SEAL of Honor

by Tonya Burrows

  “My, how the spineless do flee. Tell me something, have you pried that tail from between your legs yet?”

  Liam’s teeth gnashed together. “I had to flee. I had no choice because of you, you self-righteous prick.”

  “Hm. Hey, Liam.” Gabe made a brushing motion near his nose. “You got a little something…”

  Liam raised a hand halfway to his nose before he caught himself. Eyes spitting fire, he said, “Back up.”

  Unperturbed, Gabe pushed away from the doorframe and stepped back. Liam slammed the door and the lock snapped into place again.

  “Whew,” Audrey said on an exhale a few seconds after the door closed. “That’s some bad blood there. I take it you know each other.”

  Gabe nodded and laid out a plastic-wrapped dress on the end of the bed for her. He opened his own garment bag to study the contents. A freaking tux and dress shoes. And here he was hoping for cammies and combat boots.

  “Let me guess,” Audrey said when he stayed silent. “Long story?”

  “Yes and no.” He pulled out the crisp white dress shirt and slid into it, but left it hanging open, unbuttoned. “If you want to know the bare bones, I got the bastard kicked out of the British Special Forces during an op a couple years back, and he’s had it out for me ever since. It’s a mutual hate-hate relationship. Now get dressed, hon.”

  She pushed aside the garment bag, ignoring the plum-colored gown inside. “Kicked out? What did he do?”

  Gabe started to say, “That’s classified,” out of habit, but caught himself. Considering he’d spent the afternoon inside Audrey, making love to her, she deserved more than the rehearsed response he reserved for SEAL wannabes and frog-hogs. And, technically, Liam’s disgrace was public knowledge—or at least it was in Great Britain. He sat beside her on the bed and pulled her into the crook of his arm, savoring the softness of her skin under his hand.

  “Liam Miller—which is not his real last name; he went by Collington back then—was one of the British SAS officers helping us to locate a CIA operative who…” He trailed off. Insurgents had held the CIA operative captive in a training camp near the Turkey border. By the time the SEALs located him, he’d been skinned alive. With no way of knowing how many classified secrets he spilled, orders came down from on high to neutralize the camp. Including the women and children.

  Um, yeah, Audrey didn’t need to know the nitty-gritty. And he didn’t much care to relive the experience.

  Gabe cleared his throat. “That part’s not important. But during the mission, I caught Liam snorting something. Come to find out later, it was coke. That put my team and his in danger, so I reported it to his superiors and they jettisoned his ass so fast he probably still has road rash.”

  “Sounds like he deserved it,” Audrey said.

  “He did and then some. The drug use wasn’t the whole of it. A couple days after his replacement arrived, we discovered he’d been stealing and selling ordnance to terrorists for years.”

  Her eyes widened. “And he was never arrested?”

  “He bolted and found himself a comfy position as Mena’s right-hand man. As long as he stays here and Mena stays out of prison, he’s safe.”

  Part of the draw of taking down Mena had been the opportunity to get Liam Collington-slash-Miller behind bars as well. It had been Gabe’s pet project right up until the car accident that stole his career. Throughout the many tedious hours he’d spent in the hospital, he often wondered if the accident was more premeditated than accidental. The driver of the pick-up that had caused the crash was never located, and with Gabe out of the teams, the operation came to a dead halt. As far as he knew, nobody had revived it.

  He gave Audrey a light squeeze. “Liam’s a dangerous man. He’s extremely well-trained and very unstable. Watch your back around him tonight, okay? He might try to hurt you.”

  She flinched. “What? Why? I don’t know him. I had nothing to do with what happened between the two of you. Why would he want to hurt me?”

  “Because you’re mine.”

  Her eyes lifted to his, filled with a soft something that looked a lot like hope. “Am I?” she whispered. “Yours?”

  Jesus Christ, he wanted her to be in the worst possible way. It wasn’t professional, it crossed every line of honor he’d ever drawn for himself, but there it was.

