Call to Engage

by Tawny Weber

  The Poseidon team are hard-bodied, fiercely competitive Navy SEALs. But when a sensitive mission goes disastrously wrong, three of the team’s finest will have to trust their hearts and instincts to uncover the truth...

  Lieutenant Elijah Prescott should be spending his precious leave somewhere with sun, surf and scantily clad women. Instead, he’s heading home with two goals in mind. Figure out exactly how his last assignment went to hell and almost killed him—and reconnect with the woman who might offer salvation.

  Ava Monroe has streamlined her life, eliminating every source of pain—including a marriage touched by tragedy. One glimpse of her ex and those good intentions turn to bad-girl desires. Her strategy: get over Elijah by getting under him again, sating herself until she can finally let go. But as betrayal within the rank of the SEALs turns deadly, there’s no denying that her heart and her life are on the line. Elijah is the only man who can protect both...

  Praise for New York Times bestselling author Tawny Weber

  “A sexy, hot SEAL undercover in more ways than one...Tawny Weber nails this steamy suspense.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Cristin Harber

  “Tawny Weber...has created the perfect hero for our time and a sizzling page-turner! What an awesome start to her Team Poseidon series.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “I love a good SEAL romance and Tawny Weber knocked this one out of the park. Don’t miss it!”

  —USA TODAY bestselling author Karen Fenech

  “This hot and sexy adventure takes readers on a thrilling ride of romance, secrets and SEALs.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Reminiscent of Suzanne Brockmann’s Troubleshooters series, Weber’s latest will appeal to her fans as well as other military-romance readers. Diego personifies the honor and strength of a SEAL warrior in a good read with an engaging heroine and child.”

  —Booklist

  “Call to Honor is a tightly plotted story with a few startling turns of events, the characters are all credible and...the pace never falters.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Also available from Tawny Weber and HQN Books

  Team Poseidon

  Call to Honor

  Call to Engage

  Call to Redemption

  To see the complete list of titles available from Tawny Weber, please visit tawnyweber.com.

  TAWNY WEBER

  Call to Engage

  To my daughters, with love and thanks.

  You changed my life.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EXCERPT FROM CALL TO REDEMPTION BY TAWNY WEBER

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SHADOWS WERE closing in. Dark and silent, they smothered the light. Sucked up every ounce of air, ripping it from the very atoms of his body.

  Then there was the pain.

  Vicious. Cutting. Fire deep in the bones, exploding outward. Tearing inward. Flesh shredding as flames engulfed his body.

  Cries of terror rang out, circling his head. He tried to move, tried to force himself to ignore the agony. He had to rescue the caller. Had to. The screams continued. Sharp at first, calling for help. Then weaker. Then nothing. Just the crackling roar of fire, the hideous thunder of a heart struggling to keep its beat.

  Just as the struggle became too much, a hand reached into the fire. Cool, liberating, extricating him from hell. Long, slender fingers soothed the misery, eased the terror.

  Even as he grasped salvation, desperate for respite, a part of him—a remote particle of his brain—recognized the hand. He knew the scar that bisected the index finger had come from a broken bottle. The ring, a twist of gold and silver with tiny copper beads, had been bought at a county fair.

  For a heartbeat he was free of the pain. But even as he escaped the fire, the hand disappeared. Leaving him in the aftermath.

  The pain.

  Soul-ripping pain.

  The bitter taste of failure.

  Trapped in the heavy silence, the reminder circled, spiraling tighter. Closing in.

  The pained cries from his teammate. His brother. His friend.

  Everything went black. Soulless and empty as reality clenched around him in a tight fist, forcing him to face the inescapable. That instead of rescuing his teammate, instead of doing the job he’d been trained to do, he’d let the man die in a miserable inferno.

  He would pay for that forever.

  If only here in the silence.

  “Yo, Rembrandt.”

  Lieutenant Elijah Prescott woke drenched in sweat that felt like ice on his skin, his mind—his heart—still gripped by the sharp teeth of the dream. His breath came in guttural pants. His body flashed hot, then cold, then hot again as his pulse whipped furiously through his battered system.

  Still spiraling through a hideous slide show of mental images, he pried his eyelids open and hoped like hell it really had been just a dream. No. Memories, he realized as he blinked in the dim light.

  Half dreams, half memories. It didn’t matter.

  He pushed himself upright, rubbing both hands over his face to scrub away the sticky layer of dried sweat.

  “Rembrandt?”

  “Yeah?” Face still buried in his hands, Elijah turned his head toward the voice in the shadowy dark of his doorway.

  “Supposed to report for duty in less than an hour,” Lansky said, the shrug clear in his tone. “Figured you might not have heard your alarm.”

  Was that the shrieking siren that had been blaring through his dream? His alarm clock? He glanced at the numbers glowing red and noted that it was already 5:08 a.m.

  “Thanks, ” he said. For the wake-up, and for letting it go at that.

