eyes. "Yeah, right." Her smile faded as she looked into his eyes. "Oh, no, you're not kidding are you?" She sat up. Silently he shook his head. Twenty minutes. She'd been lying on her back for at least twenty minutes after he'd unknowingly sent his sperm deep inside of her. Was it possible she already was pregnant? How quickly could that happen? Quickly. Instantly—if the timing was right. In a flash, a heartbeat. In a burst of latex. "Well," Colleen said, her eyes wide. "These past few days have certainly been full of first-time experiences for me, and this one's no exception. What do we do about this? Is a shower really going to help at this point?" Count on Colleen not to have hysterics. Count on her to be upbeat and positive and proactive in trying to correct what could well be the biggest, most life-changing mistake either one of them had ever made. "Probably not," he admitted. "Although..." "I'll take one right now, if you want me to. I'm not sure where I am in my cycle. I've never really been regular." She was sitting there, unconcerned about her nakedness, looking to him for suggestions and options and his opinion, with complete and total trust. That kind of trust was an incredible turn-on, and he felt his body respond. How could that be? The disbelief and cold fear that had surged through his veins at his discovery should have brought about an opposite physical response— more similar to the response one had from swimming in an icy lake. And his mental reaction to a broken condom should have included not even thinking about having sex for the next three weeks without shaking with fear. But there was Colleen, sitting next to him on her bed, all bare breasts and blue-green eyes and quiet, steadfast trust.

Right now she needed him to be honest about this. There was no quick fix. No miraculous solutions. "I think it's probably too late to do anything but pray." She nodded. "That's what I figured." "I'm sorry." "It's not your fault," she said. He shook his head. "It's not about fault—it's about responsibility, and I am responsible." "Well, I am, too. You were coerced." Bobby smiled, thinking of the way she'd sat on his lap, intending to seduce him, wondering if she had even the slightest clue that his last hope of resisting her had vanished the moment she'd appeared in the kitchen wearing only that robe. "Yeah," he said, "as if that was really hard for you to do." She smiled back at him, and his world shrank to a few square feet of her bed—to her eyes, her smile, her face and body. "It was another one of those first-time endeavors for me," she told him. "I was proud of myself for not chickening out." "You're a natural." His voice was husky. "But that's not what I meant. I meant it wasn't hard because when it comes to you, I'm a total pushover." Just looking into her eyes like this made him want her again—badly enough that he wasn't able to keep it any kind of secret. Colleen noticed and laughed softly. "Well now, there's an interesting, hedonistic approach to this problem." She crawled toward him, across the bed, her eyes gleaming and her smile filled with the very devil. "You know that old saying, when a door closes, somewhere a window opens? Well, how about, when a condom breaks, a window of opportunity opens?" Bobby knew that wasn't necessarily true. He knew he should stop her, back away, stand up, do anything but just sit there and wait for her to... Too late. Colleen sat up. "Oh, my God." "Mmph," Bobby said, facedown on her bed. It was :. Fifty-five minutes to make it to her law school in the Fenway from Cambridge. Without a car, on the T. "Oh, my God!" Bobby lifted his head. "What's the—" She was already scrambling for the bathroom, climbing directly over him, inadvertently pushing his face back into the pillow. "Mmmrph!" "Sorry!" Thanking the Lord—not for the first time today—that Ashley was still on the Vineyard, Colleen flew down the hallway stark naked and slapped on the bathroom light. One glance in the mirror and she knew she had to take a shower. Her hair was wild. And her face still held the satisfied look of a woman who'd kept her lover very busy all morning long. She couldn't do anything about the face, but the hair she could fix with a fast shower. She turned on the shower and climbed in before the water had a chance to heat up, singing a few operatic high notes in an attempt to counteract the cold. "You all right?" Bobby had followed her in. Of course, she'd left the bathroom door wide open. She peeked out from behind the shower curtain. He was as naked as she was, standing in front of the commode with that utterly masculine, widespread stance. "I have to take a tuition check to my law school," she told him, quickly rinsing her hair, loving the fact that he was comfortable enough to be in the bathroom with her, feeling as if they'd crossed some kind of invisible, unspoken line. They were lovers now—not just two people who had given in to temptation and made love once. “The deadline's noon today, and like a total idiot, I pushed it off until the last minute." Literally. "I'll come with you." She turned off the water and pulled back the curtain, grabbing her towel and drying herself as she rushed back to her bedroom. "I can't wait for you," she called to him. "I'm literally forty-five seconds from walking out the door." She stepped into clean underwear and pulled her blue dress—easy and loose fitting, perfect for days she was running dangerously late—over her

head, even though she was still damp. Feet into sandals. "What do you know," Bobby said. "A woman who can go wheels-up in less than three minutes." He laughed. "I feel as if I should drop to my knees right now and propose." Colleen was reaching for the tuition check, which she'd hidden for safety in her complete collection of Shakespeare, and she didn't freeze, didn't faint, didn't gasp and spin to face him, didn't let herself react at all. He was teasing. He didn't have a clue that his lightly spoken words had sent a rush of excitement and longing through her that was so powerful she'd nearly fallen over. Oh, she was so stupid. She actually wanted...the impossible. As if he really would marry her. He'd told her just hours ago that staying single was part of his career plan. She made herself smile as she turned around, as she stuffed the check and a book to read into her knapsack, as she checked to make sure she had money for the T, then zipped her bag closed. "It's going to take me at least a few hours," she said, brushing out her wet hair as she headed back into the kitchen to grab an apple from the fridge. He followed her, followed her to the door, still naked and completely comfortable about that. Colleen could picture him trailing her all the way out to the street. Wouldn't that give little old Mrs. Gibaldi who lived downstairs an eyeful? She turned to face him. "I'd love it if you were still here when I got back. Wearing just that." She kissed him, lowered her voice, gave him a smile designed to let him read her very thoughts. "And if you think getting dressed in three minutes is fast, just wait and see how long it takes me to get undressed." He kissed her, pulling her into his arms, his hand coming up to cup her breast as if he couldn't not touch her. Colleen felt herself start to dissolve into a puddle of heat. What would happen if she didn't get that check to the office on time? She might have to pay a penalty. Or she'd get bumped from the admissions list. There were so many students waitlisted, the admissions office could afford to play hardball. Reluctantly, she pulled back from Bobby. “I’ll hurry," she told him. "Good," he said, still touching her, looking at her as if she were the one standing naked in front of him, lowering his head to kiss her breast before he let her go. "I'll be here." He wasn't in love with her. He was in lust. And that was exactly what she'd wanted, she reminded herself as she ran down the stairs. Except, now that she had it, it wasn't enough. The phone was ringing as Bobby stepped out of Colleen's shower. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself as he went dripping into the kitchen. "'Lo?" He heard the sound of an open phone line, as if someone were there but silent. Then, "Bobby?" It was Wes. No, not just "It was Wes," but "Oh, God, it was Wes." "Hey!" Bobby said, trying desperately to sound normal—as opposed to sounding like a man who was standing nearly naked not two feet from the spot where mere hours earlier he'd pinned Wes's sister to the wall as they'd... As he'd... "What are you doing at Colleen's place?" Wes sounded funny. Or maybe Bobby just imagined it. Guilt had a way of doing that—making everyone sound suspicious. "Um..." Bobby said. He was going to have to tell Wes about what was going on between him and Colleen, but the last thing he wanted was to break the news over the telephone. Still, he wasn't going to lie. Not to Wes. Never to Wes. Fortunately—as usual—Wes didn't particularly want his question answered. "You are one hard man to get hold of," he continued. "I called your hotel room last night—late— and you were either AWOL or otherwise occupied, you lucky son of a bitch." "Well," Bobby said, "yeah." He wasn't sure if Wes particularly cared what he was agreeing to, but the truth was he'd been AWOL, otherwise occupied and a lucky son of a bitch. "Where are you?" "Little Creek. You need to get your butt down here, bro, pronto. We've got a meeting with Admiral Robinson at hours. There's a flight out of Logan that leaves in just under two hours. If you scramble, you can make it, easy. There'll be a ticket there, waiting for you." Scrambling meant leaving before Colleen got back. Bobby looked at the kitchen clock and swore. Best-case scenario didn't get her back here for another ninety minutes. That's if she had no holdups—if the T ran like a dream. "I'm not sure I can make it," he told Wes.

"Sure you can. Tell Colleen to drive you to the airport." "Oh," Bobby said. Now, here was a secret he could divulge with no pain. "No. She can't—she sold her car." "What?" "She's been doing all this charity work—pro bono legal stuff, you know? Along with her usual volunteer work," Bobby told Wes. "She sold the Mustang because she was having trouble making ends meet." Wes swore loudly. "I can't believe she sold that car. I would've lent her money. Why didn't she ask me for money?" "I offered to do the same. She didn't want it from either one of us." "That's stupid. Let me talk to the stupid girl, will you?" "Actually," Bobby told Wes, "it's not stupid at all." And she wasn't a girl. She was a woman. A gorgeous, vibrant, independent, sexy woman. "She wants to do this her way. By herself. And then when she graduates, and passes the bar exam, she'll know—she did this. Herself. I don't blame her, man." "Yeah, yeah, right, just put her on the phone." Bobby took a deep breath, praying that Wes wouldn't think it was weird—him being in Colleen's apartment when she wasn't home. "She's not here. She had to go over to the law school for something and—" "Leave her a message then. Tell her to call me." Wes rattled off a phone number that Bobby dutifully wrote on a scrap of paper. But he then folded it up, intending to put it into his pocket as soon as he was wearing something that had a pocket. No way was he going to risk Colleen calling Wes back before he himself had a chance to speak to him. "Put it in gear," Wes ordered. "You're needed for this meeting. If Colleen's going to be stupid and insist on going to Tulgeria, we need to do this right. If you get down here tonight, we'll get started planning this op a full twelve hours earlier than if we wait to have this meeting in the morning. I want those extra twelve hours. This is Colleen's safety—her life—we're talking about here." "I'm there," Bobby said. "I'll be on that flight." "Thank you. Hey, I missed you, man. How's the shoulder? You been taking it easy?" Not exactly, considering that for the past twenty-four hours he'd been engaged in almost nonstop, highly gymnastic sex. With Wes's precious little sister. Oh, God. "I'm feeling much better," Bobby told the man who was the best friend he'd ever had in his life. Not a lie—it was true. The shoulder was still stiff and sore, and he still couldn't reach over his head without pain, but he was, without a doubt, feeling exceptionally good this morning. Physically. Emotionally was an entirely different story. Guilt. Doubt. Anxiety. "Hey," Bobby said. "Will you do me a favor and pick me up in Norfolk alone? There's something we need to talk about." "Uh-oh," Wes said. "Sounds heavy. You all right? God—you didn't get some girl pregnant did you? I didn't even know you were seeing anyone since you and Kyra split." "I didn't get anyone..." Bobby started to deny, but then cut himself off. Oh, Lord, it was possible that he had indeed gotten Colleen pregnant just this morning. The thought still made him weak in the knees. "Just meet my flight, okay?" "Ho," Wes said. "No way can you make hints that something dire is going down and then not tell me what the—" "I'll tell you later," Bobby said, and hung up the phone.

