Troubleshooters 03 Over The Edge

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Oh, Hershel.” Annebet wept for him.

  Hershel was crying, too. They all were. Helga could feel her own tears, wet on her cheeks.

  “He’s at fault,” Hershel persisted. “Don’t you see? You didn’t cause this problem—my father did.”

  “But if it weren’t for me—”

  “I wouldn’t be the happiest man on earth,” he told her. “So marry me. You’ve got to marry me, because this isn’t your fault. Please, Anna. I won’t care so much about not being Eli Rosen’s son anymore if I can be Annebet Gunvald’s husband.”

  Helga was watching Annebet’s face, and she saw the battle being fought within her, saw the moment Hershel—and her heart—won.

  Annebet kissed him. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll marry you.”

  “Helga? My God, what happened? Are you all right?”

  It was Des.

  She wasn’t sitting in the Gunvalds’barn. She was in the run-down lobby of some hotel in . . . in . . .

  It didn’t matter that she didn’t know, because Des she knew. His face was familiar.

  His eyes were filled with concern as he gave her his handkerchief, and she realized she had been crying.

  “I was remembering the night Annebet told Hershel she would marry him,” she explained as she dried her face.

  “You know better than to sit in the lobby,” he told her. “Particularly after that incident by the pool this afternoon. Security’s been increased, but it’s by no means safe down here.”

  “I was just resting my feet for a minute. This place is so big—”

  “You got lost,” Des interpreted.

  She pretended to laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “We’ve got to talk about this. We will talk about this. Just not right now. If we don’t get moving, I’m going to be late for a meeting.”

  A meeting. At this hour? Helga realized that Des was dressed all in black.

  “Come on,” he said, helping her up. “I have just enough time—I’ll walk you to your room.”

  Sam Starrett wasn’t sleeping when the phone rang. He was wide awake and staring at the ceiling even though he damn well should have been completely unconscious and refueling for the 0230 practice session that was approaching far too soon.

  When the phone rang, he knew it wasn’t Lieutenant Paoletti calling to bring the team in early. The phones in the hotel were way too unreliable.

  That meant it was WildCard, calling in to report that Alyssa Locke had made it safely back to her room after partying with that asshole Rob Pierce and the SAS observers. Sam would’ve gone prowling through the hotel himself, looking for her, but WildCard had advised against it. Unless he wanted Locke to know that he was . . . Jesus, he couldn’t even think it without cringing. But it was true. Seeing her again—kissing her again—had clarified it for him.

  He was in love with her.

  The phone rang a second time, and Sam was tempted not to pick it up. WildCard’s news might not be so good. He might be calling to tell him that Alyssa had gone back to Pierce’s room, that she was there right now.

  With him.

  That was not news Sam wanted to hear on a night when drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Jack Daniel’s wasn’t an option.

  He rolled onto his stomach and picked up the phone, bracing himself for the worst. “Where the fuck is she?”

  There was the sound of distant laughter and talking, glass and silverware clinking on the open line. And then a soft laugh that wasn’t WildCard’s. “So you did send Karmody down to check on me. I thought so.”

  Holy Jesus, it was Alyssa herself.

  “We’re having a discussion about nicknames down here,” she told him, “and yours came up.”

  She’d been drinking. He could hear the alcohol in her voice, relaxing her consonants, messing with her vowels.

  “Rob wanted to know the story behind you being called Sam, and I remembered that Sam came from Houston, but that you weren’t nicknamed Houston because you were from Texas, because you weren’t from Houston, but I couldn’t remember what . . .” She laughed. Covered the mouthpiece of the phone badly as she spoke to someone else. “No, no. Really, I don’t want—” It was muffled, but he heard her. Heard her laugh, too. “No, I want to talk to him. Wait—”

  “Lieutenant, I’m extremely sorry. I hope we didn’t wake you.” It was that British fuck, Rob Pierce.

  Sam was grinding his teeth so hard, he could almost feel little pieces breaking off. “No,” he said, somehow managing not to sound as if he wanted to kill the bastard. “I was still awake.”

  “We’re dreadfully confused about the origin of your nickname. Would you mind running it past me? Just quickly. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. And I’m a little more coherent than, well, than just about everyone else, so once I’ve got it figured out, I’m sure I can explain it to the lot of them. Right?”

  Right ho, you stupid fuck. “My given name is Roger Starrett,” Sam explained tightly. “I got the nickname Houston because of Roger. Like NASA. Mission Control? Roger, Houston, got it?”

  “Ah.”

  “Then, after months of being called Houston, someone who thought it was my real name started calling me Sam. Because of Sam Houston.”

  “Because of . . . ?”

  “A famous Texan. American historical figure.” You stupid fuck.

