Way of the Warrior
Page 38
“I’d like that,” Carol said, looking up at Hugh.
“Um, wow. Yeah,” he said, light finally dawning. “I’d like that, too. Very much. Thank you.” The smile he shot Jay was definitely adorable.
“We could go tonight,” Jay said, but then slapped his forehead. “Wait, no, I can’t make it, not tonight. But you could go. Right?”
“I’m free,” Carol told Hugh as Jay found his crutches, and pulled himself up, and slowly backed away.
“Ooh,” Hugh said, making an I don’t know face. “First night back always belongs to Bree.”
And it was beyond obvious from the look on Carol’s face that those words made her love Hugh all the more.
“We could all go out,” she suggested. “Bree and your mom, and…you and me.”
“Oh, Jesus, ’Fo,” Izzy Zanella said from where he was sitting, his arm around Eden. “Will you just grab her and kiss her already?”
Hugh laughed.
And did just that.
And Carol kissed him back.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After childhood plans to become the captain of a starship didn’t pan out, Suzanne Brockmann took her fascination with military history, her respect for the men and women who serve, her reverence for diversity, and her love of storytelling, and explored brave new worlds as a New York Times bestselling romance author. Over the past twenty years, she has written fifty-five novels, including her award-winning Troubleshooters series about Navy SEAL heroes and the women—and sometimes men—who win their hearts. In addition to writing books, Suzanne Brockmann has co-written and co-produced a feature-length movie, the award-winning romantic comedy The Perfect Wedding. She has also co-written a YA novel, Night Sky, with her daughter Melanie. Find Suz on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SuzanneBrockmannBooks, follow her on Twitter @SuzBrockmann, and visit her website at www.SuzanneBrockmann.com.
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Hell or High Water
JULIE ANN WALKER
Present day
10:52 p.m.…
“And the Santa Cristina and her brave crew and captain were sucked down into Davy Jones’s locker, lost to the world. That is…until now…”
Leo “the Lion” Anderson, known to his friends as LT—a nod to his former Naval rank—let his last words hang in the air before glancing around at the four faces illuminated by the flickering beach bonfire. Rapt expressions stared back at him. He fought the grin curving his lips.
Bingo, bango, bongo. His listeners had fallen under a spell as deep and fathomless as the great oceans themselves. It happened anytime he recounted the legend of the Santa Cristina. Not that he could blame his audience. The story of the ghost galleon, the holy grail of sunken Spanish shipwrecks, had fascinated him ever since he’d been old enough to understand the tale while bouncing on his father’s knee. And that lifelong fascination might account for why he was now determined to do what so many before him—his dearly departed father included—had been unable to do. Namely, locate and excavate the mother lode of the grand ol’ ship.
Of course, he reckoned the romance and mystery of discovering her waterlogged remains were only part of the reason he’d spent the last two months and a huge portion of his savings—as well as huge portions of the savings of the others—refurbishing his father’s decrepit, leaking salvage boat. The rest of the story as to why he was here now? Why they were all here now? Well, that didn’t bear dwelling on.
At least not on a night like tonight. When a million glittering stars and a big half-moon reflected off the dark, rippling waters of the lagoon on the southeast side of the private speck of jungle, mangrove forest, and sand in the Florida Keys. When the sea air was soft and warm, caressing his skin and hair with gentle, salt-tinged fingers. When there was so much…life to enjoy.
That had been his vow—their vow—had it not? To grab life by the balls and really live it? To suck the marrow from its proverbial bones?
His eyes were automatically drawn to the skin on the inside of his left forearm where scrolling, tattooed lettering read: For RL. He ran a thumb over the pitch-black ink.
This one’s for you, you stubborn sonofagun, he pledged, flipping the lid on the cooler sunk deep into the sand beside his lawn chair. Grabbing a bottle of Budweiser and twisting off the cap, he let his gaze run down the long dock to where his uncle’s catamaran was moored. The clips on the sailboat’s rigging lines clinked rhythmically against its metal mast, adding to the harmony of softly shushing waves, quietly crackling fire, and the high-pitched peesy, peesy, peesy call of a nearby black-and-white warbler.
Then he turned his eyes to the open ocean past the underwater reef surrounding the side of Wayfarer Island, where his father’s old salvage ship bobbed lazily with the tide. Up and down. Side to side. Her newly painted hull and refurbished anchor chain gleamed dully in the moonlight. Her name, Wayfarer-I, was clearly visible thanks to the new, bright-white lettering.
As he dragged in a deep breath, the smell of burning driftwood and suntan lotion tunneled up his nose, and he did his best to appreciate the calmness of the evening and the comforting thought that the vessel looked, if not necessarily sexy, then at least seaworthy. Which is a hell of an improvement.