14 When Colleen got home, Clark and Kenneth were sitting in her living room, playing cards. "Hey," Clark said. "Where's your TV?" "I don't have a TV," she told him. "What are you doing here? Is Ashley back?" "Nah. Mr. Platonic called us," Clark answered. "He didn't want you coming home to an empty apartment." "He had to go someplace called Little Creek," Kenneth volunteered. "He left a note on your bed. I didn't let Clark read it." Bobby had gone to Little Creek. He'd finally run away, leaving the two stooges behind as baby-sitters. "Thanks," she said. "I'm home now. You don't have to hang here." "We don't mind," Clark said. "You actually have food in your kitchen and—" "Please, I need you to go," Colleen told them. "I'm sorry." She had no idea what Bobby had written in that note that was in her bedroom. She couldn't deal with reading it while they were in her living room. And she couldn't deal with not reading it another second longer. "It's cool," Clark said. "I was betting we wouldn't get the warmest welcome, since you're one of those liberated, I-can-take-care-of-myself babes and —" She heard the door close as Kenneth dragged Clark out. Colleen took her backpack into her bedroom. Bobby had cleaned up the room. And made the bed, too. And left a note, right on her pillow. "I got a call and had to run," it said in bold block letters—an attempt by someone with messy penmanship to write clearly. "Heading to Little Creek —to a meeting I can't miss. I'm sorry (more than I can say!) that I couldn't stick around to kiss you goodbye properly, but this is what it's like—being part of Alpha Squad. When I have to go, I go, whether I want to or not." He'd then written something that he'd crossed out. Try as she might, Colleen couldn't see beneath the scribbled pen to the letters below. The first word looked as if it might be maybe. But she couldn't read the rest. "Stay safe!" he wrote, both words underlined twice. "I'll call you from Little Creek." He'd signed it "Bobby." Not "Love, Bobby." Not "Passionately yours, Bobby." Just "Bobby." Colleen lay back on her bed, trying not to overanalyze his note, wishing he hadn't had to go, trying not to wonder if he were ever coming back. He'd come back if she were pregnant. Maybe she should wish she actually was. He'd insist that she marry him and... The thought made her sit up, shocked at herself. What a terrible thing to wish for. She didn't want to be an obligation. A lifelong responsibility. A permanent mistake. She wanted him to come back here because he liked being with her. And yes, okay—because he liked making love to her. She wasn't going to pretend their relationship wasn't based mostly on sex. Great sex. Incredible sex. She knew that he liked making love to her. And so she would see him again, Colleen told herself. And when he called from Little Creek—if he called —she'd make herself sound relaxed. As if she wasn't a bundle of anxiety. As if she had no doubt that he would be back in her bed in a matter of a day or two. And as if her world wouldn't end if he didn't come back. The phone rang, and she rolled to the edge of her bed, lying on her stomach to look at the caller ID box, hoping... Yes. It was Bobby. Had to be. The area code and exchange was from Little Creek. She knew those numbers well—Wes had been stationed there when he'd first joined the Navy. Back before he'd even met Bobby Taylor. Bobby must've just arrived, and he was calling her first thing. Maybe this wasn't just about sex for him.... Colleen picked up the phone, keeping her voice light, even though her heart was in her throat. "Too bad you had to leave. I spent the entire T ride imagining all the different ways we were going to make love again this afternoon." The words that came out of the phone were deafening and colorful. The voice wasn't Bobby's. It was her brother's. "I don't know who you think I am, Colleen, but you better tell me who you thought you were talking to so that I can kill him." "Wes," she said weakly. Oh, no! “This is great. This is just great. Just what I want to hear coming out of the mouth of my little sister." Her temper sparked. "Excuse me, I'm not little. I haven't been little for a long time. I'm twenty-three years old, thank you very much, and yes, you want to know the truth? I'm in a relationship that's intensely physical and enormously

satisfying. I spent last night and most of the morning having wild sex." Wes shouted. "Oh, my God! Don't tell me that! I don't want to hear that!" "If I were Sean or...or..." She didn't want to say Ethan. Mentioning their dead brother was like stomping with both feet on one of Wes's more sensitive buttons. "Or Frank you'd be happy for me!" "Frank's a priest!" "You know what I mean," Colleen countered. "If I were one of the guys in Alpha Squad, and I told you I just got lucky, you'd be slapping me on the back and congratulating me. I don't see the difference—" "The difference is you're a girl!" "No," she said, tightly. "I'm a woman. Maybe that's the basis of your relationship problems, Wes. Maybe until you stop seeing women as girls, until you treat them as equals—" "Yeah, thanks a million, Dr. Freud. Like you even have a half a clue about my problems." He swore. "I know you're unhappy," she said softly. "And angry almost all the time. I think you've got some unresolved issues that you've really got to deal with before—" He refused to follow her out of this argument and into a more personal, private discussion. "Damn straight I've got unresolved issues—and they're all about this jackass you've been letting take advantage of you. You probably think he loves you, right? Is that what he told you?" "No," Colleen said, stung by his implications. "As a matter of fact he hasn't. He likes me, though. And he respects me—which is more than I can say about you." "What, is he some geeky lawyer?" "That's not your business." Colleen closed her eyes. She couldn't let herself get mad and tell him it was Bobby. If Bobby wanted to tell him, fine. But her brother wasn't going to hear it first from her. No way. "Look, I have to go. You know, paint myself with body oil," she lied just to annoy him. "Get ready for tonight." It got the response she'd expected, through gritted teeth. “Colleen!” "I'm glad you're back safely." "Wait," he said. "I'm calling for a reason." "No kidding? A reason besides sibling harassment?" "Yeah. I have to go pick up Bobby at the airport, but before I leave, I need info on your contacts in the Tulgerian government. Admiral Robinson is going to run a quick check on everyone involved." Wes paused. "Didn't you get my message to call me?" he asked. "When I spoke to Bobby just before noon, I told him to leave a message for you and — " Silence. Big, long silence. Colleen could almost hear the wheels in Wes's head turning as he put two and two together. Colleen had spent — in her own words — "most of the morning having wild sex" with her mysterious lover. Her brother had spoken to Bobby earlier. In Colleen's apartment. Just before noon. As in the "just before noon" that occurred at the very end of a morning filled with wild sex. "Tell me I'm wrong," Wes said very, very quietly — never a good sign. "Tell me it's not Bobby Taylor. Tell me my best friend didn't betray me." Colleen couldn't keep quiet at that. "Betray you? Oh, my God, Wesley, that's absurd. What's between me and Bobby has nothing to do with you at all!" "I'm right?" Wes lost it. "I am right! How could he do that, that son of a — I'm gonna kill him!" Oh, damn! "Wes! Listen to me! It was my fault. I — " But her brother had already hung up. Oh, dear Lord, this was going to be bad. Wes was going to pick up Bobby from the airport and... Colleen checked her caller-ID box and tried to call Wes back. The flight to Norfolk was just long enough to set Bobby completely on edge. He'd had enough time to buy a book at the airport store, but he stared

at the words on the page, unable to concentrate on the bestselling story. What was he going to say to Wes? "So, hey, nice to see you. Yeah, Cambridge was great. I liked it a lot—especially when I was having sex with your sister." Oh, man. Thinking about his impending conversation with Wes was making him feel edgy and unsettled. Thinking about Colleen was making him crazy. A glance at his watch told him that she had surely come back to her apartment by now. If he hadn't left, she'd be naked, just as she'd promised, and he'd be buried deep inside of her and He shifted in his seat. Coach wasn't built for someone his size, and his knees were already pressed against the back of the seat in front of him. He was already uncomfortable as hell—thinking of Colleen wasn't going to help. But as Bobby closed his eyes, he couldn't help but think of her. It was probably good that he'd had to leave. If it had been left up to him, he never would have left. He would have just stayed there forever, in Colleen's bedroom, waiting for her to come and make love to him. She had cast a spell over him, and he couldn't resist her. All she had to do was smile, and he was putty in her hands. This way the spell was broken. Wasn't it? God, he hoped so. It would be just his luck to fall for another woman who didn't love him. Even better luck to fall for a woman who clearly only saw him as a sexual plaything. If he wasn't careful, his heart was going to get trashed. Bobby tried to focus again on his book, tried to banish the image of Colleen, her eyes filled with laughter as she leaned forward to kiss him, as she pressed her body against him, as their legs tangled and...

Help. He wanted her with every breath. God, why couldn't he have felt this way about Kyra? Because even back then, he was in love with Colleen. Man, where had that thought come from? Love. God. This was already way too complicated without screwing it up by putting love into the picture. In a matter of minutes Bobby was going to be hip deep in a conversation with Wes that he was dreading with every ounce of his being. And Wes was going to warn him away from Colleen. Don't go near her anymore. He could hear the words already. If he were smart, he'd heed his friend. If he weren't smart, if he kept thinking with his body instead of his brain, he was going to get in too deep. Before he even blinked, he would find himself in a long-distance relationship, God help him. And then it would be a year from now, and he'd be on the phone with Colleen again, having to tell her—again—that he wasn't going to make it out for the weekend, and she would tell him that was okay—again—but in truth, he'd know that she was trying not to cry. He didn't want to make her cry—but that didn't mean he was in love with her. And the fact that he wanted to be with her constantly, the fact that he missed her desperately even now, mere hours after having been in bed with her, well, that was just his body's healthy response to great sex. It was natural, having had some, to want more. Bobby squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, God, he wanted more. It wouldn't be too hard to talk Colleen into giving a bicoastal relationship a try. She was adventurous and she liked him. And, of course, he'd never had a long-distance relationship with someone who liked phone sex.... Bobby felt himself start to smile. Yeah, who was he kidding? Pretending he had any choice at all? Pretending that he wasn't going to spend every waking hour working on ways to get back to Cambridge to see Colleen. The truth was, unless she flat-out refused to see him again, he was going to be raking up the frequent flyer miles, big-time. He was already in too deep. And, jeez, if Colleen were pregnant... Oh, hell. As the plane approached the runway for a landing, Bobby tried to imagine Wes's reaction to that news. "Hey, man! Not only did I do the nasty with your sister more times than I can remember, but the condom broke and I probably knocked her up, ruining her dreams of finishing law school, condemning her to a life with a husband she doesn't particularly love, who isn't even around all that often,

anyway. And how was your week?" Bobby came off the plane the way he'd gotten on. With no luggage, wearing the same cargo shorts and shirt he'd worn over to Colleen's nearly a full twenty-four hours ago. Not that he'd been wearing them for that entire time. On the contrary. As he came out of the walkway that connected the plane to the terminal, he scanned the crowd, searching for Wes's familiar face. And then, there he was. Wes Skelly. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, looking more like a biker than a chief in the elite U.S. Navy SEALs. He was wearing baggy green cargo pants with lots of pockets and a white tank top that showed off his tan and revealed the barbwire tattoo on his upper arm. His hair was long and messy. The longer it got, the lighter it looked as it was bleached by the sun, as the reddish highlights were brought out. Bobby and Wes had been virtually inseparable for nearly eleven years—even though they'd hated each other's guts at the outset of BUD/S training, when they'd been assigned together as swim buddies. That was something not many people knew. But Wes had earned Bobby's respect through the grueling training sessions—the same way Bobby earned Wes's. It took them a while, but once they recognized that they were made from the same unbreakable fabric, they'd started working together. It was a case of one plus one equaling three. As a team, they were unstoppable. And so they became allies. And when Wes's little brother Ethan had died, they'd taken their partnership a step forward and become friends. Real friends. Over the past decade that bond had strengthened to the point where it seemed indestructible. But years of working with explosives had taught Bobby that indestructibility was a myth. There was no such thing, And there was a very good chance that over the next few minutes, he was going to destroy ten years of friendship with just a few small words.

I slept with your sister. "Hey," Wes said in greeting. "You look tired." Bobby shrugged. "I'm okay. You?" Wes pushed himself off the wall. "Please tell me you didn't check your luggage." They started walking, following the stream of humanity away from the gate. "I didn't. I didn't bring it. There was no time to go back to the hotel. I just left it there." "Bummer," Wes said. "Paying for a room when you don't even sleep there. That's pretty stupid." "Yeah," Bobby agreed. I slept with your sister. How the hell was he supposed to say something like that? Just blurting it out seemed wrong, and yet there was no real graceful way to lead into a topic like that. "How's Colleen?" Wes asked. "She's—" Bobby hesitated. Beautiful. Heart-stoppingly sexy. Great in bed. Maybe carrying his baby. "Doing okay. Selling the car wasn't easy for her." "Jeez, I can't believe she did that. Her Mustang... That's like selling a child." "She got a good price. The buyer was a collector, and she was sure he'd take good care of it." Wes pushed open a door that led toward the parking area. "Still..." "Did Jake fill you in on the situation with this Tulgerian orphanage Colleen and her friends have been trying to move out of the war zone?" Bobby asked. "Yeah, apparently the building was hit in some kind of skirmish a day or so ago. The place was pretty much destroyed, and the survivors were brought to a local hospital—but the place doesn't even have electricity or running water. We'll be going out there pretty much upon insertion in Tulgeria to move the kids back into the city." "Good," Bobby said. "I'm glad the admiral's made that a priority. Wes, there's something you need to know..." The easy stuff first. “The little girl that Colleen was hoping to adopt was killed in that air strike." Wes stared at him in the shadowy dimness of the parking garage. "Adopt?" he said, loud enough that his voice echoed. "She was going to adopt a kid? What, was she nuts? She's just a kid herself." "No, she's not," Bobby said quietly. "She's a grown woman. And—" okay, here's where he had to say it " should know. I've...uh, been with her, Wes. Colleen. And me."

