Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Thanks again.

  Veronica's words echoed in Joe's head. Thanks again.

  She had been thanking him. Of course. When she had put her arms around him, she wasn't giving in to the attraction that simmered between them. No way. She was thanking him. She was being the generous aristocrat thanking the lowly servant. Damn, he was such a fool.

  Joe had to sit down.

  "Everything all right, Cat?" Blue asked softly in his gentle Southern accent.

  Joe stood again and headed for the bedroom. "Fine," he answered shortly, keeping his head turned away so his friend wouldn't see the hurt he knew was showing in his eyes.

  Chapter 12

  When the embassy party started at nine—twenty-one-hundred hours according to Joe—Veronica was feeling an old pro at handling the equipment in the surveillance van.

  She wore a lightweight wireless headset with an attached microphone positioned directly under her lips. Joe could hear every word she spoke through a miniature receiver hidden in his right ear. And Veronica could hear him quite clearly, too. His wireless mike was disguised as a pin he wore in the lapel of his jacket.

  She could see Joe, too, on a TV screen built into the side panel of the van. Another screen showed a different angle-Joe's point of view. Both views were courtesy of miniaturized video cameras discreetly held by several FInCOM agents. So far, Veronica hadn't had much use for the TV screen that showed the world from Joe's eyes. It would come in handy to­night, though.

  The three SEALs from Alpha Squad were also wearing microphones and earphones patched into the same frequency that Veronica and Joe were using. It was easy to tell Blue's, Cowboy’s, and Harvards' voices apart, and or course, she would recognize Joe's voice anywhere.

  More often than not, the SEALs used some kind of abbre­viated lingo, using phrases like "LZ" and "recon" and "sneak and peek.” They talked about the "T’s or "tangos," which Veronica knew to mean terrorists. But for every word she rec­ognized, they used four others whose meanings were mysteri­ous. It was like listening to another language.

  Throughout the day, Veronica had reminded Joe when to how and when to wave, when to ignore the news cameras, and when to look directly into their lenses and smile. She'd warned him when his smile became a bit too broad—too Joe-like—and he'd adjusted instantly in order to seem more like the real prince.

  The high-tech equipment made the process infinitely easier than any other job she'd ever done.

  What she was never going to get used to, however, was the slightly sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched Joe on the video cameras and wondered when the assassins were going to strike.

  "Okay," came the word from Kevin Laughton, who was also in the surveillance van. "The limo is approaching the em­bassy."

  "Got it," West said over the van's speakers. "I see them coming up the drive." FInCOM was using a different fre­quency for their radio communication. Joe's earphone had been modified to maintain a direct link with them, too. If someone—SEAL or Fink—so much as breathed a warning, he wanted to hear it.

  "Check, check," Veronica heard Joe say into his mike. "Am I on?"

  "We're reading you," Laughton said. "Do you copy?"

  "Gotcha," Joe said. "Ronnie, you with me?"

  "I'm here," Veronica said, purposely keeping her voice low and calm. Her heart was beating a mile a minute at the thought of Joe walking into the Ustanzian Embassy and actually rely­ing on her for the information he needed to pull off his mas­querade as Prince Tedric. And if she was on edge, he must be incredibly nervous. He not only had to think about success­fully portraying Tedric, but he also had to worry about not getting killed.

  "Cameras are on," a FInCOM agent's voice reported. "Surveillance van, do you have picture?"

  "Roger that, FInCOM," Veronica said, and Joe laughed, just as she'd known he would.

  "What, are you getting into this?" he asked her.

  "Absolutely," she said smoothly. "I don't know the last time I've so looked forward to an embassy party. I get to sit out here in comfort instead of tippy-toeing around all those dignitaries and celebrities, eating overcooked hors d'oeuvres and smiling until my face hurts."

  Joe leaned across the limousine, closer to the camera. "Ov­ercooked hors d'oeuvres?" he said, making a face. "That's what I have to look forward to here?"

