Hard Landing

by Marliss Melton

  "There's no hurry." His dialect came straight off the streets of northern New York City. Dark eyes fastened on her face and glittered with private thoughts. He jutted out a hand comprised of sausage-like fingers. "You must be Max's wife."

  Rebecca ignored the hand. "Yes, I am. And you are?" Curiosity alone prompted her to ask since every instinct warned her to distance herself immediately.

  "You can call me Tony." He dropped his hand with a slight sneer. "We'll meet again," he predicted, sending her a wink.

  She rather hoped not. Shutting the car door between them, she prevented him from saying anymore as she started her engine.

  In the same instant, Max emerged from the house like an enraged bull. He'd finally realized his visitor was still trespassing. Tony sprinted to his car, jumped into the driver's seat, and locked his door before Max could wrench it open.

  Terrified that her husband would smash out the driver's side window and beat the man to a pulp, Rebecca swung out of the way, clearing the path for the BMW to reverse out of their driveway. It exited at top speed before screeching to a halt. Its tires spun as it gained purchase on the smooth asphalt and zipped away. As leery as Tony had been of her husband, he sent him a saucy salute as he drove away.

  Sitting stunned in her Jetta, Rebecca flinched as Max transferred his incredulous gaze from the retreating BMW to her watchful expression. He raised an arm and gestured for her to park her car in the garage, now. She complied, nosing into the quiet garage and cutting off the motor. Max immediately yanked her car door open and demanded, "What did he say to you?"

  "Nothing much." Her heart beat fast and thready. Intuition whispered that the odd visitor had something to do with Max's secret money. "He said his name was Tony and that we'd meet again."

  "The hell you will." A thundercloud settled over Max's scowling face. "Forget about him," he ordered, reaching into the car and pulling her out of it.

  At this point, he usually asked her about work that day. She had learned that, while he asked, he didn't really listen to her reply. He only wanted to get to the part where he talked about himself. But not today.

  Today, he armed the security system located in the garage, tugged her into the house, and shut the door. Then he stood over her, scowling heavily, clearly deciding what to say. "I don't know who that man was," he finally declared.

  It was so obviously a lie.

  "If you see him again, I want you to call me, ASAP."

  Not the police, though. Of course not.

  "Is he dangerous?" she asked.

  "He might be. He says he knows I'm a SEAL and that he resents the military actions taken in the Middle East."

  "So, he's a terrorist." Off the top of her head, she couldn't think of any terrorists with Italian names.

  "Perhaps. Just swear that you'll tell me if you see him again."

  "Okay," she agreed, if only to dissipate his ire.

  "I mean it." He caught her upper arms in a crushing grip and gave her a shake. "You see anything suspicious, you let me know. Got it?"

  She was looking at something suspicious right now.

  "Got it." She sent him a forced smile that resulted in her release. As he spun away and stalked across the living areas to the office, she rubbed her abused arms and knew without a doubt that her happily-ever-after was over—if it had ever existed at all.

  But then, deep within the darkness of her heart, one bright hope flared to life. If Max was convicted of criminal behavior—and it was starting to look that way—then she would have grounds for divorce.

  Chapter 3

  Brant browsed the wine selection in the back of the Exchange on Oceana Naval Air Station. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the display. Nor had he thought to look up what the bottle looked like before heading off to the Exchange. Kicking himself for his lack of foresight, he turned and raked the store for a sales associate.

  The familiar sight of his commander's square head incited a prick of resentment. Here it was twenty hundred hours on a Friday night and he was still subjected to Max's presence. It didn't matter that the man was standing clear on the other side of the open shopping space, in the electronics section. Brant could feel him sucking the energy out of the room, like a tornado sweeping up everything in its path.

  He was about to walk out of the Exchange and come back the next day when he spied the top of Rebecca's head. Her lustrous hair reflected the sheen of the halogen lights as she coursed the next aisle over from Max, a disinterested look on her sweet face.