Wes stopped walking. "Aw, come on, Bobby, you can do better than that. You've been with her? You could say slept with, but of course you didn't sleep much, did you, dirt wad? How about..." He used the crudest possible expression. "Yeah, that works. That's what you did, huh? You son of a..." He was shouting now. Bobby stood there. Stunned. Wes had known. Somehow he'd already known. And Bobby had been too self-absorbed to realize it. "I sent you there to take care of her," Wes continued. "And this is what you do? How could you do this to me?" "It wasn't about you," Bobby tried to explain. "It was about me and— Wes, I've been crazy about her for years." "Oh, this is fine," Wes had gone beyond full volume and into overload. "For years, and this is the first I hear of it? What, were you just waiting for a chance to get her alone, scumbag?" He shoved Bobby, both hands against his chest. Bobby let himself get shoved. He could have planted himself and absorbed it, but he didn't. "No. Believe me I tried to stay away from her, but...I couldn't do it. As weird as it sounds, she got it into her head that she wanted me, and hell, you know how she gets. I didn't stand a chance." Wes was in his face. "You're ten years older than she is, and you're trying to tell me that she seduced you?" "It's not that simple. You've got to believe—" Bobby cut himself off. "Look, you're right. It is my fault. I'm more experienced. She offered, and God, I wanted her, and I didn't do the right thing. For you." "Ho, that's great!" Wes was pacing now, a tightly wound bundle of energy, ready to blow. "Meaning you did the right thing for Colleen, is that what you're saying? How right is it, Bobby, that she sits around and waits for you, that she'll have half a life, pretending to be okay, but really terrified, just waiting to get word that something's happened to you? And say you don't get your head blown off on some op. Say you do make it home. Retire from the teams in a few years. Then what? How right is it that she's the one who makes more money working as a lawyer? How's she supposed to have kids? Put 'em in day care? That's just great." Kids...day care... Bobby was shocked. "Wes, whoa, I'm not going to marry her." Wes stopped short, turning to stare with his mouth open, as if Bobby'd just announced his plan to detonate a nuclear warhead over New York City. "Then what the hell were you doing with her, dirt wad?" Bobby shook his head, laughing slightly in disbelief. "Come on. She's twenty-three. She's just experimenting. She doesn't want to marry me." In hindsight, it was probably the laughter that did it. Wes exploded. "You son of a bitch. You went into this with completely dishonorable intentions!" He put his shoulder into a solid right jab, right in Bobby's face. Bobby saw it coming. He didn't dodge it or block it. He just stood there, turning his head only slightly to deflect the force of the blow. It rocked him back on his heels, but he quickly regained his balance. "Wes, don't do this." There were people around. Getting into and out of cars. It wouldn't be long until someone called a security team, who would call the police, who would haul their butts to jail. Wes hit him again, harder this time, an ear-ringing blow, and again Bobby didn't defend himself. "Fight back, you bastard," Wes snarled. "No."

"Damn it!" Wes launched himself at Bobby, hitting him in the exact place that would knock him over, take him down onto his back on the concrete. After years of training together, Wes knew his weak spots well. "Hey!" The shout echoed against the concrete ceilings and walls as Wes hit him with a flurry of punches. "Hey, Skelly, back off!" The voice belonged to Lucky O'Donlon. An SUV pulled up with a screech of tires, and O'Donlon and Crash Haw-ken were suddenly there, in the airport parking garage, pulling Wes off him. And the three newest members of Alpha Squad, Rio Ro-setti, Mike Lee and Thomas King climbed out of the back, helping Bobby to his feet. "You okay, Chief?" Rio asked, his Italian street-punk attitude completely overridden by wide-eyed concern. The kid had some kind of hero worship thing going for both Bobby and Wes. If this little altercation didn't cure him of it forever, Bobby didn't know what would. He nodded at Rio. "Yeah." His nose was bleeding. By some miracle it wasn't broken. It should have been. Wes had hit him hard enough. "Here, Chief." Mike handed him a handkerchief. "Thanks." Crash and Lucky were both holding on tightly to Wes, who was sputtering—and ready to go another round if they released him. "You want to explain what this is all about?" Crash was the senior officer present. He rarely used his officer voice-he rarely spoke at all—but when

he did, he was obeyed instantly. To put it mildly. But Wes wouldn't have listened to the president of the United States at this moment, and Bobby didn't want to explain any of this to anyone. "No, sir," he said stiffly, politely. "With all due respect, sir..." "We got a call from your sister, Skelly," Lucky O'Donlon said. "She was adamant we follow you down here to the airport. She said she had good reason to believe you were going to try to kick the hell out of Taylor, here, and she didn't want either of you guys to get arrested." "Did she say why I was going to kick the hell out of Taylor?" Wes asked. "Did she tell you what that good reason was?" It was obvious she hadn't. Bobby took a step toward Wes. "What we were discussing is not public information. Show some respect to your sister." Wes laughed in his face, looked up at Crash and Lucky. "You guys know what this friend of mine did?" Bobby got large. "This is between you and me, Skelly. So help me God, if you breathe a single word of—" Wes breathed four words. He told them all, quite loudly, in the foulest possible language what Bobby had done with his sister. "Apparently, she's doing some experimenting these days. All you have to do is go to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and look her up. Colleen Skelly. She's probably in the phone book. Anyone else want to give her a go?" Wes Skelly was a dead man. Bobby jumped on top of him with a roar. The hell with the fact that Wes was being held in place by Lucky and Crash. The hell with everything. No one had the right to talk about Colleen that way. No one. He hit Wes in the face, harder than he'd ever hit him before, then he tackled him. It was enough to take them down to the concrete—Lucky and Crash with them. He hit Wes again, wanting to make him bleed. The other SEALs were on top of him then, grabbing his back and his arms, trying to pull him away, but they couldn't stop him. No one could stop him. Bobby yanked Wes up by the front of his shirt as he got to his feet, hauling him away from Lucky and Crash, with Rio, Mike and Thomas clinging to him like monkeys. He pulled back his arm, ready to throw another brain-shaking punch when another voice, a new voice, rang out. "Stop this. Right. Now" It was the senior chief. Another truck had pulled up. Bobby froze, and that was all the other SEALs needed. Lucky and Crash pulled Wes out of his grip and safely out of range, and then, God, Senior Chief Harvard Becker was there, standing in between him and Wes. "Thank you for coming, Senior," Crash said quietly. He looked at Bobby. "I answered the phone when Colleen called. She didn't say as much, but I correctly guessed the cause of the, uh, tension between you and Skelly. I anticipated that the senior's presence would be helpful." Wes's nose was broken, and as Bobby watched—not without some grim satisfaction—he leaned forward slightly, his face averted as he bled onto the concrete floor. Lucky stepped closer to Harvard. He was speaking to him quietly, no doubt filling him in. Telling him that Bobby slept with Wes's sister. God, this was so unfair to Colleen. She was going to Tulgeria with this very group of men. Who would all look at her differently, knowing that she and Bobby had... Damn it, why couldn't Wes have agreed to talk this problem out...privately? Why had he turned this into a fist fight and, as a result, made Bobby's intimate relationship with Colleen public knowledge? "So what do you want to do?" Harvard asked, hands on his hips as he looked from Bobby to Wes, his shaved head gleaming in the dim garage light. "You children want to move this somewhere so you can continue to beat the hell out of each other? Or you want to pretend to be grown-ups for a change and try working this out with a conversation?" "Colleen doesn't sleep around," Bobby said, looking at Wes, willing him to meet his gaze. But Wes didn't look up, so he turned back to Harvard. "If he implies that again, Senior—or anything else even remotely disrespectful—I'll rip his head off." He used Wes's favorite adjective for emphasis. Harvard nodded, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Bobby. "Okay." He turned to Wes. "You hear that, Chief Skelly? Do you understand what this man is saying to you?" "Yeah," Wes answered sullenly. "He'll rip my head off." He added his favorite adjective, too. "Let him try."

"No," Harvard said. "Those are the words he used, but the actual semantics—what he really means by saying those words—is that he cares a great deal for your sister. You fools are on the same side here. So what's it going to be? Talk or fight?" "Talk," Bobby said. "There's nothing to say," Wes countered. "Except from now on he better stay the hell away from her. If he so much as talks to her again, I'll rip his head off." "Even if I wanted to do that," Bobby said quietly, "which I don't, I couldn't. I've got to talk to her again. There's more that you need to know, Skelly, but I'm not going to talk about it here in front of everyone." Wes looked up, finally meeting Bobby's gaze, horror in his eyes. "Oh, my God," he said. "You got her pregnant." "All right," Harvard commanded. "Let's take this someplace private. Taylor, in my truck. Rosetti, take Chief Skelly's keys, drive him to the base and escort him to my office. On the double." "You're going to have to marry her." Bobby sat back in his chair, his breath all but knocked out of him. "What? Wes, that's insane." Wes Skelly sat across the table from him in the conference room on base that Harvard had appropriated and made into a temporary office. He was still furious. Bobby had never seen him stay so angry for such a long time. It was possible Wes was going to be angry at Bobby forever. He leaned forward now, glaring. "What's insane is for you to go all the way to Cambridge to help me and end up messing around with my sister. What's insane is that we're even having this conversation in the first place—that you couldn't keep your pants zipped. You got yourself into this situation. You play the game—you pay when you lose. And you lost big-time, buddy, when that condom broke." "And I'm willing to take responsibility if necessary—" "If necessary?" Wes laughed. "Now who's insane? You really think Colleen's going to marry you if she has to? No way. Not Colleen. She's too stubborn, too much of an idealist. No, you have to go back to Boston tomorrow morning. First thing. And make her think you want to marry her, Get her to say yes now—before she does one of those home tests. Otherwise, she's going to be knocked up and refusing to take your phone calls. And boy, won't that be fun." Bobby shook his head. It was aching, and his face was throbbing where Wes's fists had connected with it—which was just about everywhere. He suspected Wes's nose hurt far worse; yet, both of their physical pain combined was nothing compared to the apprehension that was starting to churn in his stomach. Ask Colleen to marry him. God. "She's not going to agree to marry me. She wanted a fling, not a lifetime commitment." "Well, too bad for her," Wes countered. “Wes, she deserves—'' Bobby rubbed his forehead and just said it "—she deserves better than me." "Damn straight she does," Wes agreed. "I wanted her to marry a lawyer or a doctor. I didn't want this for her— to be a Navy wife, like my mother." He swore. "I wanted her to hook up with someone rich, not some poor, dumb Navy chief who'll have to work double shifts to buy her a washer and dryer. Damn, if she's going to marry Navy, she should at least have been smart enough to pick an officer." This wasn't a surprise. Wes had voiced his wishes for Colleen often enough in the past. The surprise came from how bad Bobby felt hearing this. "I wanted that for her, too," he told Wes quietly.

"Here's what you do," Wes told him. "You go to Colleen's and you tell her we had a fight. You tell her that I wanted you to stay the hell away from her. You tell her that you told me that you wouldn't—that you want to marry her. And you tell her that I flat-out forbid it." He laughed, but there wasn't any humor in it. "She'll agree to marry you then." "She's not going to ruin her life just to tick you off," Bobby argued. "Wanna bet?" Wes stood up. "After the meeting I'll get you a seat on the next flight back to Boston." "Are you ever going to forgive me?" Bobby asked. "No." Wes didn't turn around as he went out the door.