  "Ready to open the limo doors," West's voice announced. "Everyone in position?"

  "Joe, be careful," Veronica murmured quickly.

  He touched his ear briefly, giving her the signal that he heard her. She saw something flicker in his eyes before he looked away from the video camera.

  What was he thinking? Was he thinking of last night, of the way he'd almost kissed her? He would have kissed her again, and she probably would have kissed him, too, if she hadn't heard the hotel-room door start to open.

  Probably? Definitely—despite her better judgment. She should be grateful they had been interrupted when they were. She knew she was grateful that she'd heard the sound of the doorknob turning. How awful would it have been to have three FInCOM agents, three SEALs and one navy admiral open the door to find her locked in Joe's embrace.

  Joe had been oddly distant this morning—no doubt a direct result of her rapid flight from his hotel room last night. Ve­ronica felt guilty about running away. But if she'd stayed, and if he'd pursued her, she would have ended up in his arms again. And, quite probably, she would have ended up in his bed.

  She had thought maybe a little time and a little distance would take the edge off the attraction she felt for this man. But when she had walked out of her room this morning, Joe had been dressed in one of Tedric's least flashy dark suits and was already waiting with the FInCOM agents in the corridor. She'd looked at him, their eyes had met, and that attraction had sparked again.

  No, time and distance had done nothing. She'd wanted to kiss Joe as much this morning as she had wanted to kiss him last night. Maybe even more so.

  The security team had led him down the hallway to the ele­vators and she'd followed a step or two behind. Once down­stairs, they'd gone immediately to work.

  Admiral Forrest had explained the array of equipment in the van, and Joe had stared unsmiling into the cameras as the screens and relays were checked and double-checked. She'd talked to him over her headset, and although his replies had started out terse and to the point, over the course of the long day, he'd warmed up to his usual self, with his usual sardonic humor.

  "Doors are opening," West announced now, and the pic­tures on the TV screens jumped as the agents holding the cam­eras scrambled out of the limo.

  The paparazzi's flashbulbs went off crazily as Joe stepped out of the long white car, and Veronica held her breath. If someone was going to shoot him, it would happen now, as he was walking from the car to the embassy. Inside the building, security was very tight. He would still be in some danger, but not half as much as out here in the open.

  The FInCOM agents surrounded him and hustled him in­side, one of them roughly pushing Joe's head down, out of target range.

  "Well, that was fun," Veronica heard Joe say as the em­bassy doors closed behind them. "Warn me next time you de­cide to put me in a half nelson, would you, guys?"

  "We're inside," West's voice said.

  On Veronica's video screen, the Ustanzian ambassador ap­proached Joe, followed by an entourage of guests and celebri­ties. Joe instantly snapped into character, shoulders back, expression haughty.

  "Henri Freder, Ustanzian ambassador to the United States," Veronica told Joe. "He knows who you are. He was at the meeting last night, and he's available to help you."

  "Your Highness." Freder gave Joe a sweeping bow. "It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to the Ustanzian Em­bassy." Joe nodded in return, just a very slight inclination of his head. Veronica smiled. Joe had Tedric's royal attitude down cold.

  "The man to Freder's left is Marshall Owen," Veronica said to Joe, calling up additional background on Owen on the computer. "Owe
n's a businessman from.. .Atlanta, Georgia, who owns quite a bit of real estate in Europe, Ustanzia in­cluded. He's a friend of your father's. You've only met him three or four times—once in Paris. You played racketball. You won, but he probably threw the game. Shake his hand and ad­dress him as 'Mr. Owen'—Daddy owes him quite a bit of money."

  On-screen, Joe shook Marshall Owen's hand. "Mr. Owen," he said in Tedric's unmistakable accent. "A pleasure to see you again, sir. Will you be in town long? Perhaps you can come to the hotel for a visit? There are racketball courts next to the weight room, I believe."

  "Excellent," Veronica murmured.

  With this equipment and Joe's ability to mimic, it was going to be—what was that expression of Joe's?—a piece of cake.

