Tall, Dark, and Dangerous Part 2

by Suzanne Brockmann

  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 positioned 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. “Daryl, 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,” P.J. 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.

  P.J. 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 P.J. 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.

  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 eviden
t, 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 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,” P.J. 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 on 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 far 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 mustang, too.”

  “I would be a mustang 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.

  P.J. 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 P.J. 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.

  P.J. 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.”