Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Veronica nodded. She most certainly did. The plane had gone down halfway across the Atlantic. There were no survivors...Her tears slowed as she listened to him talk.

  "Diosdado and his pal Vargas took out an entire busload of U.S. sailors that same year," Joe said. "Thirty-two kids—the oldest was twenty-one years old." He was quiet for a moment. "Mac Forrest's son was on that bus."

  Veronica closed her eyes. "Oh, God..."

  "Johnny Forrest. He was a good kid. Smart, too. He looked like Mac. Same smile, same easygoing attitude, same tenacity. I met him when he was eight. He was the little brother I never had." Joe's voice was husky with emotion. He cleared his throat. "He was nineteen when Diosdado blew him to pieces."

  Joe fell silent, just stroking Veronica's hair. He cleared his throat again, but when he spoke, his voice was still tight. "Those two bombings put Diosdado and The Cloud of Death onto the Most Wanted list. Intel dug deep and came up with a number of interesting facts. Diosdado had a last name, and it was Perez. He was born in 1951, the youngest son in a wealthy family. His name means, literally, 'God's gift.'" Joe laughed a short burst of disgusted air. "He wasn't God's gift to Mac Forrest, or any of the other families of those dead sailors. Intel also found out that the sonuvabitch had a faction of his group right here in D.C. But when the CIA went to investigate, something went wrong. It turned into a firefight, and when it was over, three agents and ten members of The Cloud of Death were dead. Seven more terrorists were taken prisoner, but Diosdado and Salustiano Vargas were gone. The two men we'd wanted the most got away. They went deep underground. Ru mor was Diosdado had been shot and badly hurt. He was quiet for years—no sign of him at all—until a few days ago, when apparently Vargas took a shot at Prince Tedric."

  Joe was quiet again for another moment. "So there it is," he said. "The reason we can't just quit. The reason this opera­tion is going to work. We're going to stop those bastards for good, one way or another."

  Veronica wiped her face with the back of her hand. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried like this. It must have been the stress getting to her. The stress and the fatigue. Still, to burst into tears like that and...

  She sat up, pulling away from Joe and glancing around the room, alarmed, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She'd lost it. She'd absolutely lost it—and right in front of Joe and all those FInCOM agents. But the FInCOM agents were gone.

  "They're outside the door," Joe said, correctly reading her thoughts. "I figured you'd appreciate the privacy."

  "Thank you," Veronica murmured.

  She was blushing, and the tip of her nose was pink from crying. She looked exhausted and fragile. Joe wanted to wrap her back in his arms and hold her close. He wanted to hold her as she closed her eyes and fell asleep. He wanted to keep her warm and safe from harm, and to convince her that every­thing was going to be all right.

  She glanced at him, embarrassment lighting her crystal blue eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to—"

  "You're tired." He gave her an easy excuse and a gentle smile.

  They were alone. They were alone in the room. As Joe held her gaze, he knew she was aware of that, too.

  Her hair was starting to come free from its restraints, and strands curled around her face.

  He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and lightly brushing the last of her tears from her cheek. Her skin was so soft and warm. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't even move. She just gazed at him, her eyes blue and wide and so damned innocent.

  Joe couldn't remember ever wanting to kiss a woman more in his entire life. Slowly, so slowly, he leaned forward, search ing her eyes for any protest, alert for any sign that he was tak­ing this moment of truce too far.

  Her eyes flickered and he saw her desire. She wanted him to kiss her, too. But he also saw doubt and a flash of fear. She was afraid.

  Afraid of what? Of him? Of herself? Or maybe she was afraid that the overwhelming attraction they both felt would ignite in a violent, nearly unstoppable explosion of need.

  Joe almost pulled back.

  But then her lips parted slightly, and he couldn't resist. He wanted a taste—just a taste—of her sweetness.

  So he kissed her. Slowly, gently pressing his lips to hers.

  A rush of desire hit him low in the gut and it took every ounce of control to keep from giving in to his need and pulling her hard into his arms, kissing her savagely, and running his hands along the curves of her body. Instead, he made himself slow down.

