Tall, Dark, and Dangerous Part 2 Page 4

  “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 P.J.’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.

  P.J. 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 XO or executive officer of Alpha Squad, the one everyone called Blue. And he was nearly as good as Alpha Squad’s CO, Joe Cat. But, of course, nobody even came close to Harvard.

  Harvard. P.J. 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.

  P.J. 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. P.J. 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.

  P.J. 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 P.J. 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 fe
lt 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.”

  P.J. 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.”

  P.J. snorted. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  Joe absentmindedly twisted the thick gold wedding band he wore on his left hand. P.J. 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.

  P.J. 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.”

  P.J. 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, P.J. 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.

  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? P.J. 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 thinking about it, Lucky had been circling P.J.—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.