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  Sydney 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. Something. Anything.

  But he was impossibly gorgeous. The sheer perfection of a Ken doll come to life.

  Navy Ken stood. “I’m sorry. Of course, I should have introduced myself. Lieutenant Luke O’Donlon, of the U.S. Navy SEALs.”

  Sydney didn’t have to be an expert on body language to know the feelings of all the males in the room. The jealousy 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 the Ken dolls.

  And he knew it.

  GET LUCKY

  SUZANNE BROCKMANN

  For Patricia McMahon

  Acknowledgments:

  Special thanks to Frances Stepp, expert on a whole lot more than diving, who somehow always knows to e-mail or Instant Message me whenever I have a burning research question, and Mike Freeman, real-life hero. I’m honored to know you both! Any mistakes that I’ve made or liberties that I’ve taken are completely my own.

  Books by Suzanne Brockmann

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Hero Under Cover #575

  Not Without Risk #647

  A Man To Die For #681

  *Prince Joe #720

  *Forever Blue #742

  *Frisco’s Kid #759

  Love with the Proper Stranger #831

  *Everyday, Average Jones #872

  *Harvard’s Education #884

  *It Came Upon a Midnight Clear #896

  *The Admiral’s Bride #962

  Undercover Princess #968

  *Identity: Unknown #974

  *Get Lucky #991

  SUZANNE BROCKMANN

  lives just west of Boston in a house always filled with her friends—actors and musicians and storytellers and artists and teachers. When not writing award-winning romances about U.S. Navy SEALs, among others, she sings in an a cappella group called SERIOUS FUN, manages the professional acting careers of her two children, volunteers at the Appalachian Benefit Coffeehouse and always answers letters from readers. Send her an SASE along with your letter to P.O. Box 5092, Wayland, MA 01778.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  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-foot-three, 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 25-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 1950s. 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 911.

  Chapter 1

  All early-morning conversation in Captain Joe Catalanotto’s outer office sto
pped 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 Hawken’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 Coronado, 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 fiancé, 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 Coronado 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 19-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.’