15 Colleen came home from the Tulgerian children's memorial service at St. Margaret's to find Ashley home and no new messages on the answering machine. Bobby had called last night, while she was at a Relief Aid meeting, so at least she knew he'd survived his altercation with her brother. Still, she was dying to speak to him. Dying to be with him again. "Any calls?" she called to Ashley, who was in her room. "No." "When did you get back?" Colleen asked, going to her roommate's bedroom door and finding her...packing? "I'm not back," Ashley said, wiping her eyes and her nose with her sleeve. She had been crying but she forced an overly bright smile. "I'm only here temporarily and I'm not telling you where I'm going because you might tell someone." Colleen sighed. "I guess Brad found you." "I guess you would be the person who told him where I was...?" "I'm sorry, but he seemed sincerely broken up over your disappearing act." "You mean broken up over losing his chances to inherit my share of DeWitt and Klein," Ashley countered, savagely throwing clothes into the open suitcase on her bed. "How could you even think I'd consider getting back together with him? My father hired him to be my husband, and he went along with it! Some things are unforgivable." "People change when they fall in love." "Not that much." She emptied her entire drawer of underwear into the suitcase. "I figured out how to get my father off my back. I'm dropping out of law school." What? Colleen took another step into the room. "Ashley-" "I'm going to go to bartending school and get a job dancing in some exotic bar like the women in that video we rented before I left for New York." Colleen laughed in surprise. She quickly stopped when Ashley shot her a dark look. "You don't think I'd be any good at it?" "No," Colleen protested. "No, I think you'd be great. It's just... Isn't it a little late in your childhood to start sporting the career equivalent of—" she thought of Clark, "—of blue hair?" "It's never too late," Ashley said. "And my father deserves all the blue hair—symbolic or other—that he gets." She closed her suitcase, locked it. "Look, I'm going to send for the rest of my things. And I'll pay my share of the rent until you find a new roommate." "I don't want a new roommate!" Colleen followed her into the living room. "You're my best friend. I can't believe you're so mad at me that you're leaving!" Ashley set her suitcase down. "I'm not leaving because I'm mad at you," she said. "I'm not really mad at you at all. I just...I did a lot of thinking, and... Colleen, I have to get out of here. Boston's too close to my father in New York. And you know, maybe Clark's right. Maybe I should go to one of those survival training schools. Learn to swim with sharks. See if I can grow a backbone—although I suspect it's a little late for that." "You have a great backbone." "No, you have a great backbone. I'm really good at borrowing yours when I need it," Ashley countered. She pushed her hair back from her face, attempting to put several escaped tendrils neatly back into place. "I have to do this, Colleen. I've got a cab waiting...." Colleen hugged her friend. "Call me," she said, pulling back to look into Ashley's face. Her friend's normally perfect complexion was sallow, and she had dark circles beneath her eyes. This Brad thing had truly damaged her. "Whenever you get where you're going, when you've had a little more time to think about this—call me, Ash. You can always change your mind and come back. But if you don't—well, I'll come out to visit and cheer while you dance on the bar." Ashley smiled even though her eyes filled with tears. "See, everything's okay with you. Why couldn't you be my father?" Colleen had teared up, too, but she still had to laugh. "Aside from the obvious biological problems, I'm not ready to be anyone's parent. I'm having a tough enough time right now keeping my own life straightened out." And yet, she could well be pregnant. Right now. Right this moment, a baby could be sparking to life inside her. In nine months she could be someone's mother. Someone very small who looked an awful lot like Bobby Taylor. And somehow that thought wasn't quite so terrifying as she'd expected it to be.

She heard an echo of Bobby's deep voice, soft and rum bly, close to her ear. There are some things you just have to do, you know? So you do it, and it all works out. If she were pregnant, despite what she'd just told Ashley, she would make it work out. Somehow. She gave her friend one more hug. "You liked law school," she told Ashley. "Don't cut off your nose to spite your face." "Maybe I'll go back some day—anonymously." "That'll look good on your diploma—Anonymous DeWitt." "The lawyer with blue hair." Ashley smiled back at Colleen, wiping her eyes again before dragging her suitcase to the door. The door buzzer rang. "That's probably the cab driver," Ashley said, "wondering if I sneaked out the back door." Colleen pushed the button for the intercom. "She'll be right down." "Actually, I was hoping to come up." The voice over the ancient speaker was crackly but unmistakable, and Colleen's heart leaped. Bobby. "I thought you were the cab driver," she told him, leaning close to the microphone. "You're not going anywhere, are you?" Did he sound worried? She hoped so. "No," she said. "The cab's Ashley's." She buzzed him into the lobby as Ashley opened the apartment door. From the sound of his footsteps, he took the stairs two at a time, and then there he was. Carrying flowers? He was. He had what looked like a garden in his arms— an outrageous mix of lilies and daisies and big, bold, crazy-looking flowers for which she didn't know the names. He thrust them toward her as he quickly took the suitcase from Ashley's hands. "Let me get that for you." "No, you don't need to—" But he was already down the stairs. Ashley looked helplessly at Colleen. "See? No backbone." "Call me," Colleen said, and then Ashley was gone. Leaving Colleen face-to-face with the flowers that Bobby had brought. For her. She had to smile. It was silly and sweet and a complete surprise. She left the door ajar and went into the kitchen to find a vase. She was filling it with water when Bobby returned. He looked nice, as if he'd taken special care with his appearance. He was wearing Dockers instead of his usual jeans, a polo shirt with a collar in a muted shade of green. His hair was neatly braided. Someone had helped him with that. "Sorry I didn't call you last night. The meeting didn't end until well after midnight. And then I was up early, catching a flight back here." He was nervous. She could see it in his eyes, in the tension in his shoulders—but only because she knew him so very well. Anyone else would see a completely relaxed, easygoing man, standing in her kitchen, dwarfing the refrigerator. "Thanks for the flowers," she said. "I love them." He smiled. "Good. I didn't think you were the roses type, and they, well, they reminded me of you." "What?" she said. "Big and flashy?" His smile widened. "Yeah." Colleen laughed as she turned to give him a disbelieving look. Their eyes met and held, and just like that the heat was back, full force. "I missed you," she whispered. "I missed you, too." "Kinda hard for you to take off my clothes when you're way over there." He yanked his gaze away, cleared his throat. "Yeah, well. Hmmm. I think we need to talk before..." He cleared his throat. "You want to go out, take a walk? Get some coffee?" She put the flowers into the water. "You're afraid if we stay here, we won't be able to keep from getting naked."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am." Colleen laughed, opening the refrigerator. "How about we take a glass of iced tea to the roof?" "Am I going to get the urge to jump you there?" "Absolutely," she said as she poured the tea. "But unless you're an exhibitionist, you won't. There's a taller building right behind this one. There are about three floors of apartments that have a bird's-eye view of this roof." She gave him one of the glasses and a kiss. His mouth was soft and warm and wonderful, his body so solid and strong, and she felt herself melt against him. She looked up at him. "You sure you don't want to...?" "Roof," he said. "Please?" Colleen led the way, up the main staircase, through the exit door and out into the bright sunshine. A long-departed former tenant had built a sundeck, complete with large pots of dirt in which she and Ashley had planted flowers last May. It wasn't luxurious, but it was a far cry from the peeling tar paper on the neighboring buildings' roofs. There was even a bench, placed strategically in the shade provided by the larger building next door. Colleen sat down. Bobby sat, too—about as far away from her as he could manage. "So I guess I should ask about my brother," she said. "Is he in intensive care?" "No." Bobby looked down into his iced tea. "We did fight, though." She knew. She could see the shadows of bruises on his face. "It must've been awful," she said quietly. He turned to gaze at her, and her heart moved up into her throat. He had such a way of looking at her, as if he could see inside her head, inside her very heart and soul, as if he saw her completely, as a whole, unique, special person. "Marry me." Colleen nearly dropped her glass. What? But she'd heard him correctly. He reached into his pocket and took out a jeweler's box. A ring box. He opened it and handed it to her—it was a diamond in a gorgeously simple setting, perfect for accenting the size of the stone. Which was enormous. It had to have cost him three months' pay. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't speak. She couldn't move. Bobby Taylor wanted to marry her. "Please," he said quietly. "I should have said, please marry me." The sky was remarkably blue, and the air was fresh and sweet. On the street below, a woman shouted for someone named Lenny. A car horn honked. A bus roared past. Bobby Taylor wanted to marry her. And yes, yes, she wanted to marry him, too. Marry him! The thought was dizzying, terrifying, but it came with a burst of happiness that was so strong, she laughed aloud. Colleen looked up at him then, into the almost palpable warmth of his eyes. He was waiting for her answer. But she was waiting, too, she realized. This was where he would tell her that he loved her. Except he didn't. He didn't say anything. He just sat there, watching her, slightly nervous, slightly...detached? As if he were waiting for her to say no. Colleen looked hard into his eyes. He was sitting there, waiting, as if he expected her to turn him down. As if he didn't really want her to marry him. As if... Her happiness fizzled, and she handed him the ring box. "Wes put you up to this, didn't he?" She saw the truth in his eyes. Oh, no, she was right. "Oh, Bobby." "I'm not going to lie to you," he said quietly. "It was Wes's idea. But I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to do it." "Yeah," Colleen said, standing up and walking away so that her back was to him. She couldn't bear to let him see her disappointment. "Right. You look really enthusiastic. Grim is more like it. 'I'm here to be sentenced to life in prison, your honor.'" "I'm scared. Can you blame me for that?" he countered. She heard the ice tinkling in his glass as he set it down, as he stood up and moved directly

behind her. But he didn't touch her. He just stood there, impossible to ignore. "This is a big step," he said quietly. "A major life decision for both of us. And I'm not sure marrying me is the right thing for you to do. I don't make a lot of money, Colleen, and my job takes me all over the world. Being a Navy wife sucks—I'm not sure I want to do that to you. I don't know if I could make you happy enough to ignore all the negatives of being married to me. And, yes, that scares me." He took a deep breath. "But the fact is, you could be pregnant. With my child. That's not something I can ignore." "I know," she whispered. "If you are pregnant, you will marry me," he told her, his quiet voice leaving no room for argument. "Even if it's only just for a year or two, if that's how you want to play it." Colleen nodded. "If I'm pregnant. But I'm probably not, so I'm not going to marry you." She shook her head. "I can't believe you would marry me, just because Wes told you to." She laughed, but her throat ached, and she knew she was dangerously close to crying. "I can't decide if that makes you a really good friend or a total chump." She headed for the door to the stairs, praying she would make it into her apartment before her tears escaped. "I should get back to work." God, she was a fool. If he'd been just a little more disingenuous, if he'd lied and told her he loved her, she would have given herself away. She would have thrown her arms around his neck and told him yes. Yes, she'd marry him, yes, she loved him, too. She loved him so much...but there was no too. "Colleen, wait." Oh, damn, he was chasing her down the stairs. He caught her at her apartment door as she fumbled her key in the lock, as her vision blurred from her tears. She pushed open the door, and he followed. She tried to turn away, but it was too late. "I'm so sorry," he said hoarsely, engulfing her in his arms. "Please believe me—the last thing I wanted to do was upset you like this." He was so solid, so huge, and his arms gave her the illusion of safety. Of being home. He swore softly. "I didn't mean to make you cry, Colleen." She just held him tightly, wanting them both just to pretend this hadn't happened. He hadn't asked her to marry him, she hadn't discovered just how much she truly loved him. Yeah, that would be easy to forget. He could return the ring to the jeweler's, but she didn't have a clue what she was going to do with her heart. She did, however, know exactly what to do with her body. Yes, she was going to take advantage of every second she had with this man. She pushed the door closed behind them and, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulled his head down for a kiss. He hesitated—for about one-tenth of a second. Then, with a groan, he kissed her, too. And Colleen stopped crying. How the hell had this happened? As Bobby awoke, he knew exactly where he was before he even opened his eyes. He could smell the sweet scent of Colleen, feel her softness nestled against him. Her windows were open, and a soft breeze from this perfect summer day caressed his naked behind. Colleen caressed him, too. She was running her fingers lightly up and down the arm he'd draped around her after she'd succeeded in completely wearing him out. Had they made love twice or three times? How had that happened—even once? It didn't quite line up with him asking to marry her, and her getting angry because she saw clear through him, saw it had been Wesley's idea in the first place. Except she hadn't been so much angry as hurt, and... He lifted his face from her pillow to find her watching him. She smiled. "Hi." He wanted her again. Just from one smile. Except it wasn't so much his body that reacted this time. It was his heart that expanded. He wanted to wake up to her smile every day. He wanted... "You need to go," she said to him. "I have to pack for Tulgeria, and you're distracting me." “I’ll help you."

