Harvard's Education Read online

  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?" P.J. 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," P.J. 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.

  P.J. 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 grey 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-slices-of-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 scepticism 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 theatre 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 greyish 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 t
he idea."

  "We're tired of shovelling 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 centre 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 hur
t you and keep on hurting you. There's a list of ground rules 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?"