  Brant's pulse immediately accelerated. His desire to leave the store evaporated as he watched her distance herself from her husband. Maybe it was wishful thinking on Brant's part, but from all the previous conversations they had ever had, she didn't seem to enjoy her husband's company.

  He thought of what he'd learned about Emile Victor DuPonte. Should he tell Rebecca what he'd discovered so she could protect herself? Definitely not here. But the desire to speak with her overruled his common sense, which was warning him to keep his distance. He found himself moving stealthily in her direction, trying to catch her eye without Max seeing him.

  Max waved a hand in the air, summoning over a sales person, and Brant seized the opportunity to step into her line of sight. The pleasure that lit up her face when she noticed him made his stomach cartwheel. She was so pretty with those dimples in her cheeks.

  Tipping his head toward the racks of greeting cards, he signified she should try to get away. Then he backed toward that area himself and waited on pins and needles for her to join him.

  * * *

  Rebecca racked her brain for a reason to browse the card aisle. Her mother's upcoming birthday provided her an instant excuse. "Um, Max," she called, wresting his attention from the sales person. "I'll be over there picking out a card for my mother."

  Preoccupied with choosing a new laptop, Max waved her away.

  Rebecca cruised with outward calm toward the greeting cards, aware that butterflies flitted inside her as she hunted for Bronco's sun-kissed head. Like most SEALs, he wore his hair on the long side, letting it curl against his muscle-corded neck and the tops of his ears. Sometimes, he let his facial hair grow out into a burnished goatee that made him devastatingly attractive—not that she would ever tell him that, as there were plenty of women who already did.

  She found him behind the magazine section, at the very end of the card aisle where he could dart around a corner if he needed to. His eyes—as blue as the Montana sky's he'd described from his childhood—swung in her direction, and the smile that bloomed from the region of her heart found its way to her face. What was it about this man that lifted the stress right off her shoulders?

  "Hey," she said, her voice made breathy by the intrigue. "What brings you here?"

  He gestured toward the liquor at the back of the store. "Buying a bottle of wine for a friend."

  "Ah." A female friend, no doubt. She fought to keep her smile in place but knew that it wavered.

  "You met Hack at the party—the new guy? The wine's for him. He did me a favor."

  "Oh, nice." She pictured the dark-eyed addition to the Teams and her happiness returned. "I've heard he's a genius with computers. Max should have asked him to fix his Dell. It's been in the shop with a virus for a week now and he's given up ever getting it back, so we're shopping for a replacement."

  The words tumbled out of her mouth like a rushing river. She snapped her teeth together to stem the flow. There was simply so much that she wanted to tell Bronco, and their encounters were inevitably few and far between. She didn't want to wait until Veteran's Day, when Max would throw his next party.

  "Has, uh, has anything new happened regarding the subject you brought up the other day?" he asked, regarding her closely.

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Max wasn't about to pounce on them. "Well, something strange did happen yesterday," she relayed in a hushed voice. "I had just gotten home from work, and Max was tossing a stranger out of the house—some guy
with a thick New York accent who introduced himself as Tony. But then Max came outside and chased him off. He told me he didn't know the guy but suspected he was a terrorist."

  Bronco's expression turned quizzical. "A terrorist with a New York accent?"

  She shrugged.

  "Do you think this incident is related to Max's secret account?" Bronco asked.

  "I don't know." She breathed the words. "But I know I wasn't supposed to see the man, any more than I should have seen the money. And he looked more like a mob boss than a terrorist."

  Bronco looked past her shoulder, his jaw tightening.

  "Am I imagining all this bizarre stuff?" She searched his gaze, longing for a reassuring word.

  To her surprise, he consoled her with a touch, but his hand landed right on the spot that Max had bruised the previous day, and she flinched involuntarily.

  Bronco's eyes flashed. With lightning-quick reflexes, he whipped back her sleeve, exposing the pale bruises. His lips immediately firmed.

  "I bumped into a doorframe," she rushed to assure him.