  Joe sat on the couch in the royal suite, drinking beer from the bottle and trying to depressurize.

  There was a soft knock on the hotel-room door, and West moved to answer it, opening it only slightly. The FInCOM agent opened it wider and Veronica slipped inside.

  She smiled when she saw Joe. "You were great today."

  He felt his face relaxing as he smiled back at her. "You weren't so shabby yourself." He started to stand, but she waved him back into his seat. "Want a beer? Or something to eat? We could order up...?"

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, could he sound any more eager for her company?

  She shook her head, still smiling at him. "No, thank you," she said. "I really just wanted to stop in and tell you what a good job you did."

  Joe had tried to keep his distance all day long. He'd tried to act cool and disinterested. Tried. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, af­ter last night, after he realized Veronica had only put her arms around him as a gesture of thanks, he should have had no problem staying away from her. He should have known better. Even after she'd apologized for her angry outburst, for calling him stupid and ignorant, he should have known that just be­cause she'd apologized for saying those things, it didn't mean that she didn't think they were true.

  Veronica had told him that she wanted to be friends—yeah, probably the way she would befriend a stray dog.

  But all day long, he'd found himself playing to the hidden video cameras, knowing she was watching him, enjoying the sound of her voice speaking so intimately into his ear.

  It didn't matter that they were dozens, sometimes even hun­dreds of yards apart. Veronica was his main link to the surveil­lance van. Hers was the voice Joe heard most often over his miniaturized earphone. He had to depend on her and trust her implicitly when she gave him information and instructions. Whether she knew it or not, their relationship had become an intimate one.

  And Joe suspected that she knew it.

  He was staring at her again, he realized. Her eyes were so blue and wide as she gazed back at him.

  He looked away first. Who was he kidding? What was he trying to do? Weren't two rejections enough? What did he want, three for three?

  "It's getting late," he said gruffly, wanting her either in his arms or gone.

  "Well," she said, clearly flustered. "I'm sorry. I'm..." She shook her head and fished for a moment in her briefcase. "Here is tomorrow's schedule," she added, handing him a sheet of paper. "Good night, then." She moved gracefully to­ward the door.

  "Saint Mary's," Joe said aloud, his eyes catching the name halfway down the schedule.

  Veronica stopped and turned back toward him. "Yes, that's right," she said. "I meant to ask you to wear something... special."

  "What? My giant chicken suit?"

  She laughed. "Not exactly what I had in mind."

  “Then maybe you should be more specific."

  "Bluejacket, red sash, black pants," Veronica instructed. "I think of it as Tedric's Prince Charming outfit. Didn't you get fitted for something like that?"

  "I did and I'll wear it tomorrow." Joe bowed. "Your wish is my command."

  Chapter 13

  Veronica rode to Saint Mary's in the limousine with Joe.

  He was wearing the Prince Charming-like suit she'd asked him to wear, and he looked almost ridiculously handsome.

  "This is going to be a difficult one," she said, doing some last-minute work on her laptop computer.

  " Are you kidding?" Joe said. "No media, no fanfare—how hard could it be?"

  "I'm going in with you this time," Veronica said, as if she hadn't heard him.

  "Oh, no, you're not," he countered. "I don't want you within ten feet of me."

  She looked up from her computer screen. "There's no dan­ger," she said. "Saint Mary's wasn't on the schedule we re­leased to the press."

  "There's always danger," Joe insisted. "There's always a possibility that we're being followed."

  Veronica looked out the near window. Three other limos, plus the surveillance van, were trailing behind them. "Goodness gracious," she said in mock surprise. "You're right! We're be­ing followed by three very suspicious-looking limousines and…"

  "Knock off the comedy routine, St. John," Joe muttered. "You're not going in there, and that's final."

  "You don't want me to get hurt." Veronica closed her com­puter and slid it back into its carrying case. "That's so sweet."

  "That's me," Joe said. "Prince Sweetie-Pie."