  Waiting until Lansky melted back into the darkness, Elijah dropped his face back into his hands and breathed, shaking off the nasty dregs of the nightmare.

  They had fifty-two minutes until they reported for duty. There’d been a time that he could go from waking to duty in ten. Three if he was stationed in a hot zone.

  That was then.

  Now?

  Now he was rolling out of bed feeling like a goddamn eighty-year-old arthritic on a wet, cold night.

  Or, worse, an invalid.

  Elijah gave his face one last scrub before shoving to his feet. Ignoring the pain ripping down his side, tearing into his thigh, he stretched.

  Katas, chaturangas.

  His body was a machine.

  He dropped to the floor for his customary one hundred push-ups.

  His body was well honed and built for power.

  By the time he’d finished his morning trifecta with sit-ups and pull-ups, he was ready to admit that his well-honed, powerful body hurt like hell.

  Bare skin covered in a layer of sweat and boxers, he ignored the trembling muscles and moved back to his bed. A part of him wanted to d
rop down, face-first, into the pillow, wanted to burrow under the covers and find the sweet oblivion of dreamless sleep.

  Instead, with the military precision honed by a dozen years served in the Navy, he tucked and stretched the bedding into place with a couple of practiced moves. He didn’t have to think about what to wear, just grabbed the neatly pressed digies—blue camo multipocketed pants and tee—on their mutual hanger, snapped up boxers and socks and headed for the shower. He didn’t bother with the lights. He had vision like a cat, and the dark was easier on the burning behind his eyes.

  He stepped into the shower, letting the brutally hot water pound away the ache of a restless night. Letting it wash away the nagging pain he couldn’t explain. Or, rather, chose to ignore. Elijah rubbed his thigh, running soap over the glossy, puckered flesh as if it didn’t bother him. But the water, comforting a second before, felt like shards of glass. Instead of stepping out from under the water, he turned up the heat.

  He refused to be a wimp.

  It took him under ten minutes to shower, shave, dress and get ready for the day. He’d spent a couple of years serving on a submarine, so he could have done it in three, but he kept finding himself frowning at the wall, trying to recall what he’d dreamed that had left such a hollow feeling in his gut.

  Following the scent of coffee through the living area of the apartment-style barracks he shared with Lansky and into the postage-stamp-size kitchen, Elijah took the mug his new roomie held out and gulped the caffeinated elixir with a grunt of appreciation.

  By the time he’d drained it, Lansky had eggs scrambled into a tortilla, covered with a couple of slices of bacon and a tidy sprinkling of cheese.

  “Living with you is going to be one sweet pleasure,” Elijah stated, nodding his thanks as he eyed his teammate. Both SEALs, he’d served with Jared Lansky for a decade now. Elijah had never realized the guy could cook like this. Goes to show you could know someone for years, train and serve and bleed with them, drink until sick together, but they could still surprise you.

  Elijah used to like surprises.

  “I figured you could use a hot breakfast today,” Lansky said, his words light and friendly. But there was a deep well of concern in the man’s eyes. “First day back and all that.”

  Elijah’s shoulders jerked, his spine stiffening. He knew the concern was heartfelt, brother to brother. Just as he knew it was justified. But damned if he wanted it. Concern like that, it was a heartbeat from pity. And he’d had enough of that in the past few months to last a lifetime.

  Enough to put doubts in the corners of his mind. Doubts that tried to creep out in his dreams. Doubts that, if left unchecked, could destroy him.

  “All I need is a great breakfast to kick today’s ass,” he said, biting into the burrito and grinning as the heat and spice hit his tongue. “This is damned good.”

  “You need anything else? Fruit or oatmeal or something?”

  Oatmeal? Elijah had to swallow quickly to avoid choking on the second half of the burrito.

  “Dude, you think I’m so pathetic that you need to stick me with oatmeal?”

  “Sorry. It was my mom’s go-to for big mornings. You know, first day of school, finals week, the day I enlisted, the day of my dad’s funeral.” Looking embarrassed—something Lansky never was—the other man gave a good-natured shrug. “Guess it’s one of those crazy kid things that we never lose, ya know?”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  And he appreciated it. The offer. That Lansky cared enough to make it. And the guy’s insight. The idea of oatmeal itself? That he didn’t appreciate so much.

  “Pretty sure this burrito and coffee are all I need to handle going back on duty.”

  He’d handle it.

  He would. He had to.

  Because he was a SEAL.

  Being a SEAL, it’s all he had. It’s all he was. He’d protect that, hold that, to his dying breath.

  While Lansky scooped up another burrito for each of them, Elijah poured coffee and pondered how he’d gone from the classic skinny kid growing up in a small town outside Napa to become a supposedly badass SEAL.

  He’d spent his childhood in Yountville, a dreamer more interested in drawing pictures and scoring with girls than taking on bad guys. When he’d learned that bad guys—or rather, the hard-ass jocks who’d run the school like gangs ran the streets—didn’t check interest before they kicked ass, he’d figured he’d better reconsider his thinking.