  He seemed to grow before her eyes as he searched her face. "Please tell me he doesn't hit you," he pleaded on a furious note.

  "Oh, no. He doesn't," she rushed to assure him. "It's nothing. I promise."

  Searching her face with skeptical concern, he gently lowered her sleeve. Pleasure trickled warmly through her as his fingertips skimmed lightly down her arm. Leaning closer, he assailed her with a woodsy scent that she'd appreciated before. "Please be careful," he pleaded. "If you see this Tony guy again, call the police and then call me."

  She was about to mention that she didn't have his phone number when a gruff voice made her jump from her skin.

  "There you are."

  Max bore down on them, his approach so stealthy in spite of his breadth that even Bronco had been caught off guard. Neither of them spoke as Max stepped between them, dropped a heavy hand on Rebecca's shoulder, and said to her with his gray eyes fixed on Bronco, "I'm going to have to keep you on a shorter leash. Stealing my wife from me, Chief?"

  "Not at all, sir." Bronco's easy grin aroused Rebecca's admiration. "Just getting her advice on which card to get for my new girlfriend." He gestured to the display of romantic cards next to them.

  Max grunted. His gaze swung toward Rebecca's flushed face. "I need your opinion on two laptops," he told her in a manner that insisted his needs came first.

  "I haven't found a card for my mother yet," she protested.

  "Later." Pulling her around, he marched her back to the electronics section.

  Sneaking a backward glance, Rebecca caught Bronco looking engrossed in selecting a card. Grateful for his quick-thinking, she relived the startling pleasure of his gentle touch and wondered if his kiss would be as warm and wonderful.

  Stop it!

  She and Bronco were friends, nothing more. Despite her intent not to involve him further in her troubles, she'd confided in him again. Clearly she relied on him more than she'd realized. But, for the time being, she was still married to Max. She had no business even imagining Bronco as her lover.

  * * *

  Max listened to the salesman list the specs for both laptops but he wasn't hearing him. He'd decided that Rebecca ought to make the final decision as to which laptop he should buy. That would reinforce the lesson she still needed to learn—that it was her job to assist him in every way she could.

  "Neither one of these has the memory your old Dell had," she pointed. "Why don't you just use the home computer until your Dell is repaired?"

  And there it was: that look in her eyes that made him suspect that she was manipulating him. Her brown eyes used to shine with admiration. That was what had drawn him to her in the first place, besides the fact that she seemed to have it all together. She'd admired and respected him. But now? He wasn't so sure.

  How did he know that he could trust her? She'd been talking to Chief Adams a moment ago, the same way they'd been talking at his Labor Day party, like they really knew each other. Until then, he hadn't realized how chummy they'd become.

  Max drew a finger along the hard, plastic edge of the laptop closest to him. Did she want him using the home PC in the hopes of getting another glimpse of his Swiss bank account? Had she told Chief Adams what she'd seen the night he'd left his browser open when he went to take a leak? What if she'd been telling him, just then, about the incident with Tony Scarpa? What would the chief make of that?

  Tony had some gall dropping by his house to discuss business. Max had informed the Scarpas via Google chat that he'd had enough. Instead of releasing him, they'd buttered him up with fifty grand and the promise of another fifty if he agreed to keep working for them. Tony's visit had been meant to get a point across—they knew where he lived. He couldn't get rid of them as easily as he wanted to.

  He wished he'd never involved with the family in the first place. But he'd needed money to keep his house from going into foreclosure, which would have been frowned upon by his superiors. Plus, the jobs had proved to be a cinch to execute. Both victims had been dirt bags, former members of the mob. He had no regrets about killing them.

  Now that he was flush, he didn't need the Scarpas the way they needed him. Still, fifty thousand surplus dollars sitting in his foreign account inspired thoughts of how he could spend it. He'd always wanted a vacation home in Bermuda. Wouldn't that make him the envy of his colleagues?

  "Fine," he said, deciding that her input made sense. He would save money using the home PC and just wait for his laptop to be repaired. "We're not buying either one," he told the sales associate, waving him away.