  Gently, so gently, he ran his tongue across her lips, slowly gaining passage to the softness of her mouth. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to move still more slowly, even slower now. She tasted of strawberries and coffee—an enticing com­bination of flavors. He caressed her tongue with his own and when she responded, when she opened her mouth to him, granting him access and deepening their kiss, he felt dizzy with pleasure.

  This was, absolutely, the sweetest kiss he'd ever shared.

  Slowly, still slowly, he explored the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her lips. He touched only her mouth with his, and the side of her face with the tips of his fingers. She wasn't locked in his arms, their bodies weren't pressed tightly to­gether. Still, with this gentle, purest of kisses, she had the power to make his blood surge through his veins, to make his heart pound in a wild, frantic rhythm.

  He wanted her desperately. His body was straining to be­come joined with hers. And yet...

  This kiss was enough. It was exhilarating, and it made him feel incredibly happy. Happy in a way he'd never been even while making love to the other women he'd had relationships with—women he'd been attracted to and slept with, but hadn't particularly cared for.

  He felt a tightness in his chest, a weight of emotion he'd never felt before as, beneath his fingers, Veronica trembled.

  He pulled back then, and she locked away, unable to meet his eyes.

  "Well,” she said. "My word."

  "Yeah," Joe agreed. He hadn't intended to whisper, but he couldn't seem to speak any louder.

  "That was... unexpected."

  He couldn't entirely agree. He'd been expecting to kiss her ever since their eyes first met and the raw attraction sparked between them. What was unexpected was this odd sense of caring, this emotional noose that had somehow curled itself around his chest. It was faintly uncomfortable, and it hadn't disappeared even when he'd ended their kiss.

  She glanced at him. "Maybe we should get back to work."

  Joe shook his head. "No," he said. "I need a break, and you do, too." He stood, holding out his hand to her. "Come on, I'll walk you to your room. You can take a nap. I'll meet you back here in a few hours."

  Veronica didn't take his hand. She simply gazed up at him.

  "Come on," he said again. "Cut yourself some slack."

  But she shook her head. "There's no time."

  He gently touched her hair. "Yes, there is. There's defi­nitely time for an hour of shut-eye," he said. "Trust me, Ron­nie, you're gonna need it to concentrate."

  Joe could see indecision on her face. "How about forty minutes?" he added. "Forty winks. You can crash right here on the couch. I'll order some coffee and wake you up at—" he glanced at his watch " —oh-six-twenty."

  Slowly she nodded. "All right."

  He bent down and briefly brushed her lips with his. "Sleep tight," he said.

  She stopped him, touching the side of his face. "You're so sweet," she said, surprise in her voice.

  He had to laugh. He'd been called a lot of things in his life, and "sweet" wasn't one of them. "Oh, no, I'm not."

  Veronica's lips curved into a smile. "I didn't mean that to be an insult." Her smile faded and she looked away, suddenly awkward. "Joe, I have to be honest with you," she said qui­etly. "I think that kiss...was a mistake. I'm so tired, and I wasn't thinking clearly and, well, I hope you don't think that I... Well, right now it's not... We're not... It's a mistake. Don't you think?"

  Joe straightened. Th
e noose around his chest was so damn tight he could hardly breathe. A mistake. Veronica thought kissing him had been a mistake. He shook his head slowly, hiding his disappointment behind a tight smile. "No, and I'm sorry you think that," he replied. "I thought maybe we had something there."

  "Something?" Veronica echoed, glancing up at him.

  This time it was Joe who looked away. He sat down next to her on the couch, suddenly tired. How could he explain what he meant, when he didn't even know himself? Damn, he'd al­ready said too much. What if she thought by "something" he meant he was falling in love with her?

  He pushed his hair back with one hand and glanced at Veronica.