  “Right then. I’ve got it. I’ll let you get back to—”

  “Put Alyssa back on the phone,” Sam ordered.

  Pierce made some British-sounding noise that Sam ignored.

  “Now, Double-oh-seven,” Sam said over him. “Put her on the fucking phone now. Unless you’re afraid she’s going to hang up the phone and ditch you for me. Is that what it is, you dumb fuck?”

  Pierce laughed. “You Americans are so ill-mannered.” But then he heard, “He’d like to talk to you, darling.”

  Then Alyssa’s voice. “Yes?”

  You gonna fuck him, darling? The words were on the tip of his tongue. Instead he closed his mouth, took a deep breath, exhaled, and said, “Lys, what are you doing?”

  He could almost hear her surprise.

  “This guy doesn’t give a shit about you,” he continued. “Come tomorrow, he won’t even remember your name.”

  She pretended to laugh, but it was fake. “Great advice, coming from a guy who—”

  “Remembers your name. Real well. Alyssa.”

  Silence. Sam tried to count to ten but only made it to seven. “Look, is WildCard still down there?”

  “Glowering at me from the other side of the room,” she said. “Yes. My hostile little guardian angel.”

  The idea of WildCard Karmody as anyone’s guardian angel would’ve made him laugh if this hadn’t been so fucking important to him.

  “Let him walk you to your room,” Sam said, still in that reasonable, almost gentle voice, praying that she’d listen to him. “Get out of there right now, okay, Lys? If you don’t want to do it for me, then do it for yourself. Please. This guy Pierce is one of the biggest assholes in the world, and you’re going to hate yourself tomorrow. And I don’t want you to have to go through that again. Once was enough, don’t you think?”

  There was another long pause, then, “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How come you’re only nice to me when I’m drunk?”

  Sam laughed tiredly. “That’s just an alcohol-induced illusion. I’m still the same son of a bitch I always am. You interpret me differently when you drink, that’s all.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re skunked. What the fuck do you know?”

  “I know that I miss you.”

  Jesus. Her soft words all but knocked the very breath out of him. “Yeah,” he managed to say, “well, that makes two of us.”

  “May I . . .” She cleared her throat. “Would you mind if I . . .” A cough this time. “I’d really like to continue this conversation someplace more private.” A deep breath. “Can I
come up? To talk,” she added quickly.

  “812,” he said.

  “Right,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  Teri had a bottle of nonaspirin painkillers in her toilet kit and a headache that needed at least three of the caplets. But nothing to wash them down with.

  She ran the water in the bathroom sink, remembering Stan’s warning. Drink only bottled water.

  She needed those pills, but she needed whatever lousy, stomach-turning, intestine-infesting bacteria that was in that water even less.

  Resigned to her fate, she put her boots and her flack jacket back on then headed back down to the restaurant. There was bottled water there, free for the taking. Her fault completely for not thinking to bring a bottle up with her after her dinner with Mike Muldoon.

  Mike Muldoon, who had kissed her good night.

  She grabbed several bottles of water, then headed up the stairs and back across the lobby, trying not to think of Muldoon or Stan.

  Except there he was. Right in front of her. Stan Wolchonok. Her personal hero.

  He was sleeping on a beat-up couch in the hotel lobby, his hands tucked up in his armpits because the night air had a sudden sharp coolness to it.

  Teri stood and watched him, afraid to leave him there to catch a chill, afraid to wake him. If she woke him, he’d just find something else urgent that had to be done before they all met at the heliport at 0230. No, it was far better to let him sleep.

  She went to the front desk. But the drowsy clerk didn’t speak much English, and she didn’t know how to say blanket in Kazbekistani. So she just went up to her room and took the blanket off her bed.

  When she got back to the lobby, Stan hadn’t moved an inch. She covered him carefully, silently, resisting the temptation to lean down and kiss his forehead or touch the softness of his hair.

  She stood there for a moment, allowing herself a small fantasy. He would open his eyes and smile at her. She’d need to do no more than hold out her hand for him, and he’d follow her upstairs, to her room. . . .

  But he didn’t wake up, and she went back to her room alone and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, her headache forgotten.

  The door to room 812 swung open, even before Alyssa had a chance to knock.

  And then there he was. Sam Starrett. Long hair down around his shoulders. Five o’clock shadow on his lean face. Neon blue eyes. Long legs and broad shoulders.

  She’d pulled him out of bed. She could see it, rumpled behind him. He’d attempted to pull up the bedspread, same as he’d attempted to put on a T-shirt. Both attempts were pretty laughable.

  His shirt was inside out.

  But even with the seams of his shirt showing, with the ratty shorts he was wearing, with that almost-but-not-quite beard on his face and the slight red of fatigue rimming his eyes, he was still the most physically attractive man Alyssa had ever met.