"Yeah, right." She laughed and leaned forward to kiss him. "Ten minutes of your help, you'll have me back in bed." "Seriously, Colleen, I know exactly what you need to take. No bright colors, no white, either, otherwise you're setting yourself up as a potential sniper target. Think drabs—browns, greens, beiges. I also don't want you to bring anything clingy—wear loose overshirts, okay? Long sleeves, long skirts—and you know this already. Right." Bobby laughed, disgusted with himself. "Sorry." She kissed him again. "I love that you care." "I do," he said, holding her gaze, wishing there was some way to convey just how much. But the door buzzer rang, and Colleen gently extracted herself from his arms. She slipped on her robe. Man, he loved that robe. He sat up. "Maybe you should let me get the door." But she was already out of the room. "I've got it." Whoever had buzzed had gotten past the building's security entrance and was now knocking directly on the door to Colleen's apartment. Where were his shorts? "Oh, my God," he heard Colleen say. "What are you doing here?" "What, I can't visit my own sister?" Oh, damn! It was Wes. "Sleeping in today, huh? Late night last night?" "No," she said flatly. "What do you want, Wes? I'm mad at you." "I'm looking for Taylor. But he better not be here, with you dressed like that." The hell with his shorts. Bobby grabbed his pants, pulling them on, tripping over his own feet in his haste and just barely keeping himself from doing a nosedive onto the floor. His recovery made an incriminating thump. Wes swore—a steady stream of epithets that grew louder as he moved down the hall toward Colleen's bedroom. Bobby was searching for his shirt among the sheets and blankets that spilled from the bed and onto the floor as Wes pushed the door open. He slowly straightened up, his hair wild around his shoulder, his feet bare and his shirt nowhere to be found. Damn, there it was—over near Colleen's closet, near where he'd tossed his socks and shoes. "Well, this is just beautiful," Wes said. His eyes were cold and hard—they were someone else's eyes. The Wes Skelly who'd been closer to him than a brother for years was gone. As Bobby watched, Wes turned to Colleen. "You're marrying this son of a bitch over my dead body." Bobby knew Wes honestly thought that would make Colleen determined to marry him. "Wes—" "You don't want me to marry him?" she asked innocently. Wes crossed his arms. "Absolutely not." "Okay," Colleen said blithely. "Sorry, Bobby, I can't marry you. Wes won't let me." She turned and went into the kitchen.

"What?" Wes followed, sputtering. "But you have to marry him. Especially now." Bobby pulled on his shirt and grabbed his socks and shoes. "I'm not marrying Bobby," Colleen repeated. "I don't have to marry Bobby. And there's nothing you can do to make me, thank you very much. I'm a grown woman, Wesley, who happens to be in a completely mutual, intimate relationship with a very attractive man. You either need to deal with that or get your negative opinions out of my apartment." Wes was still sputtering. "But—" She moved grandly from the kitchen to the door, opening it wide for him. "Leave." Wes looked at Bobby. "No way am I leaving with him still here!" "Then take him with you," Colleen said. "I have work to do." She pointed the way. "Go. Both of you." Bobby moved, and Wes followed. But at the door Colleen stopped Bobby, kissed him. "Sorry about my brother the grouch. I had a lovely afternoon, thank you. I'll see you tonight." If her intention was to infuriate her brother, she'd succeeded. She closed the door behind them, with Bobby still holding his socks and shoes. Wes gave him a scathing look. "What is wrong with you?"

How could he explain? He wasn't sure himself how it happened. Every time he turned around, he found himself in bed with Colleen. When it came to her, he—a man who'd set time-and-distance records for swimming underwater, a man who'd outlasted more physically fit SEAL candidates during BUD/S through sheer determination, a man who'd turned himself around from a huge man carrying quite a bit of extra weight into a solid, muscular monster—had no willpower.

Because being with her felt so right. It was right. That thought came out of nowhere, blindsiding him, and he stood there for a moment just blinking at Wes. "You were supposed to get her to marry you," Wes continued. "Instead you—" "I tried. I was trying to—" "That was trying?" "If she's pregnant, she'll marry me. She agreed to that." "Perfect," Wes said, "so naturally you feel inclined to keep trying to get her pregnant." "Of course not. Wes, when I'm with her—" "I don't want to hear it." Wes glared at him. "Just stay the hell away from her," he said, and clattered down the stairs. "And stay away from me, too."

16 The early-afternoon meeting between Alpha Squad and the members of Relief Aid who were going to Tulgeria tomorrow had gone well. Colleen had been afraid that some of the more left-wing group members would be opposed to protection from the U.S. military, but with the recent outbreak of violence in the dangerous country, there wasn't a single protest. She'd sat quietly, listening to the information presented by the SEALs. Bobby and the squad's commander, Captain Joe Catalanotto, sat up on a desk in the front of the room, feet swinging, extremely casual, dressed down in shorts and T-shirts—just a coupla guys. Who also happened to be members of the most elite military force in the world. Bobby did most of the talking—a smart move, since he'd been working alongside most of the Relief Aid volunteers for the past few days. They knew and trusted him. He warned them of the dangers they'd be encountering and the precautions and methods the SEALs would be taking to protect them, in his usual straightforward, quiet manner. And everything he said was taken very seriously. The SEALs would maintain a low profile, blending in with the volunteers. Only a few would be obvious guards and carry obvious weapons. After the meeting they'd mingled over iced tea and lemonade. She'd met many of the SEALs her brother had mentioned in his letters and e-mails down through the years. Joe Cat, Blue, Lucky, Cowboy, Crash. Some of the nicknames were pretty funny. Spaceman. His real name was Jim Slade, and he was tall and good-looking in an earthy way, with craggy features and the kind of blue eyes that were perpetually amused. He'd followed her around for a while and had even invited her back to the hotel, to have dinner with him later. Bobby had overheard that, and Colleen had expected him to step forward, to make some kind of proprietary move. But he hadn't. He'd just met Colleen's eyes briefly, then gone back to the conversation he'd been having with Relief Aid leader, Susan Fitzgerald. And Colleen was bemused—more with her own reaction. It was stupid really. If Bobby had gotten all macho and possessive on her, she would have been annoyed. But since he hadn't, she found herself wondering why not. Didn't he feel possessive toward her? And wasn't that a stupid thing to wonder? She didn't want to be any man's possession. She'd spoken to Bobby only briefly before he'd left for another meeting with his team, held back at the hotel. She'd stayed behind and helped discuss plans for TV news coverage of tonight's bon voyage party. That meeting was brief, and Colleen was on the T, heading toward Cambridge before-four o'clock. She was inside the lobby of Bobby's hotel by :. She used the lobby phone to dial his room. Bobby answered on the first ring, and she knew right away that she'd woken him up. "Sorry," she said. "No, I was just catching a nap. Are you, um... Where are you?" "Downstairs. Can I come up?" Silence. She heard the rustle of sheets as he sat up. "How about you give me a few minutes to get dressed? I'll meet you in the bar." "How about I come up?" "Colleen—" "Room , right? I'll be there in a sec." "Colleen..." She'd hung up. Bobby dumped the phone's handset into the cradle and lay back in his bed. What was the point in getting dressed? She was coming up here. In five minutes—ten tops—she'd have him out of his clothes. He threw back the covers, anyway, got up and pulled on his pants and a T-shirt. If he was quick enough, he'd meet her in the hall, outside the elevators. He pulled on his sneakers, checked himself in the mirror to make sure his hair hadn't completely fallen out of its braid. He opened the door, and Colleen was standing there, ready to knock. "Hi," she said. "Good timing." She swept past him, into the room. No, it was bad timing. The last place they should be right now was here, alone in his hotel room. If Wes found out, he'd be furious. Bobby had been shaken by what had happened this morning. He truly had not intended to take advantage of Colleen, but he honest-to-God could

not stop himself from climbing into her bed and making love to her. Even though she didn't want to marry him. Was he turning into some kind of prude in his old age? So what if she didn't want to marry him. She wanted to do him, and that was what mattered. Wasn't it? "I have a favor to ask," she told him now. God, she looked beautiful, in a blue-flowered sleeveless dress that flowed almost all the way to the floor. He'd been hyperaware of her all throughout the afternoon's meeting— aware of how easy it would be to get her out of that dress, with its single zipper down the back. Bobby crossed the room and opened the curtains, letting in the bright late-afternoon sunshine. "Name it," he said. "I know we don't officially need your protection until we enter Tulgeria," she told him, "but remember I told you about that bon voyage party? It's tonight at the VFW right down the street from St. Margaret's—the church where I had that car wash?" Bobby nodded. "I know St. Margaret's." It was in that same crummy 'hood where the AIDS Center was creating a controversy among the locals. Colleen put her backpack down and came to help as he attempted to make the bed. "We just found out that the local Fox affiliate is sending TV cameras tonight. That's great news—we could use all the public support we can get." Together they pulled up the bedspread. "But..." "But the cameras are going to attract attention in the neighborhood." Bobby knew just where she was heading. "You're afraid John Morrison's going to show up. Crash your party." She nodded. "It wouldn't surprise me one bit if he caused trouble, just to get the news camera pointed in his direction." He took a deep breath. "There's something I should probably tell you. Don't be angry with me, but I checked up on John Morrison. I was worried about you, and I wanted to know how much of a wild card he was." "There's not much to find out," Colleen countered. "I did the same thing right after he and I...met. He served in the army, did a tour in Vietnam. There's an ex-wife and a kid somewhere in New York. He inherited his bar from his father, who got it from his father. He's dating one of his waitresses—she shows up in the ER every now and then for some stitches. After I found that out, I started carrying one of those little spray cans of mace." "Good plan. He's got the potential to be violent," Bobby told her. "Oh, I meant to tell you—I got a call right before I left the hotel. The woman who was attacked—Andrea Barker—she came out of her coma. Turns out it was her ex-husband who beat her up. He ignored a restraining order and..." Colleen touched his arm. "Andrea's out of her coma— that's great news." He stepped back slightly. "So is the fact that it wasn't Morrison who put her into the hospital. That fits with what I found out about him—that he never leaves his neighborhood. He rarely leaves his bar. In fact, his drinking pals are all still talking about the trips he made to New York—one about a year ago, the other just a few months back. I also found out he used to be a member of St. Margaret's but he stopped going to church about a year ago. I played out a hunch and called his ex in New York, and sure enough, a year ago was when he found out his son was dying of AIDS." Colleen closed her eyes. "Oh, no." "Yeah. John, Jr., died two months ago. He was living with Morrison's ex-wife in the Bronx. She's worried about John. According to her, he's angry and ashamed that even when his son was dying, he couldn't acknowledge the kid, couldn't bring himself to visit. God forbid anyone find out his son was gay, you know? And that's the thing, Colleen. No one up here knows anything. They don't even know that his kid is dead. He hasn't spoken to anyone about this. They still come into the bar and ask how Johnny's doing— if he's gotten that big break as an actor, if he's on Broadway yet." Oh, God. "The poor man." "Regardless of that, this poor man is responsible for putting cinder blocks through the center's windows. If he gets near you tonight, his health will be at risk." "You'll be there?" she asked. "Absolutely. I'll bring some of the guys, too. Rio, Thomas and Mike. And Jim Slade. He'll definitely come. What time does it start?" "Eight. The camera crew's due to arrive at :." "We'll be there at seven." "Thank you." Colleen sat down on his bed. "I liked meeting Rio, Thomas and Mike...Lee, right?" She smiled. "They really think the world of you. Make sure you tell them what you told me about John Morrison. If he shows up, let's try to treat him with compassion." "We'll get him out of there as quickly—and compassionately—as possible," he promised. "I'm glad you had a chance to meet them—they're good men. All the guys in the squad are. Although some are definitely special. The senior chief—Harvard Becker. Did you meet him? I'd follow him into hell if he asked."