  Yeah, she wanted him to fall in love with her about as much as she wanted a hole in the head. In the space of a heartbeat, he could picture her dismay, picture her imagining the restraining order she'd have to get to keep him away from her. He was rough and uncultured, blue-collar through and through. She hung out with royalty. It would be embarrassing and incon­venient for her to have some crazy, rough-edged, lovesick sailor following her around.

  Gazing into her eyes, he could see her trepidation.

  So he gave her a cocky smile and prayed that she couldn't somehow sense the tightness in his chest. "I thought we had something great between us," he said, leaning forward and putting his hand on her thigh.

  Veronica moved back on the couch, away from him. His hand fell aside.

  "Ah, yes," she said. "Sex. Exactly what I thought you meant."

  Joe stood. "Too bad."

  She glanced at him but didn't meet his gaze for more than a fraction of a second. "Yes, it is."

  He turned away, heading for the bedroom and his bed. Maybe some sleep would make this pressure in his chest lighten up or—please, God—even make it go away.

  "Please, don't forget to wake me," Veronica called. "Right," he said shortly and closed the door behind him.

  The knock on the door came quickly, no less than five min­utes after Joe had called for coffee from room service. Man, he thought, people really hopped to it when they thought a guy had blue blood.

  West and the other FInCOM agent, Freeman, both drew their guns, motioning for Joe to move away from the door. It was an odd sensation. He was the one who usually did the pro­tecting.

  The door opened, and it was the room-service waiter. West and Freeman handed Joe two steaming mugs of fragrant cof­fee. Joe carried them to the coffee table and set them down.

  Veronica was still asleep. She'd slid down on the couch so that her head was resting on the seat cushion. She clutched a legal pad to her chest.

  She looked incredibly beautiful. Her skin was so smooth and soft looking, it was all he could do not to reach out with one knuckle to touch her cheek.

  Veronica St. John.

  Who would have guessed he would have a thing for a prim-and-proper society girl named Veronica St. John? "Sinjin," for Pete's sake.

  But she wasn't interested in him. That incredible, perfect kiss they'd shared had been "a mistake."

  Like hell it had.

  Joe had had to force himself to fall asleep. Only his exten­sive training had kept him from lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and expending his energy by playing their kiss over and over and over again in his mind. He'd spent enough time do­ing that while he was in the shower, after he woke up. Each time he played that kiss over in his head, he tried to figure out what he'd done wrong, and each time, he came up blank. Finally he'd had to admit it—he'd done nothing wrong. That kiss had been perfect, not a mistake.

  Now all he had to do was convince Veronica of that fact.

  Yeah, right. She was stubborn as hell. He'd have a better chance of convincing the Mississippi River to flow north.

  The hell of it was, Joe found himself actually liking the girl, trying to make her smile. He wanted to get another look be­hind her so-very-proper British facade. Except he wasn't sure exactly where the facade ended and the real girl began. So far, he'd seen two very conflicting images— Veronica in her prim-and-proper work clothes, and Veronica dressed down to dance. He was willing to bet that the real woman was hidden some­where in the middle. He was also willing to bet that she would never willingly reveal her true self. Especially not to him.

  Joe had more than just a suspicion that Veronica considered him substandard. He was the son of a servant, while she was a daughter of the ruling class. If she had a relationship with him, it would be a lark, a kick. She'd be slumming.

  Slumming.

  God, it was an ugly word. But, so what? So she'd be slum­ming. Big deal. What was he going to do if she approached him? Was he going to turn her down? Yeah, right. Like hell he'd turn her down.

  He could just picture the scenario.

  Veronica knocks on his door in the middle of the night and he says, "Sorry, babe, I'm not into being used by curious deb­utantes who want a peek at the way the lower half lives and loves."

  Yeah, right.

  If she knocked on his door, he'd fling it open wide. Let her go slumming. Just let him be the one she was slumming with.

  Veronica stirred slightly, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch, and the legal pad she'd been holding fell out of her arms. Joe moved quickly and caught it before it hit the floor.

  Her hair was starting to come undone, and soft red wisps curled around her face. Her lips were slightly parted. They were so soft and delicate and delicious. He knew that firsthand.