  Still. Now was not the time to fight an emotional battle with himself. Now was the time to focus. She couldn’t be his if either of them wound up dead.

  “Liam thinks you are, and that’s all that matters.” He knew the instant the words left his tongue that it was the wrong answer. The hope in her eyes faded to disappointment, though she looked away quickly to try and hide the reaction.

  “I, um, should shower before dinner.” She pulled out of his embrace and scooted to the edge of the bed, trailing that pale gold sheet behind her to the bathroom.

  Gabe let her go. Hurting her feelings hadn’t been his intention, but that’s exactly what he’d done, and he felt powerless to fix it without admitting things he couldn’t afford to admit yet.

  He hated feeling powerless.

  Cursing, he pushed to his feet and strode toward the bathroom door, but paused before barging inside. What if she was using the toilet or something? Muscling his way in when he knew damn good and well she wanted private time would be just plain rude—he could almost hear her scolding for his lack of manners and dropped his hand away from the doorknob, raising it to knock instead.

  “Audrey?”

  The shower turned on, but she didn’t reply.

  Gabe sighed and rapped his forehead lightly on the door, once, twice, which did nothing to help his headache or the blooming ache in his chest that made it hard to breathe.

  “You are mine,” he muttered into the wood, although he knew it was a little too little, a little too late.

  …

  Am I? Yours?

  Ugh. Gabe was such a dunce. Audrey might as well have spilled her heart out to him with those three words, and it went completely over his head.

  Okay, so that wasn’t entirely fair. He was focused on keeping them safe, getting them free, finding Bryson. He had a lot more on his mind than their budding intimacy. Really, she should, too, but even thoughts of Bryson couldn’t keep her from reliving this afternoon in vivid detail as she soaped herself. She ached in all the most delicious places, her breasts plump and tender from Gabe’s affections, her thighs shaky, her core all but rubbed raw from the friction of his thrusts, and it felt wonderful.

  She wanted more. So much more.

  She just had to convince Gabe he wanted the same.

  Feeling better, Audrey shut off the water, reached for a towel, and noticed the dress she was supposed to wear hanging from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. She’d left it in the other room, so Gabe must have put it there sometime while she was showering. She never heard the door open, but knowing Gabe, she wouldn’t have. For a big man, he moved with eerily light feet.

  The silk, plum-colored cocktail dress clung to her in all the right places, with a plunging V neckline that showed a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. It wasn’t even close to her style, but how disturbing was it that Mena had so accurately guessed her size? She had to fight the urge to rip the awful thing off, shred it into expensive, itty-bitty scraps, and flush it down the toilet.

  She left her hair down to air-dry and hoped the heavy mass covered some cleavage. In her everyday life, she liked wearing as few clothes as possible and had no problem with flashing a little skin—but not with men like Mena and Liam around. No thanks.

  She opened the bathroom door and spotted Gabe staring out the balcony windows at the sunset. Or at least she thought it was the sunset he watched with such unwavering intensity. Either that, or he was scoping Mena’s security set-up.

  Sadly, that was more likely.

  All Gabriel Bristow saw when he looked at a sunset was a tactical advantage or disadvantage. He wasn’t the type to take a minute to admire the world’s natur
al beauty, to soak in a pretty moment. She’d have to change that.

  Gabe made such a striking picture standing there in the dying sunlight, dressed in a tux with his bowtie undone around his neck and a fatigued expression of pure concentration on his face, that she wished for her paints. She let her eyes roam over his hard body, committing every detail to memory so she could transfer it to canvas as soon as she got back to work. His military-erect posture, feet braced apart, hands folded behind his back. The way the sunlight set sparks of gold and red off his dark hair. The play of light and shadow over his features. His caged intensity, pitiless focus. She’d capture him in acrylic with stark lines, dramatic contrasts, and call it, The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday.

  God, he was beautiful.

  A modern avenging angel.

  As if sensing her gaze, he turned away from the window slowly, gold eyes focusing all that intensity on her. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think that jerk of his shoulders was his breath catching. Maybe the dress wasn’t that awful after all if it elicited such a reaction.