Hot damn, he was proud of all the work he and his men had done on her, and—
His men…
He reminded himself for the one hundred zillionth time that he wasn’t supposed to think of them that way. Not anymore. Not since those five crazy-assed SEALs waved their farewells to the Navy in order to join him on his quest for high-seas adventure and the discovery of untold riches. Not since they were now, officially, civilians.
“But why you guys?” The blond who was parked beneath Spiro “Romeo” Delgado’s arm yanked Leo from his thoughts. “What makes you different from all those who’ve already tried and failed to find her?”
Order Julie Ann Walker’s next book
in the Deep Six series
Hell or High Water
On sale July 2015
Black Knights Inc. series
by Julie Ann Walker
Hell on Wheels
In Rides Trouble
Rev it Up
Thrill Ride
Born Wild
Hell for Leather
Full Throttle
Here’s a peek at the Young Adult series by Suzanne Brockmann and Melanie Brockmann
Night Sky
SUZANNE BROCKMANN
and MELANIE BROCKMANN
I had not been under the impression that trophy wives owned guns.
Of course, my impression of a lot of things had been changing lately, so the idea of a homicidal contortionist with a designer handbag and a vanity license plate that read DRSWIFEY was, surprisingly, not very surprising at all.
“What’s up with Little Miss Sunshine?” Calvin mumbled to me, tapping my forearm with his hand as we made our way to the front doors of the Sav’A’Buck supermarket. He motioned with his head for me to look behind him, and I glanced over at the lady. Huge, fake-looking boobs and even larger sunglasses. I doubted she needed them at nine o’clock at night…the sunglasses, that is. It was September in Florida, but come on.
“Dunno,” I answered, picking up my pace a little bit. I was eager to get inside the store. Even without the sun, the humidity made the air feel like it was about ninety thousand degrees. I had a bad case of swamp butt, and my jean shorts were sticking to my backside uncomfortably.
I socked him once in the bicep. “Punk.”
The linoleum floors of the Sav’A’Buck were sticky, and the place smelled like pig grease and stale cigarettes. But that’s what we got for venturing outside our pristine gated community and driving across the proverbial tracks into neighboring Harrisburg to the only place open after nine.
“Man, you really want to buy food from here?” Calvin grumbled, while two small kids whisked in front of us, barefoot, their faces coated with melted purple ice pop. The woman working register four turned around, her disastrous mullet matched only by the disapproving frown she offered Calvin and me as we strolled by.
Neither of us accepted it.
“We’re making s’mores,” I insisted, my resolve strong. It had been a hellish week, and I wanted something chocolate. We had driven all the way out here; we weren’t turning back now.
Calvin rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said, steering himself sharply toward the right. “Cookies and crackers. Aisle seven.”
I followed behind him, breaking into a trot to keep up with his chair.
But Calvin pressed his brake and we nearly collided. “There she is again,” he hissed, tapping my hand furiously. “Doesn’t she creep you out, even a little?”
Little Miss Sunshine, as Calvin had called her, was busy inspecting the nutrition information on the backs of two different bags of corn chips. Her long, blond hair was swept up in an elegant French chignon. She hadn’t bothered to take off her sunglasses.
I scooped up a box of graham crackers and left the aisle. Calvin followed me this time.
Once the woman was out of earshot, I told him, “The only weird thing about her is that she looks like she’s rolling in dough, unlike most Sav’A’Buck customers.” I shrugged. “But we probably stick out here too.” I found the aisle for candy and grabbed a humongous bag of chocolate. “So give her a break.”
Calvin acknowledged his two-hundred-dollar polo shirt and shrugged. “Eh, you’re right,” he replied, and popped his collar.
“That’s lame, by the way,” I said, and found an empty basket to dump my purchases into.
“What?” Calvin replied, his expression one of mock offense. “Girl, you are just jealous because you can’t pull off the look.”
“Sooo jealous,” I replied sarcastically. I was perfectly happy in my jean shorts and plain black tank top. Nobody needed to know my mom had spent a fortune for both articles of clothing. If it were up to me, I’d wear clothes from the local consignment shop, thank you very much. People were going hungry these days, and obviously many of them were right here in Harrisburg. That was way creepier, IMO, than Little Miss Sunshine jonesing for cheap, salty grease.
Calvin poked his nose into my basket. “Would you mind telling me exactly how white girls from the north make s’mores? Where I come from, we use marshmallows.”
“Dammit!” I’d forgotten to grab a bag when we were in the candy aisle.
“Come on,” Calvin replied, and reached for my basket. He set it atop his lap and followed me as I sprinted back toward aisle eight.
“Skylar, slow your ass down!” Calvin whined, but when I did, he zoomed past me, laughing.
“Oh, it’s on,” I said, pushing to keep up. “I could totally beat you in a race.”