  It didn't take much to imagine her lifting those exquisite lips to his for another perfect kiss—for a deep, demanding, soulful kiss that would rapidly escalate into more. Way more.

  And then what?

  Then they'd be lovers until she got tired of him, or he got tired of her. It would be no different from any of the other re­lationships he'd had.

  But so far, everything about this was different. Veronica St. John wasn't some woman he'd met in a bar. She hadn't ap­proached him, handed him the keys to her car or her motel room and asked if he was busy for the next twenty-four hours. She hadn't even approached him at all.

  She wasn't his type. She was too high-strung, too uptight.

  But something he'd seen in her eyes promised a paradise the likes of which he'd never known. Hell, it was a paradise he was probably better off never knowing.

  Because what if he never got tired of her?

  There it was. Right out in the open. The big, ugly question he'd been trying to avoid. What if this noose that had tight­ened around his chest never went away?

  But that would never happen, right?

  He couldn't let Veronica's wealth and high-class manners throw him off. She was just a woman. All those differences he'd imagined were just that—imagined.

  So how come he was standing there like an idiot, staring at the girl? Why was he too damned chicken to touch her, to wake her up, to see her sleepy blue eyes gazing up at him?

  The answer was clear—because even if the impossible hap­pened, and Joe actually did something as idiotically stupid as fall in love with Veronica St. John, she would never, not in a million years, fall in love with him. Sure, she might find him amusing for a few weeks or even months, but eventually she'd come to her senses and trade him in for a more expensive model.

  And somehow the thought of that stung. Even now. Even though there was absolutely nothing between them. Nothing, that is, but one perfect kiss and its promise of paradise.

  "Yo, Ronnie," Joe said, hoping she'd wake up without him touching her. But she didn't stir.

  He bent down and spoke directly into her ear. "Coffee's here. Time to wake up."

  Nothing.

  He touched her shoulder, shaking her very slightly.

  Nothing.

  He shook her harder, and she stirred, but her eyes stayed tightly shut.

  "Go away," she mumbled.

  Joe pulled her up into a sitting position. Her head lolled against the back of the couch. "Come on, babe," he said. "If I don't wake you up, you're going to be madder than hell at me." He gen
tly touched the side of her face. "Come on, Ron­nie. Look at me. Open your eyes."

  She opened them. They were astonishingly blue and very sleepy. "Be a dear, Jules, and ring the office. Tell them I'll be a few hours late. I'm bushed. Out too late last night." She smiled and blew a kiss into the air near his face. "Thanks, luv." Then she tucked her perfect knees primly up underneath her skirt, put her head back down on the seat cushions and tightly closed her eyes.

  Jules?

  Who the hell was Jules?

  "Come on, Veronica," Joe said almost desperately. He had no right to want to hog-tie this Jules, whoever the hell he was. No right at all. "You wanted me to wake you up. Besides, you can't sleep on the couch. You'll wake up with one hell of a backache."

  She didn't open her eyes again, didn't sigh, didn't move.

  She was fast asleep, and not likely to wake up until she was good and ready.

  Gritting his teeth, Joe picked Veronica up and carried her into the bedroom. He set her gently down on the bed, trying to ignore the way she fit so perfectly in his arms. For half a sec­ond, he actually considered climbing in under the covers next to her. But he didn't have time. He had work to do. Besides, when he got in bed with Veronica St. John, it was going to be at her invitation.

  Joe took off her remaining shoe and put it on the floor, then covered her with the blankets.

  She didn't move, didn't wake up again. He didn't give in to the desire to smooth her hair back from her face. He just stared down at her for another brief moment, knowing that the smart thing to do would be to stay far, far away from this woman. He knew that she was trouble, the likes of which he'd never known.

  He turned away, needing a stiff drink. He settled for black coffee and set to work.

  Chapter 8

  Veronica sat bolt upright in the bed.

  Dear Lord in heaven, she wasn't supposed to be asleep, she was supposed to be working and—­What time was it?