"Big black man, shaved head, great smile?" she asked. "That's Harvard. Hey, whatdya think of Slade? Spaceman?" Bobby tried to ask the question casually, as if he was just talking, as if her answer didn't matter to him. The stupid thing was, he wasn't sure if he wanted her to tell him that she liked the man or hated him. Colleen was gazing at him. "I thought he was nice. Why?" "He's a lieutenant," Bobby told her. "An officer who's probably going to get out of the Teams pretty soon. He's having a tough time with his knees and... He's not sure what he's going to do. For a while he was thinking JAG— you know, going to law school, getting a degree, doing a stint in the regular Navy as a lawyer. I just thought you'd, um, you probably have a lot in common. You know, with you going to law school, too?" Colleen shrugged. "Lawyers are boring." "You're not. Slade's not, either." She laughed. "Is there a reason you sound like you're trying to sell this guy to me?" It was Bobby's turn to shrug. "He's a good man." "You're a good man, too. A very good man." She was gazing at him with that look in her eyes that made him crazy. And she smiled that smile that made his knees weak as she leaned back on her elbows. "So why are we talking about your friend? Why are we talking at all? Wouldn't you rather help me make Wes really mad— and spend the next half hour or so naked?" Bobby was proud of himself. He didn't move toward her, didn't instantly strip off both his clothes and hers. "Colleen, I love being with you, you know that, but I don't want to be a pawn in this war you've got going with your brother." She sat up, her smile instantly gone, wide-eyed. "Whoa—wait! Bobby, I was making a joke. I wasn't serious." She wasn't serious. "That's part of the problem here," he told her quietly. "You and me, we're not serious, but Wes is. He doesn't want you messing around, not with a man that you don't have a serious shot at having a future with, you know? He thinks that's wrong and..." And Bobby was starting to think it was wrong, too. It was one thing to have a casual sexual relationship with a woman who was older, someone his age, who lived near the Navy base, who'd maybe been through a nasty divorce and had no intention of repeating that mistake in the near future. But with Colleen there were expectations. Although, God help him, it sure seemed as if all the expectations were his. "Wes thinks what we've got going is wrong? Well, what's wrong," Colleen countered hotly as she got to her feet, "is strong-arming your best friend into proposing marriage to your sister. What if I'd said yes? Would you have married me just because Wes told you to?" "No," he said. He would have married her because he wanted to. Because unlike Colleen, this relationship was more to him than great sex. He turned away from her. "Look, maybe you should go." She moved in front of him, forced him to look at her. "And do what?" she said sharply. "Have an early dinner with Jim Slade?" He didn't nod, didn't say yes, but somehow the answer was written on his face. Slade was the kind of man she should be with. How could she meet men like him if she was wasting her time with Bobby? "Oh, my God," she said. "You were, weren't you? You were trying to set me up with your friend." Her voice caught as she struggled not to cry, and as she gazed at him, she suddenly looked and sounded impossibly young and so very uncertain. "Bobby, what's going on? Don't you want me anymore?" Oh, damn, he was going to cry, too. He wanted her more than he could ever say. He wanted her with every breath, with every beat of his heart. "I want to do what's right for you, Colleen. I need to—" She kissed him. God help him, she kissed him, and he was lost. Again. In truth, it was no ordinary kiss. It was fire and hunger and need. It was passion and fury, with a whole lot of anger and hurt thrown in. It consumed him completely, until doing the right thing was no longer an option but an impossibility. Sure, he'd do the right thing—if the right thing meant sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to his bed. If the right thing meant nearly ripping her dress in his haste to get it off her, of pushing down his pants and covering himself and thrusting, hard, inside of her as she clung to him, as she begged him for more. More. He was ready to give her all he had to give—body, heart and soul, and he did, disguising it as near-mindless sex, hard and rough and fast.

She called out his name as she climaxed, shaking around him, and he joined her in a hot rush of pleasure so intense it was almost pain. And then there he was again. Back from that place of insanity and passion, back to this extremely familiar real world that was filled with rumpled bedclothes and mind-numbing guilt. He swore. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he rolled off her. She sat up on the edge of the bed instead of snuggling against him, and he realized she was getting dressed. Bra, dress, sandals. Her panties had been torn—damn, he'd done that—and she threw them in the garbage. She ran her fingers through her hair, picked up her pack. "I'm sorry that you're sorry," she said quietly, "but...I'm a fool—I still want to see you later tonight. Will you come to my place after the thing at the VFW?" Bobby didn't answer right away, and she looked at him. "Please?" "Yes," he whispered, and she let herself out the door. *** The elevator door opened, and Colleen found herself face-to-face with Wes. He was getting off on this floor, Bobby's floor, followed by the trio of young SEALs she was starting to think of as The Mod Squad. Pete, Link and Mike Lee. Wes's expression was grim, and Colleen knew that she looked like a woman who'd just been with a man. She should have taken more time, should have gone into the bathroom and splashed water on her still-flushed face. Except then she would have been in Bobby's room when Wes knocked on the door. She went into the elevator, her head held high as her brother glared at her. "Don't worry," she told him. "You win. I'm not going to see him again after tonight." They were leaving for Tulgeria in the morning. While they were there, she would be sharing a room with Susan and Rene, and Bobby would be in with one or two of the SEALs for the week. There would be no place to be alone, no time, either. Bobby would have no trouble avoiding her. And after they got back to the States, he'd head for California with the rest of Alpha Squad. He wasn't interested in a long-distance relationship. She wasn't interested in one that created limitless amounts of anguish and guilt. There was no way their relationship could work out. This was what he'd tried to tell her in his room. That was why he'd tried to spark her interest in his stupid friend. What they'd shared—a few days of truly great sex—was almost over. It was over, and they both knew it in their hearts. It was just taking their bodies a little bit longer to catch up. The elevator door closed, and Colleen put on her sunglasses, afraid of who else she'd run into on the way to the lobby, and unwilling to let them see her cry. Bobby didn't answer the door. He knew from the weight of the knock that it was Wes— the last person in the world he wanted to see. No, Wes was the second to last person Bobby wanted to see right now. The first was Colleen. God forbid she see him and know that he'd been crying. Man, he'd screwed this up, big-time. He should have stayed away from her. He should have taken the T to Logan and hopped the next flight to Australia. He should have hung up the phone that first night she'd called him. He should have "Open the damn door, Taylor. I know you're in there!" Wes was the one person he should have been able to run to, the one person who could have helped him sort this out, to figure out what to do now that he'd completely messed it up by falling in love. "I love her." Bobby said it aloud, to the door, knowing Wes couldn't hear him over the sound of his own knocking. "I'm in love with Colleen." Still, it was a shock to speak the words, to admit these powerful feelings that he'd worked overtime to deny right from the very start. Right from her nineteenth birthday, when he and Wes had taken Colleen and a group of her girlfriends from college to Busch Gardens. Bobby hadn't seen her in a few years, and suddenly there she was. All grown up. He'd gotten into an argument with her about some political issue, and she was so well-informed and so well-spoken, she'd convinced him that he was backing the wrong party. He'd fallen for her then—a girl-woman who wasn't afraid to tell a man that he was wrong. Yeah, he'd loved her for years, but it wasn't until this past week, until they became lovers, that his love for her had deepened and grown into this

complete, everlasting force. It was bigger than he was. It was all-consuming and powerful. He'd never felt anything like it in his entire life, and it scared the hell out of him. "I can't say no to her," Bobby said to Wes, through the door. "She wants me to meet her tonight, and I'm going to be there, because, damn it, I can't stay away from her. It's tearing me up, because I know this isn't what you want for her. I know you wanted better. But if she came to me and told me she loved me, too, and that she wanted to marry me, I'd do it. Tonight. I'd take her to Vegas before she changed her mind. Yeah, I'd do it, even though I know what a mistake it would be for her. "But she doesn't want to marry me." Bobby wiped his face, his eyes. "She only wants to sleep with me. I don't have to worry about her waking up seven years from now and hating her life. I only have to worry about spending the rest of my life wanting someone I can't have." Bobby sat on the edge of the hotel room bed, right where Colleen had sat just a short time ago. "God, I want her in my life," he said aloud. "What am I going to do, Wes?" No one answered. Wes had stopped knocking on the door. He was gone. And Bobby was alone. As the TV news cameras arrived, Colleen glanced at her watch. It was about :. Bobby and his friends were already there, already in place—Thomas and Jim Slade seemingly casually hanging out on the sidewalk in front of the church parking lot, Rio and Mike up near the truck that held the camera. Bobby was sticking close to her in the crowd. "There's a good chance if Morrison's going to try anything, he's going to target you," he explained. He was dressed in jeans and a white buttondown shirt with a jacket over it, despite the heat. "Are you wearing a jacket because you've got on a gun under there?" She had to ask. He laughed. "I'm wearing a jacket because I'm here posing as a member of Relief Aid, and I wanted to look nice." Oh. "You do," she said. "You look very nice." "So do you." His gaze skimmed appreciatively down her denim skirt, taking in the yellow daisies that adorned her blouse. "You always do." Time hung for a moment, as she fell into the bottomless depths of his eyes. But then he looked away. "I'm sorry," Colleen said. "About this afternoon." "No." He glanced at her. "I was the one who was—" "No," she said. "You weren't." His eyes were apologetic. "I can't come over tonight. I'm sorry, but..." She nodded. Had to ask. "Are you sure?" "No." He met her gaze again, smiled ruefully. "I mean, five minutes ago, yeah, I was sure. But here you are and..." He shook his head. "Well, if you change your mind, I'll be home." Colleen tried to sound casual, tried to sound as if sharing this one last night with him didn't mean so much to her. She cleared her throat. "I should probably go inside pretty soon. If John Morrison were coming, he'd probably be here by now." Famous last words. "Hey! Hey, hippie chick! Nice party you're throwing here. What are we celebrating? The fact that you're going away and won't be around to annoy us for a whole week?" It was John Morrison, and he was drunk, holding a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. As Bobby stepped in front of her, he seemed to expand, and Colleen realized that a baseball bat was dangling from Morrison's other hand. "How about we let those cameras cover some real news?" Morrison asked loudly—loudly enough for heads to turn in his direction. Loudly enough for the other SEALs to move toward them. But the crowd was thick, and they were having trouble getting through the crush. As were the police officers who'd been assigned to keep traffic moving. "I'm going down the street," Morrison continued, "just a block or so over, to that AIDS Center they're building down there. I'm going to break the windows in protest. We don't want it in our neighborhood. We don't want you in our neighborhood." He pointed at Colleen with the baseball bat, swinging it up toward her, and just like that, it was over.

She barely saw Bobby move. Yet somehow he'd taken the bat away from Morrison and had the man down on the ground before she even blinked. The other SEALs made the scene a few seconds before the police. Bobby lifted Morrison to his feet, handed the man to Spaceman. "Take him inside. There are some empty rooms upstairs." He turned to Rio. "Find Father Timothy. Tell him it has to do with that matter I discussed with him earlier this week." He looked at Colleen. "You okay?" She watched as Spaceman hustled Morrison inside. "Yeah. I don't think he was going to hurt me." "What's going on here?" the police officer—a big, ruddy-cheeked beat cop named Danny O'Sullivan—planted himself in front of them. Bobby touched her arm and lowered his voice. "You want to press charges? Lifting the bat like that could be considered assault. At the least, we could get him for drunk and disorderly." She met his gaze. "No." Not if Father Timothy was getting involved. Bobby had talked to Timothy earlier in the week, he'd said. Be compassionate, she'd told him, just that afternoon. Obviously, he hadn't needed the reminder. "Just a little outburst from a friend who had too much to drink," Bobby told O'Sullivan. He squeezed Colleen's arm. "You want to take it from here? I want to go inside to talk to Morrison." She nodded, and he pulled Thomas King over. "Don't let Colleen out of your sight." "Aye, aye, Chief." The crowd parted for Bobby as Colleen turned back to the cop. "Really, Dan," she said. "Everything's fine. We'll see John gets home safely." O'Sullivan looked at the bat that Mike Lee had picked up through narrowed eyes. "What, did Johnny want to get a game going or something?" "Or something," Colleen agreed. "Sometimes it does a body more harm than good to be protected by friends," O'Sullivan said. "He's had a recent tragedy in his family," she told him. "He doesn't need a night in jail, Dan. He needs to talk to his parish priest." O'Sullivan smiled as he shook his head. "I wish I were twenty-something and still believed I could save the world, one poor loser at a time. Good luck on your trip to Tul-geria." He nodded to Thomas, who was still standing beside her. She glanced at Thomas, too. "Let's go inside." Bobby was in an upstairs storage room, talking to John Morrison about Vietnam. He was much too young to have been there, but he must've been something of a historian, because he knew the names of the rivers and the towns and the battles in which Morrison had fought. John Morrison was drunk, but not as drunk as Colleen had first thought. His speech was slightly slurred, but he was following the conversation easily. As she listened, lingering with Thomas King just outside the door, the two men talked about Admiral Jake Robinson, who'd also served in 'Nam. Morrison knew of the man and was impressed that Bobby thought of him as a friend. They talked about Bobby's career in the SEAL units. They talked about Morrison's bar, and his father who'd served in a tank division in World War II—who had died just two years ago after a long struggle with cancer. They talked about elderly parents, about loss, about death. And suddenly they were talking about Wes. "My best friend is still jammed up from his little brother's death," Bobby told Morrison. "It happened ten years ago, and he still won't talk about it. It's like he pretends the kid never existed." He paused. "Kind of like what you're doing with John Jr." Silence. "I'm sorry for your loss," she heard Bobby say quietly. "But you've got to find a way to vent your anger besides taking out the windows at the AIDS Center. Someone's going to end up hurt, and that will make my friend Colleen Skelly—and you know who she is—unhappy. And if you make Colleen unhappy, if you hurt someone, if you hurt her, then I'm going to have to come back here and hurt you. This is not a threat, John, it's a promise." His friend. She was his friend Colleen—not his lover, not his girlfriend. And Colleen knew the truth. He'd told her right from the start—he wanted to be friends. And that's all they were, all they ever would be. Friends who had hot sex. Despite his promise to hurt John Morrison, Bobby was, without a doubt, the kindest, most sensitive man she'd ever met. He was too kind to tell her again that he didn't love her, that he would never love her. The sex they had was great, but he was the kind of man who would want more in a relationship than great sex.