  He’d joined the service fresh out of high school, eager to serve, sure he could make a difference. That choice had taken him the world over, had shown him man’s highs and lows and had netted him a fistful of commendations. Trained first in linguistics, then in cryptology, he’d put his skill with words and his talent with puzzles to good use.

  He’d learned to fight. He’d developed strategic skills. He’d found himself.

  But true credit for making him the man he was came down to his being a SEAL. A SEAL and, more to the point, a member of the elite group of SEALs that formed Poseidon.

  Twelve men had come out of BUD/S together ten years back, and thanks to Admiral Cree, all twelve served among SEAL Team 7’s various platoons. That meant they were able to continue training together, studying together, excelling together.

  And when called up, to serve together. They were an elite force of warriors, all focused on one purpose: to be the best of the best. They trained longer, they pushed further, they fought harder than anyone else. They focused on strategy; they specialized in everything.

  They were, Elijah knew, the reason he was the man he was, and they were the reason he was alive today. They’d pulled him from the flaming bowels of hell, he admitted to himself as he and Lansky finished their breakfast.

  “I cook—you clean. Since I hate dishpan hands, I figure this works fine,” the other man said with an easy smile at odds with his bloodshot eyes. As the sun rose, washing color into the jut of space deemed the kitchen, Elijah studied his roommate. You’d think Lansky’d been the one having the crap dreams from the drawn-out lines on his narrow face.

  “Works for me. Don’t wanna do anything to hurt your pretty looks.” Elijah gave him another once-over. The guy resembled one of those cherubs his mother had painted on little china dishes, only all grown up. Blond hair, blue eyes and a sweet-cheeked innocence combined with a body sculpted by military training were just a few of the many tools Lansky put to use in his never-ending quest to bag as many chicks as he could.

  And speaking of...

  “I didn’t figure I’d see you this morning,” Elijah said, dumping the pans into the sink with a squirt of soap before adding hot water. “Thought you had plans last night that’d keep you in someone else’s bed until reveille. What happened? You strike out?”

  “I never strike out, my man. I simply move on.”

  Didn’t look like he’d moved on. Looked more like he’d spent the night suffering, brooding and hating life.

  But as members of Poseidon, Elijah and Lansky had worked enough missions together, and yeah, cruised enough bars, that he knew the other man’s style. Lansky would give a friend—hell, an enemy—the shirt off his back if he needed it, but he didn’t share diddly unless he wanted to. And the man hated giving up to the point where stubborn tiptoed toward stupidity.

  Come to think of it, they probably had all those things in common.

  “What’s her name?”

  Lansky’s scowl deepened as he refilled his own mug; the way the rich brown liquid sloshed against the white crockery made it clear this wasn’t a breakfast conversation he wanted to have.

  “Her, who? It’d be a waste to limit myself to just one woman, Rembrandt. You know that.”

  “Right.”

  That was Lansky’s usual MO. Love ’em and leave ’em smiling was his motto. But if Elijah wasn’t mistaken, that m
otto had taken a nosedive since the other man had met a sexy brunette a few months back. With the skill of a man who enjoyed beauty in all its forms, Elijah brought the face to mind. A lush brunette with the face of a Greek goddess and the body to match.

  Although Lansky had gotten to know her a lot better—along the lines of biblical knowing—they’d both met Andrianna Stamos months ago on a covert op run by Poseidon in search of a rogue SEAL. One who’d dirtied the team, who’d betrayed his country, who’d jeopardized a critical mission. A man who’d hidden treason behind a friendly smile and lied his way up the ranks about who he was, about what he’d done, about everything from deserting his child to where he’d hidden the riches reaped from treason.

  They hadn’t found Brandon Ramsey. Still didn’t know if he was dead or alive. All they knew for sure was that he’d stolen classified information under the guise of an explosion.

  Elijah rubbed his fingers over the puckered scars discernible even through the fabric of his slacks and hid his grimace with his cup.

  “You ever had it hot for a woman who didn’t want jack to do with you?” Lansky asked with a shrug. “You know, the kind of woman you can’t shake from your mind?”

  The swallow of coffee turned to vinegar in Elijah’s mouth.

  Damn.

  The memory of big brown eyes and the sexiest smile ever to curve a Cupid’s-bow mouth flashed through his mind. Just as quickly as that memory appeared, it was followed by those eyes filled with tears, brimming with accusation, and that mouth trembling as it said goodbye.

  The vicious, cutting pain hit all the harder because it was unexpected. He knew exactly how it felt to have a woman rip his heart out of his chest and crush it to dust while he watched, helpless on the sidelines. Recovery in the burn ward was easier, and it hurt a hell of a lot less.

  Elijah dumped what was left of his coffee in the sink. Looked like the scars on his leg weren’t the only ones being poked at this morning.

  “Yeah. I know what it’s like. Rejection is fucked, my friend. Rejection when the heart’s involved? Fucked beyond words.” Wanting to put it from his mind, he started on another dish.

 
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