It was Calvin’s turn to roll his eyes when we both had to slow for oncoming traffic. “Oh, yeah? How much you wanna bet?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” I answered, and that’s when the screaming started.
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Here’s a look at the latest book in the Elite Force series
Free Fall
CATHERINE MANN
Even as the yawning entrance to the cave came into sight, Stella refused to relax her guard. She pulled back on the throttle. Entering slowly, she scanned while her quiet companions held their MP5s at the ready. Would an Interpol operative, four CIA agents, six SEALs, and two PJs be enough to face anything that waited inside? The low hum of the motor echoed like a growling beast in the cavern, one light strobing forward into the darkness.
Illuminating a waiting U.S. fishing boat.
Her final contingency.
Her plan had to work; otherwise, she would screw up her hard-earned chance of working in Africa before the mission barely got off the ground. She flung open the door to the small forward cabin of her speedboat. The clang of metal hitting metal echoed in her mind like the closing of her mother’s coffin. Melanie Carson’s daughter would not give up on day one.
Digging around in the hull, Stella pulled out small duffel bags, one after the other, tossing them to each of the men in wet suits.
“Change, gentlemen. We’re about to become American tourists on a sightseeing excursion. Mr. Jones,” who could blend in best with the locals and even spoke a regional dialect thanks to his mother, “will be our guide. We’re swapping boats, then splitting up at the dock. Blend into the crowds. Report at the embassy. You’ve got a duress code if you need to call in. Any questions?”
Only the sound of oxygen tanks and gear hitting the deck answered her.
“Good.” Her heart rate started to return to something close to normal again.
The sound of zippers sent her spinning on her heels to take care of her own transformation. She unrolled a colorful rectangular cloth, an East African kanga, complete with the standard intricate border and message woven into the red and orange pattern.
It would be hot as hell over her black pants, top, and bulletproof vest. But a little dehydration was a small price to pay for an extra layer of anonymity.
“Need help?”
She turned and there were those coffee dark eyes again. Static-like awareness snapped when she looked back at the intense gaze that had held hers earlier as he’d lifted his face mask. Except now he was more than eyes and a wet suit. He was a lean, honed man in a pair of fitted swim trunks he must have worn under the diving gear. He was glistening bronze with a body trained for survival anyplace, anytime.
The boat rocked under her feet from a rogue wave. At least she thought it was a wave.
“Uh, no, I’m good. Thanks. You should get dressed. We need to haul butt out of here.” And his current state of undress definitely didn’t qualify as “low profile.”
“I meant, do you need help with the cut on your temple?” He gestured to the left side of her face, almost touching. “You brought along two PJs for a reason, ma’am.”
Her skin hummed with a sting that her brain must have pushed aside earlier for survival’s sake. She tapped the side of her forehead gingerly.
“Ouch!” Her fingertips were stained with blood as murky red as her hair.
“A bullet must have grazed you,” he said with a flat Midwestern accent. A no-accent really, just pure masculine rumble. “Could have been much worse. This was your lucky day, ma’am.”
“Stella.” For right now she could be more than Miss Lucky Smith.
“They call me Cuervo.”
Call him.
Call signs.
No real name from him for now. Understandable and a reality check to get her professional groove back on. “Do I need stitches?”
He tugged a small kit from his gear, a waterproof pack of some sort. “Antiseptic and butterfly bandages should hold you until we can get someplace where I’ll have time to treat you more fully.”
We.
Her brain hitched on the word, the answer to who she would be partnering with as they escaped into the crowd. She wasn’t saying good-bye to him—to Cuervo—at the dock. Irrational relief flooded her, followed by a bolt
of excitement.
“Thanks, Cuervo. Blood dripping down my face would definitely draw undue attention at an inopportune time.” She forced a smile.
Still, his face, those eyes, they held her, and while she wasn’t a mystical person, she couldn’t miss the connection. Attraction? Sure, but she understood how to compartmentalize on the job. This was something that felt elemental. Before she could stop the thought, the words soul mate flashed through her head.
And God, that was crazy and irrational when she was always, always logical. Her brothers called her a female version of Spock from Star Trek.
Still, as those fingers cleaned her wound, smoothed ointment over her temple, and stretched butterfly bandages along her skin, she couldn’t stop thinking about spending the rest of the day with him as they melded into the port city and made their way back to the embassy.
Damn it, she could not waste the time or emotional energy on romance or even a fling. Right now, she could only focus on working with the Mr. Smiths and Mr. Browns of her profession. She needed to make peace with her past, then move on with her life. Then, and only then, she would find Mr. Right and shift from the field to a desk job so she could settle down into that real family dream she’d missed out on.
Yet those brown eyes drew her into a molten heat and she had the inescapable sense that Mr. Right had arrived ahead of schedule.