  Goading him a bit, she did a little turn and prompted, “So?”

  “You look…” He seemed at a loss for words and rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. “Beautiful.”

  The sincerity in his voice stopped her mid-twirl and pleasure warmed her blood like a shot of good Southern whiskey. He might not be ready to admit they had something more than sex, but the emotion behind that one simple compliment came close. “Thank you. Now, do you need help with that bowtie?”

  He shook his head and asked softly, “Are you still angry with me?”

  How one man could be capable of the cold ferocity she witnessed at the guerilla camp and also such childlike sweetness, she couldn’t begin to fathom. But, Lord, was it endearing to know her SEAL was not always one-hundred-percent sure of himself.

  “Oh, Gabe.” She crossed to him and soothed her palms over the lapels of his jacket. “I was frustrated, not angry, and it was over nothing you did. It’s the situation.”

  “It is a sucky situation,” he agreed.

  “It is, but the shower helped relax me.” And so did the look on his face when he saw her in the purple prom bomb of a dress. If she could have captured that on canvas, she’d call it, Lovestruck.

  Silly man just didn’t realize he was a goner yet.

  She knotted his bow tie, then stood on her toes to kiss him as the door popped open. No semi-polite knocking this time. Liam Miller stood there with a scowl fit to kill. “Out.”

  Gabe tucked her in close to his side and together they left the tenuous safety of the bedroom to dine with the devil himself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  LOS ANGELES, CA

  “So how is Bryson doing?” Despite the phone conversation going from strained to explosive in a matter of heartbeats, Danny Giancarelli kept his voice as even and calm as a late-night radio announcer urging people to enjoy some smooth jazz as they drifted to sleep.

  The HT, who wanted to be called Angel, had not liked it when he demanded to speak to Chloe Van Amee and Danny answered instead. He’d liked the suggestion that he let Bryson talk again even less.

  “He’s fine,” Angel said in thickly accented English. “But he won’t be if you keep stalling.”

  “Nobody is stalling, okay? We’re working as fast as we can to raise the funds for Bryson’s release, but it is going to take some time.”

  Angel swore in Spanish. “You’re lying. He’s rich. The money is already there.”

  “He has money, yes,” Danny conceded. “But Chloe can’t just walk into the bank and withdraw such a large sum from his accounts. The bank has rules and regulations that need to be followed.”

  “What about his insurance? The insurance company can pay.”

  Insurance. How could the HTs possibly know about the kidnap and ransom insurance policy? Danny gazed up at Frank Perry, who looked completely befuddled. Useless. The insurance rep wasn’t in the room at the moment, and O’Keane gave him a nudge in the side and mouthed, “I’ll find out more about it.”

  Danny nodded and sidestepped the insurance question, saying instead, “We’re working as fast as we can through all the regulations, okay? But while we’re doing that, I need to know Bryson is still alive. Can I please talk to Bryson again?”

  “No. I’m done with this. You will pay the ransom tomorrow at noon or else I will kill him.”

  “I understand, but tomorrow is Sunday and it’s a holiday weekend here in the States. The banks won’t open until Tuesday.”

  “It will be tomorrow or never. I have no problem killing him, Agent Giancarelli. I can find another family that is willing to pay.”

  “Okay. None of us want that. How about you let me speak to Bryson? I only want to hear his voice, Angel. You can understand why I want to make sure he’s still okay, right? I simply want to ask him some questions.”

  “Ask me.”

  Danny snapped his fingers for the list of proof-of-life questions that O’Keane and Chloe Van Amee had spent the last hour working on. They had to be very specific, uncomplicated questions, with an easy answer that the HTs wouldn’t be able to guess. Coming up with a viable list was always a lot harder than it at first seemed, especially in today’s technological world where a quick computer search could turn up loads of personal information.

  Someone slid the paper across the table and he scanned the list. The first two questions about Bryson’s sons’ middle names and birthdays were far too easy, but the third should work. “All right. Are you still there? I need you to ask Bryson what name he wanted to use if his son Ashton had been a girl.”