  He stepped back to let her in, and she moved past him, aware of how good he smelled, aware of how easy it would be just to reach for him and . . .

  He closed the door, still not saying a word, just looking at her with those eyes.

  He’d kissed her just a few hours ago, down by the swimming pool. Then, she’d run away. Now she couldn’t wait for him to kiss her again. Funny what a few glasses of the local spirits could do to even the most steadfast resolve.

  Only Sam didn’t kiss her, didn’t move, didn’t even speak. He just watched her, almost warily.

  So Alyssa did it. She dropped her fanny pack on the floor and reached for him.

  And she kissed him.

  At first it was like kissing a statue. He didn’t move, didn’t respond. But then he exploded, yanking her hard against him, forcefully deepening the kiss as she clung to him, his tongue sweeping into her mouth.

  Yes. Yes. This was what she wanted.

  His hands were rough against her breasts, against her rear end, and she could feel him, hard and hot beneath his shorts as he pressed himself against her. She opened to him, wanting him now, right now. Quick, get rid of their clothes. . . .

  But just as quickly as he’d started kissing her, he pushed her away. “I thought you came here to talk.”

  She was breathing hard—he was, too. He didn’t want to talk any more than she did. She took a step toward him. “Sam—”

  She was right. He didn’t back away. He kissed her again, just as fiercely as before. She slid her hands up beneath the edge of his shirt, touching the smoothness of his back, angling her head so he could kiss her deeper, deeper, and he groaned.

  But again he pushed her away. “Jesus, I’m going to get drunk myself, just from kissing you. You taste like a fucking distillery. What the hell were you drinking?”

  “Shots of the local moonshine,” she admitted. “It was stronger than I thought. But Ian from the SAS started making cracks about Americans not being able to hold their liquor and—”

  “You can’t hold your liquor worth shit,” Sam told her. “All you did was prove them right.”

  She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want him angry with her. She wanted him gentle—the way he’d been on the phone. Or she wanted him laughing. Naked and laughing and in her arms. She took a step toward him but this time he took a step back, reaching up to run his hands through his hair, his movement jerky with anger.

  “So here you are. Shit-faced and in my room again,” he said. “What’s that about, Alyssa? Do you really have to get trashed to be with me?”

  She took a step toward him, and again he took a step back. He was serious. He wasn’t going to let her touch him until she answered his question.

  So she answered it. Honestly. “Unless I’ve been drinking, I can’t . . .” Alyssa struggled with the words, suddenly wanting him to understand. “I can’t admit—to myself—that I want you.”

  She’d taken that first drink tonight, knowing full well that she could end up right here. Hoping that she’d end up right here.

  When Sam had kissed her by the swimming pool, when he’d asked her to go to his room in that low voice roughened with desire, she’d been scared out of her mind. She’d wanted him, too. Desperately. But if she’d gone with him then—cold sober—she would have had to acknowledge everything she was feeling.

  Alyssa searched his eyes, praying she’d see him soften, but again he was like a statue. Hard and cold and unrelenting.

  Uncertainty hit her. After the way he’d kissed her by the pool, she hadn’t considered that he might change his mind. That he might not want her here tonight.

  But she’d said some harsh things to him. I don’t even like you.

  She nervously wet her lips. “Do you want me to go?”

  Did he want her to go?

  No. There was no fucking way Sam was letting Alyssa walk away from him. He’d take her however he damn well could get her. So what if she was drunk. So what if most men—honorable men—would walk her back to her room and gently put her to bed, alone, because they wouldn’t want to take advantage of her in this condition.

  He’d taken advantage of her before. Why the hell should he stop now?

  Besides, he wanted her too much. There was just no fucking way she was leaving here, not after she’d told him that she wanted him, too.

  But, shit, he was angry. At her, at himself, at the world.

  Three steps brought him threateningly close to her.

  There was a flare of surprise, of uncertainty—and Jesus—of hope in her eyes.

  So he pulled her toward him harder than he should have, and kissed her, harder than he should have, too. But she melted in his arms, molded herself to him, as if she wanted whatever he could give her and would still be ready to beg for more.

  So he kissed her harder, pushing her so that her back bumped the wall with no small amount of force. He yanked her shirt up and over her head and unfastened her pants, all the while still kissing her.

  Still being kissed by her. She was kissing him as if she’d been starved without his mouth to feast on.

  Dammit,
it felt too real. Too much like a reunion with a real lover, not just someone who wanted to fuck him only when she was drunk enough not to care.

  Anger burned in his stomach. Tomorrow she would wake up, and this would have turned into another bad idea. Another lousy mistake. And she’d leave him. Again. Raw and bleeding and alone.