She could hear Father Timothy coming, puffing his way up the stairs to talk to John Morrison, to try to set him on a path that would lead him out of the darkness into which he'd fallen. The cynic in her knew that a talk with his priest probably wouldn't change anything. Morrison needed serious help. Chances were when he sobered up he'd be embarrassed and angry that the secret about his son's death had slipped out. Maybe he'd be angry enough to burn down the center. Or maybe he'd go to grief counseling. She could almost hear Bobby's gentle voice telling her that maybe John Morrison would find peace and stop hating the world—and hating himself. Father Timothy had almost reached the landing. Colleen stepped closer to Thomas King, lowered her voice. "I need you to do me a favor and give Bobby a message for me." Thomas nodded, his face serious to the point of grimness. That was his default expression. He was very black, very serious, very intense. He now turned that intensity directly upon her. "Please tell him that I thought he probably shouldn't come to my place tonight." Good Lord, could she sound any more equivocal? "Tell him I'm sorry, but I don't want him to come over." An expression outside of his serious and grim repertoire—one of disbelief—flashed across Thomas King's face and he suddenly looked his actual, rather tender age. "Maybe that's something you should tell Chief Taylor yourself." "Please," she said. "Just give him the message." Father Timothy had cleared the top of the stairs, and she went down, as swiftly as she could, before she changed her mind.

17 They'd won. Well, they weren't going to be able to bring the orphans back to the United States at the end of the week, but no one had really expected that. The Tulgerian government had given the Relief Aid volunteers permission to move the children to a location near the American Embassy. Paid for, of course, with American dollars. The other good news was that the government was making it possible for American citizens to travel to the capital city, Tulibek, to petition to adopt. The older children in particular would be allowed to leave, for exorbitant adoption fees. It was a victory—although it was a bittersweet one for Colleen. She was sitting, looking out the window, her forehead against the glass, as the bus moved steadily north, into the even more dangerous war zone. Bobby watched her, well aware of what she was thinking. In a matter of minutes they would arrive at the hospital where the children had been taken after the orphanage had been destroyed. As they went inside, Analena wouldn't be among the children who rushed to greet her. Yes, it was a bittersweet victory for Colleen. It was a city bus—this vehicle they were in. Some of the hard plastic seats faced forward, some faced the center of the bus. There was space for people to stand, bars and straps to hold on to. Colleen was facing forward, and the seat next to her was empty. He sat down beside her, wishing for the privacy that came with seats that had high backs. He lowered his voice instead. "You okay?" She wiped her eyes, forced a smile. "I'm great." Yeah, sure she was. He wanted to hold her hand, but he didn't dare touch her. "The past few days have been crazy, huh?" She gave him another smile. "Yeah, I've been glad many times over that you and Alpha Squad are here." God, he'd missed her. When Thomas King had given him her message—don't come over—he'd known that it was over between them. Right up until then he'd harbored hope. Maybe if he went to her and told her that he loved her... Maybe if he begged, she'd agree to keep seeing him. And maybe someday she'd fall in love with him, too. "You and Wes are on friendlier terms again," she noted. "I mean, at least you seem to be talking." Bobby nodded, even though that was far from the truth. The final insult in this whole messed-up situation was the damage he'd done to his decade of friendship with Wes. It seemed irreparable. Wes was talking to him, sure—but it was only an exchange of information. They weren't sharing their thoughts, not the way they used to. When he looked at Wes, he could no longer read the man's mind. How much of that was his own fault, his own sense of guilt? He didn't know. "Life goes on, huh?" Colleen said. "Despite all the disappointments and tragedies. There's always good news happening somewhere." She gestured to the bus, to the four other Relief Aid volunteers who sat quietly talking in the back of the bus. "This is good news—the fact that we're going to bring those children back to a safer location. And, oh, here's some good news for you—I'm not pregnant. I got my period this morning. So you can stop worrying about Wes coming after you with a shotgun, huh?" She wasn't pregnant. Colleen tried to smile, but just managed to look...almost wistful? "You know, it's stupid, but I imagined if I was, you know, pregnant, the baby would be a boy who would look just like you." She was kidding, wasn't she? Bobby tried to make a joke. "Poor kid." "Lucky kid." She wasn't kidding. The look she was giving him was fierce. "You're the most beautiful man I've ever known, Bobby. Both inside and out." He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to think. And Colleen went back to looking out the window. "Funny, isn't it, how one person's good news can be someone else's disappointment?" "You're disappointed? About..." He had to search for the words. "You wanted to have a baby? But, Colleen, you said—" "Not just any baby." When she looked at him, the tears were back in her eyes. "I wanted Analena. And I wanted your baby. I'd make a terrible mother, wouldn't I? I'm already playing favorites." "Colleen. I'm..." Speechless. "I had this stupid fantasy going," she said in a very small voice, almost as if she were talking to herself, not to him, "that I'd be pregnant, and you'd have to marry me. And then, after we were married, I'd somehow make you love me, too. But real life doesn't work that way. People who have to get

married usually end up resenting each other, and I'd hate it if you ever resented me." Make you. Love me. Too. Bobby wasn't sure, but he thought it was possible he was having a heart attack. His chest was tight and his brain felt numb. "Colleen, are you telling me—" "Heads up, Taylor. We're getting close," Senior Chief Harvard Becker's voice cut through. "I need your eyes and ears with me right now."

Damn. Colleen had turned her attention back to the drab scenery flashing past, outside the window. Bobby stood up, shouldering his weapon, using every ounce of training he'd ever had to get his head back in place, to focus on the mission. Rio Rosetti was nearby, and he caught Bobby's eye. "You okay, Chief? Your shoulder all right?" His shoulder? "I'm fine," he said shortly. Dammit, he needed to talk to Wes. Just because Colleen loved him— and she only maybe loved him, he didn't know it for sure— didn't mean that gave him the right to go and ruin her life by marrying her. Did it? "Okay, listen up," Captain Joe Catalanotto said for the benefit of the Relief Aid volunteers, the bus driver and the Tulgerian guard who was leading them down the unmarked roads to the hospital. All of the SEALs knew precisely how this was going to go down. Swiftly and efficiently. "We sent a small team in early, to do surveillance," Joe Cat continued. "One of those men will meet us on the road about a mile from the hospital, tell us if there's anything unusual to watch out for. If it's all clear, we'll pull up right outside the hospital doors, but everyone will stay in their seats. Another team will go in to check the place out, join forces with the rest of the surveillance team. Only when they secure entrances and give the all-clear do any of you get off this bus. Is that understood?" A murmur of voices. Yes, sir. "At that point," Joe Cat said even though they'd already gone over it dozens of times, "you'll move from the bus to the building as quickly as possible. Once inside, you will stay close. You do not wander off under any circumstances." "You all right?" Bobby turned to see Wes right behind him. "The bus driver will stay in the vehicle," Joe Cat continued. "The plan is to return to the bus with the children and nuns as quickly—" "Your head's not here," Wes said quietly. "Come on, Bobby. Now's not the time to screw around." "I'm in love with your sister." "Ah, jeez, perfect timing," Wes muttered. "I think she loves me, too." "No kidding, genius. You're just figuring that out now?" "If she'll have me, I'm going to marry her." Damn it, he was as good as any doctor or lawyer out there. He'd figure out a way to make money, to buy her the things she deserved. When she was with him, he could do anything. "I'm sorry, Wes." "What are you crazy? You're sorry?" Wes stared at him. "You're apologizing for something I'd sell my left nut to have. If it were me in love with your sister, Bobby, you better believe I would have told you to flip off days ago." He shook his head in disgust. "But you said..." "Marry her," Wes said. "All right? Just don't do it right this second if you don't flipping mind. We're all a little busy, making sure these tourists stay alive—in case you haven't noticed?" These tourists—including Colleen. "I'll forgive you for damn near anything," Wes continued, "but if you get Colleen killed, I swear to God, you're a dead man." Colleen. Killed. Wham. Just like that, Bobby's head was together. He was back and ready— percent ready—for this op, for keeping Colleen and the others safe. "Yeah, that's more like it," Wes said, glancing up at him as he checked his weapon. "You're all here now."

Bobby leaned over to look out the windows, to scan the desolate countryside. “I love you, man. Do you really forgive me?" "If you hug me," Wes said, "I'll kill you." There was nothing out the window. Just rocks and dust. "I missed you, Wesley." "Yeah," Wes said, heading toward the front of the bus. "I'm going to miss you, too." Something was wrong. Colleen shifted in her seat, trying to see the men having a discussion at the front of the bus. They'd stopped, supposedly to pick up one of the SEALs who'd been sent ahead on surveillance. But instead of picking him up and driving the last mile to the hospital at the outskirts of the small town, they'd all but parked here at the side of the road. The SEAL had come onto the bus—it looked like the man who was nicknamed Lucky, allegedly from his past exploits with women. Yeah, that perfect nose was unmis takable despite the layers of dust and camouflage greasepaint. He was talking to the captain and the SEAL who, according to Wes, had actually gone to Harvard University—the senior chief who was almost as tall as Bobby. The other men were listening intently. Susan came forward a few seats to sit behind Colleen. "Do you know what's going on?" she whispered. Colleen shook her head. Whatever they were saying, their voices were too low. Please, God, don't let there be trouble. "All right," the captain finally said. "We have a situation at the hospital. For a place that's supposedly staffed by a single doctor and four nuns, we've got twelve men inside, wearing surgical scrubs and long white coats—the better to hide their Uzis. "We've ID'd them as members of two particularly nasty local terrorist cells. We're actually surprised they haven't blown each other to pieces by now —but apparently their goal of taking out a bus-load of hated Americans is more than enough to overcome their natural distaste for each other." Colleen flashed hot and then cold. Terrorists. In the hospital with the nuns and the children. "Oh, my God," she breathed. Behind her, she heard Rene start to cry. Susan moved back to sit with her. Captain Catalanotto held up his hand. "We're going in there," he told them. "Covertly—that means secretly, without them knowing we're there. Lieutenant O'Donlon's report indicates these are amateur soldiers we're up against. We can take them out quickly. And we will. "We're leaving Lieutenant Slade and Chiefs Taylor and Skelly here with you on the bus. They are in command, if there's an emergency, you will do as they say. I considered sending the bus back into Tulibek..." He held up his hand again as there was a murmur of voices. It was amazing, really, how effective that was. "But I made a command decision. I think you'll be safer right here until we secure the hospital. Once we have possession of that building, the bus will approach, but you will not leave the vehicle. We'll be going over the hospital inch by inch, making sure the terrorists didn't leave any booby traps or other nasty surprises. Our priority will be to check the children and get them out of there and onto the bus. "Are there any questions?" Susan Fitzgerald, head of Relief Aid, stood up. "Yes, sir. You've just basically told us that you and your men are going to sneak into a building where there are twelve terrorists with twelve machine guns waiting for you. I'm just curious, sir. Does your wife know about the danger you're going to be in this afternoon?" For a moment there was complete silence on the bus. No one moved, no one breathed. But then Captain Catalanotto exchanged a look with his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander McCoy. They both wore wedding rings. In fact, many of the men in Alpha Squad were married. Colleen looked up and found Bobby watching her. As she met his eyes, he smiled very slightly. Ruefully. His mouth moved as he spoke to her silently from across the bus. "This is what we do. This is what it's like." "Yeah, Dr. Fitzgerald," Captain Catalanotto finally said. "My wife knows. And God bless her for staying with me, anyway." "I don't care," Colleen mouthed back, but Bobby had already looked away. Colleen sat on the bus in silence. Wes and Jim Slade both paced. Bobby stood, across the aisle from her. He was still, but he was on the balls of his feet—as if he were ready to leap into action at the slightest provocation. Colleen tried not to look at him. God forbid she distract him. Still, he was standing close, as if he wanted to be near her, too. "How much longer?" Susan Fitzgerald finally asked.