  Silence.

  “Can you do that for me, Angel? Go ahead and ask him for me. I’ll wait.”

  Dial tone.

  Danny sat back and blew out a breath that puffed up his cheeks. His heart was hammering, adrenaline surging through his veins like a nitrous injection, leaving his engines revving and his hands shaking. He knew from experience it’d take hours to come down if he just sat here, so he pushed away from the table.

  “I’m going for a run. Call me if they get back in the next hour.” He doubted it, though. He wouldn’t hear from Angel again until later tonight at the earliest.

  He made it about a block before his phone, tucked in the zippered pocket of his running shorts, rang. The HTs got back that fast? Well, color him surprised. He skidded to a halt underneath a palm tree, dug out the phone, and lifted it to his ear.

  “Giancarelli,” he answered.

  “Danny. Uh, hi.”

  For the space of three heartbeats, Danny struggled to make sense of the voice he knew, but hadn’t heard in years. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the number. It wasn’t a Los Angeles number, wasn’t even a U.S. number. “Marcus? Where the hell are you?”

  “It’s…” Marcus Deangelo sighed. “I can’t talk about it right now.”

  A skitter of fear worked down Danny’s spine. “Are you in trouble?”

  “No. I’m working a case.”

  “You got a new job? For the government?” Yeah, he doubted that. Marcus and the government hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

  “No. I went into the private sector,” Marcus said. “I’m working a hostage case and I need a favor.”

  Danny looked at the number on his phone’s screen again. Fifty-seven. It started with a fifty-seven, which was Colombia’s country code. The HT’s number started with the same.

  And he knew.

  “Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me you’re working the Van Amee case. Who hired you?”

  Marcus evaded the question beautifully. After all, the man hadn’t been one of the FBI’s top negotiators for nothing. “It’s not important. Bryson is what’s important here, and in order to help him, I need any information you can tell me about the case.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Danny shook his head. Marcus wanted him to do what? “Hold up. I don’t hear a word from you in nearly two years. Nada. How hard is it to pick up the p
hone and say, ‘yo, I’m still alive. How’s la famiglia? By the way, I’ve found a new job’? And now you want me to forget that and do you a solid by giving information on a case I’m working? Info you know—know—I cannot divulge.”

  “So you’re the negotiator?” Marcus asked, completely undaunted.

  Danny shut his eyes. Dammit. “I can’t talk about this.”

  But Marcus either didn’t hear him or ignored him. “Why are you going through with the ransom payment? Is Bryson’s business partner or wife pushing you to it? What happened to the whole the-U.S.-doesn’t-negotiate-with-terrorists thing?”

  “You know that’s more of a theory than practice.” Danny turned and started back up the street toward the Van Amee house. “And I’m just the mouthpiece in this. Perry the Prick’s in charge.”

  “Shit.” A moment of silence. “Can you just—I’ll take whatever you can give me. You know paying the ransom will all but sign Bryson’s death certificate.”

  Marcus had a point there. This case was bound for tragedy if they didn’t get control of the situation. And fast.

  “C’mon, Dan,” Marcus said. “Help me out. We’re poking around in the dark down here.”

  Up ahead, O’Keane stepped out of the house and waited there, arms crossed. Danny slowed his pace. “Listen, Marcus. I can’t promise anything, but… I’ll call you back.” He hung up and broke into a jog for the hundred or so yards of driveway. “Did the HTs call again already?”

  “No.” O’Keane arched a brow. “The wife still mad about you canceling the family vacation this weekend?”

  For a second, Danny didn’t get it. Oh, right. Marcus’ phone call. O’Keane thought he’d been speaking to his wife.

  “No,” he answered. “Leah and the kids went out to the coast without me.” He looked at his phone. Goddamn Marcus. He shook his head and pocketed it. “She was…just checking up.”

  CARTAGENA, COLOMBIA

  “Bryson works for me,” Mena said and sipped his wine, taking a moment to let that news flash hit home.