  Stammering an apology, the young man scuttled off. Max glanced at his wife and found her biting her lower lip and staring at his chest.

  "What?" he challenged.

  She glared up at him. "Do you have to treat everyone like dirt?" Her cheeks turned pink. "You could have apologized for wasting the boy's time instead of sending him off like that."

  "Forget about him. What were you saying to Chief Adams just now?" he demanded.

  "What do you mean? He asked me about a card, that's all."

  "You certainly looked to be enjoying your little talk," he pointed out.

  She rolled her eyes and looked away. Max fought to keep his hands from balling into fists. Tearing his gaze from her profile, he glanced uncomfortably around the open space. Luckily, the Navy Exchange was practically empty an hour before closing, decreasing the odds that someone important might see him at odds with his wife.

  Inclining his mouth toward her ear, he added, "I wouldn't enjoy his company anymore if I were you," he told her. "Something bad might just happen to him."

  She blinked up at him. "Did you just threaten one of your men?"

  Satisfied that she got the picture, he simply shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

  * * *

  The brunette gyrating on the dance floor in front of Brant reminded him of Rebecca. Her sable hair appeared to be a shade darker, but it had that lustrous quality that Brant liked so much, and her eyes were dark, too. She had Rebecca's body type: a little on the short side, neat and understated, with breasts that promised to be a perfect handful.

  But she barely spoke English, which came as a disappointment because if he wasn't going to have sex with her, then that left dancing and talking—or miming, as the case turned out.

  The techno music reverberated in his eardrums, dictating the movements of his body which required no conscious thought on his part. He was free to let his mind wander while he did his thing and Marina spun and wriggled all around him, her white T-shirt glowing under the ultraviolet lights, and a teasing smile on her face.

  Yeah, she thought she was going to get some action from a SEAL tonight.

  His cock gave a throb of anticipation at the prospect of ending his streak of celibacy. No one but Rebecca even knew he'd decided to deprive himself—and he didn't have to tell her the truth, so it would cost him absolutely nothing to conveniently forget his r
esolution.

  Viewed through an alcoholic haze induced by a shot of tequila chased by a tall mug of beer, Marina resembled Rebecca enough that he could envision what it would be like possessing her.

  The music came to a frenzied climax then transitioned to a slow, sultry beat that encouraged intimacy. Marina pressed her body to his, coiled her tanned arms around his neck and, with a suggestive smile, invited him to get to know her better.

  Seeing her face up close jarred him. Not Rebecca.

  He pulled her head to his chest to avoid looking at her face. But with close proximity came a fragrance that didn't smell like Rebecca, whose scent reminded him of sugar cookies and peppermint sticks, probably because he'd first met her at Max's Christmas party. Marina smelled more like the perfume counter at Macy's. She was brushing her thighs against his, making her intentions perfectly plain. Half of the female population called men dogs for being so promiscuous, yet the other half invited promiscuity. What was a man to do?

  "You like me?" Marina asked with her sultry Eastern European accent.

  He pulled back to consider his reply. Her pronounced cheekbones and thin lips looked nothing like Rebecca's. He stopped dancing. Her expression vacillated between quizzical and hopeful.

  "Fuck," he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes which ached from the flashing lights. "Come with me," he offered, drawing her off the dance floor and over to the bar where the youngest member of Echo Platoon, Austin Collins, sat nursing a glass of tonic water. Nicknamed Bamm-Bamm for his obsession with The Flintstones, Collins wore a dour expression as he watched his friend Haiku order two Long Island ice teas, one for him and one for another SEAL named Halliday.

  At twenty years of age, Collins was old enough to die for his country but not old enough to legally drink in this state, as the wristband on his arm informed the bartender.

  "Hey, Bamm-Bamm." Brant positioned the brunette in front of the young language expert. "This is Marina. I think she's Bulgarian or something."

  "Ukrainian," the girl corrected with a flash of annoyance. She'd clearly said this more than once to him already.