"We don't know, ma'am," Wes answered from the back of the bus. He touched his radio headset. "They'll open a channel we can receive at this distance only after they've got the place secure. Not until then." "Will we hear gunshots?" one of the men, Kurt Freid-richson, asked. "No, sir," Wes told him. "Because there'll be no weapons discharged. Alpha Squad will take them down without a struggle. I can guarantee that as much as I can guarantee anything in this world." "This isn't the time for conversation," Bobby said quietly. And once again there was silence. "Jackpot," Wes said, into his radio headset. "Affirmative, sir. We copy that." He made an adjustment to his lip microphone. "We've been given the order to move toward the hospital. The building has been secured with no casualties." "Oh, thank God," Colleen breathed. It was over. They were all safe—children, nuns, SEALs. "Let's move it out," Spaceman—Jim Slade—said to the bus driver. "No!" Wes shouted from the back of the bus. "Bobby!" Colleen barely looked up, she barely had time to think, let alone react. But the Tulgerian guard, the man who'd been hired by the bus driver to guide them to the hospital, had pulled a gun out of nowhere. He was sitting three rows up and the aisle. She was the closest to him. The closest target. But Colleen got only a glimpse of the bottomless dark hole of the gun's barrel before Bobby was on top of her, covering her, pushing her down. The noise was tremendous. A gunshot. Was that really what it sounded like? It was deafening. Terrifying. A second one, and then a third. But Colleen couldn't see. She could only hear. Screaming. Was that her voice? Wes, cursing a blue storm. Spaceman. Shouting. For a helo. Man down. Man down? Oh, God. "Bobby?" "Are we clear?" That was Bobby's voice. Colleen could feel it rumbling in his chest. But then she felt something else. Something wet and warm and... "We're clear." Wes. "Jeezus!" "Are you all right?" Bobby pulled back, off her and, thank God, she was. But she was covered with blood.

His blood. "Oh, my God," Colleen said, starting to shake. "Don't die. Don't you dare die on me!" Bobby had been shot. Right now, right this minute, he was bleeding his life away onto the floor of the bus. "Of all the stupid things you've done," she said, "stepping in front of a loaded gun again—again—has to take the cake." "I'm okay," he said. He touched her face, forced her to look into his eyes. They were still brown, still calm, still Bobby's eyes. "Breathe," he ordered her. "Stay with me, Colleen. Because I'm okay." She breathed because he wanted her to breathe, but she couldn't keep her tears from spilling over. "You're bleeding." Maybe he didn't know. He didn't. He looked down, looked amazed. "Oh, man." Wes was there, helping him into the seat next to Colleen, already working to try to stop the flow. "God damn, you've got a lot of blood. Bobby, I can't get this to stop." Bobby squeezed Colleen's hand. "You should get out of here." His voice was tight. "Because you know, it didn't hurt at first—probably from adrenaline, but God, oh my God, now it does, and you don't need to be here to see this. I don't want you here, Colleen. Please." "I love you," she said, "and if you think I'm going anywhere right now—besides with you to a hospital—then you don't know me very well." "He wants to marry you," Wes told her. "Oh, wonderful timing," Bobby said, gritting his teeth. "Like this is the most romantic moment of my life."

"Yeah?" Colleen said, trying to help Wes by keeping Bobby still, by holding him tightly. "Well, too bad, because I'm marrying you whether you ask me or not." "She said that she loved you," Wes countered. "Don't die," Colleen begged him. She looked at her brother. "Don't you dare let him die!" "How could I die?" Bobby asked. "I'm surrounded by Skellys. Death couldn't get a word in edgewise." Wes shouted toward the driver. "Can we move this bus a little faster? I need a hospital corpsman and I need him now!"

18 Bobby woke up in a U.S. Military hospital. Someone was sitting beside his bed, holding his hand, and it took him a few fuzzy seconds to focus on... Wes. He squeezed his best friend's fingers because his throat was too dry to speak. "Hey." Wes was on his feet almost immediately. "Welcome back." He grabbed a cup, aimed the straw for Bobby's mouth. Hadn't they just done this a few months ago? "The news is good," Wes told him. "You're going to be okay. No permanent damage." "Colleen?" Bobby managed to say. "She's here." Wes gave him another sip of water. "She went to get some coffee. Do you remember getting moved out of ICU?" Bobby shook his head. He remembered... Colleen. Tears in her beautiful eyes. I love you.... Had she really said that? Please, God, let it be true. "You had us scared for a while there, but when they moved you into this room, you surfaced for a while. I was pretty sure you were zoned out on painkillers, but Colleen got a lot of mileage out of hearing your voice. She slept after that—first time in more than seventy-two hours. She really loves you, man." Bobby looked into his best friend's eyes. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Wes always did enough talking for both of them. "And you know, I love you, too," Wes told him. "And you know how I mean that, so no making any stupid jokes. I'm glad Colleen's not here right now, because I need to tell you that I know I was wrong. She doesn't need a doctor or a lawyer. That's garbage. She doesn't need an officer. She doesn't need money. Of all the women in the world, Colleen doesn't give a damn about money. "What she needs, bro, is a man who loves her more than life itself. She needs you."

I love her. Bobby didn't have to say the words aloud. He knew Wes knew. "The really stupid thing is," Wes continued, "that I probably knew that right from the start. You and Colleen. I mean, she was made for you, man. And you're going to make her really happy. She's been crazy about you forever. "See, my big problem is that I'm scared," Wes admitted. "When I found out that you and she had—" He shook his head. "I knew right at that moment that you were going to marry her, and that things would never be the same. Because you'd be one of the guys who'd found what they were looking for, and I'd still be here, on the outside. Searching. "You know, on that training op that you missed because of your shoulder, because you were in Cambridge—it was just me and a bunch of mostly married men. After the op, we had a night to kill before our flight back, and everyone went to bed early. Even Spaceman—he had to ice his knees, he's really hurting these days. Thomas King—he's worse than some of the married guys. He just goes and locks himself in his room. And Mike Lee's got a girl somewhere. So that leaves Rio Rosetti. Can you picture me and Rosetti, out on the town?" Actually, Bobby could. "Yeah, well, believe me, it sucked. He went home with some sweet young tourist that he should've stayed far away from, and I'm thinking about how that's me ten years ago, and how I'm looking for something different now. Something you managed to find. "Scared and jealous—it's not a good combination. I hope someday you'll forgive me for the things I said." "You know I already do," Bobby whispered. "So marry her," Wes said. "If you don't, I'll beat you senseless." "Oh, this is just perfect." Colleen. "Threatening to beat up the man who just saved your sister's life." She swept into the room, and everything was heightened. It was suddenly brighter, suddenly sharper, clearer. She smelled great. She looked gorgeous. "I'm just telling him to marry you," Wes said. Bobby used every ounce of available energy to lift his hand and point to Wes and then to the door. "Privacy," he whispered. "Attaboy," Wes said, as he went out the door. Colleen sat beside him. Took his hand. Her fingers were cool and strong.

"Colleen—" "Shhh. We have plenty of time. You don't need to—" It was such an effort to speak. "I want...now..." "Bobby Taylor, will you marry me?" she asked. "Will you help me find a law school near San Diego, so I can transfer and be with you for the rest of my life?" Bobby smiled. It was much easier to let a Skelly do the talking. "Yes." "I love you," she said. "And I know you love me." "Yes." She kissed him, her mouth so sweet and cool against his. "When you're feeling better, do you want to..." She leaned forward and whispered into his ear. Absolutely. Every day, for the rest of their lives. "Yes," Bobby whispered, knowing from her beautiful smile that she knew damn well what he was thinking, glad that Wes wasn't the only Skelly who could read his mind.

Epilogue What time does the movie start?" Bobby asked as he cleared the Chinese food containers off the kitchen table. "Seven thirty-five. We have to leave in ten minutes." Colleen was going through the mail, opening today's responses to the wedding invitations. She looked tired—she'd been getting up early to meet with the administrators of a local San Diego women's shelter who were in the process of buying a big old house. She was handling tomorrow morning's closing—pro bono, of course. "Are you sure you want to go?" he asked. She looked up. Smiled. "Yes. Absolutely. You've wanted to see this movie for weeks. If we don't go tonight..." "We'll go another night," he told her. They were getting married. They had a lifetime to see movies together. The thought still made him a little dizzy. She loved him.... "No," she said. "I definitely want to go tonight." Aside from her legal work, there were a million things to do, what with finding a new apartment big enough for the two of them and all the wedding plans. They were getting married in four weeks, in Colleen's mother's hometown in Oklahoma. It was where the Skellys had settled after her dad had retired from the Navy. Colleen had only lived there her last few years of high school, but her grandparents and a whole pack of cousins were there. Besides, softhearted Colleen knew how important it was to her mother to see her daughter married in the same church in which she'd taken her own wedding vows. But it made planning this wedding a real juggling act. And no way was Bobby willingly going to let Colleen head back to Oklahoma for the next four weeks. No, he'd gotten real used to having her around, real fast. They were just going to have to get good at juggling. She frowned down at the reply card she'd just opened. "Spaceman's not coming to the wedding?" "No, he told me he's going in for surgery on his knees." "Oh, rats!" Bobby tried to sound casual. "Is it really that big a deal?" Colleen looked up at him. "Are you jealous?" "No." "You are." She laughed as she stood up and came toward him. "What, do you think I want him there so I can change my mind at the last minute and marry him instead of you?" She wrapped her arms around his neck as she twinkled her eyes at him. Something tightened in his chest and he pulled her more tightly to him. "Just try it." "I was going to try to set him up with Ashley." Ashley? And Jim Slade? Bobby didn't laugh. At least not aloud. "Ashley DeWitt," Colleen said. "My roommate from Boston?" "I know who she is. And...I don't think so, Colleen." He tried to be tactful. "She's not exactly his type. You know, icy blonde?" "Ash is very warm." "Yeah, well..." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Her warmth has nothing to do with it. What you really mean is that she's too skinny. She's not stacked enough for Spaceman, is that what you're trying to say?" "Yes. Don't you hate him now? Thank God he's not coming to the wedding." She laughed and his chest got even tighter. He wanted to kiss her, but that would mean that he'd have to stop looking at her, and he loved looking at her. "Didn't he have that friend who started that camp—you know, mock SEAL training for corporate executives?" she asked. "Kind of an Outward Bound program for business geeks? Someone—Rio, I think—was telling me about it." "Yeah," Bobby said, settling on sliding his hand up beneath the edge of her T-shirt and running his fingers across the smooth skin of her back. "Randy Something—former SEAL from Team Two. Down in Florida. He's doing really well—he's constantly understaffed."

"Ashley wants to do something like that," Colleen told him. "Can you find out Randy's phone number so I can give it to her?" Ashley DeWitt, in her designer suits, would last about ten minutes in the kind of program Randy ran. But Bobby kept his mouth shut because, who knows? Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she'd kick butt. "Sure," he said. "I'll call Spaceman first thing tomorrow." Colleen touched his face. "Thank you," she said. And he knew she wasn't talking about his promise to call Space man. She'd read his mind, and was thanking him for not discounting Ashley. "I love you so much." And that feeling in his chest got tighter than ever. "I love you, too," he told her. He'd started telling her that whenever he got this feeling. Not that it necessarily made his chest any less tight, but it made her eyes soften, made her smile, made her kiss him. She kissed him now, and he closed his eyes as he kissed her back, losing himself in her sweetness, pulling her closer, igniting the fire he knew he'd feel for her until the end of time. "We'll be late for the movie," she whispered, but then whooped as he swung her up into his arms and carried her down the hall to the bedroom. "What movie?" Bobby asked, and kicked the bedroom door closed. END