  "But I need to go in."

  "Ronnie-"

  "Saint Mary's is a hospice, Joe," Veronica said quietly. "For children with cancer."

  Joe was silent.

  "There's a little girl named Cindy Kaye who is staying at Saint Mary's," she continued, her voice low and even. "She wrote a letter to Tedric, asking him to stop and visit her during his tour of the United States. She'd like to meet a real prince before—well—before she dies." She cleared her throat. "Cindy has an inoperable brain tumor. She's been writing to Tedric for months—not that he bothers to read the letters. But I've read them. Every single one. She's incredibly bright and charming. And she's going to die in a matter of weeks."

  Joe made a low, pain-filled sound. He rubbed his forehead with one hand, shielding his eyes from her view.

  "I spoke to her mother on the phone this morning," Veron­ica said. "Apparently Cindy's taken a turn for the worse. She's been practicing her curtsy for months, but as of last night, she's..." She cleared her throat again. "The tumor's affect­ing more and more of her motor functions, and she's now un­able to get out of bed."

  Joe swore, long and loud, as the limo pulled up outside the hospice.

  It was a clean, white building, with lots of windows, and beautiful flowers growing in the neatly tended gardens out­side. There was a statue of the Madonna, also gleaming white, in among the flowers. It was lovely to look at, so peaceful and serene. But inside... Inside were children, all dying of cancer.

  "What am I supposed to say to a kid who's dying?" Joe asked, his voice hoarse.

  "I don't know," Veronica admitted. "I'll come with you-"

  "No way." Joe shook his head.

  "Joe-"

  "I said, no. I'm not risking your life, goddammit!" Veronica put her hand on his arm and waited until he looked up at her. "Some things are worth the risk."

  Cindy Kaye was tiny, so skinny and frail. She looked more like a malnourished six-year-old than the ten-year-old Veron­ica knew her to be. Her long brown hair was clean and she wore a pink ribbon in it. She was lying on top of her bedspread, wearing a frilly pink dress with lots of flounces and lace. Her legs, covered in white tights, looked like two slender sticks. She wore white ballet slippers on her narrow feet.

  The little girl's brown eyes filled with tears, tears that spilled down her cheeks, as Joe came into the room and gave her his most royal of bows.

  "Milady," he said in Tedric's unmistakable accent. He ap­proached Cindy and the vast array of tubes and IVs and medi­cal equipment that surrounded her without the slightest hesitation. He sat on the edge of Cindy's bed and lifted her skeletal hand to his lips. "It is a great honor to meet you at last. Your letters have brought great joy and sunshine to my life."

  "I wanted to curtsy for you," Cindy sai
d. Her voice was trembling, her speech slurred.

  "When my sister, the Princess Wila, was twelve," Joe said, leaning forward as if he were sharing a secret with her, "she injured her back and neck in a skiing accident, and was con­fined to her bed, much the way you are now. Our great-aunt, the Duchess of Milan, taught her the proper social etiquette for such a situation. The duchess taught her the 'eyelid curtsy.'"

  Cindy waited silently for him to continue.

  "Close your eyes," Joe commanded the little girl, "count to three, then open them."

  Cindy did just that.

  "Excellent," Joe said. "You must have royal blood in your veins to be able to do the eyelid curtsy so elegantly your very first time."

  Cindy shook her head, the corners of her mouth finally curving upward.

  "No royal blood? I don't believe it," Joe said, smiling back at her. "Your dress is very beautiful, Cindy."

  "I picked it out just for you," she said.

  Joe had to lean close to understand. He looked up to meet the eyes of the woman seated beside the bed—Cindy's mother. She gave him such a sweet, sorrowful, thankful smile, he had to look away. Her daughter, her precious, beautiful daughter, was dying. Joe had always believed he was a strong man, but he wasn't sure he would have the strength to sit by the bedside of his own dying child, day after day, hiding all his frustration and helplessness and deep, burning anger, offering only com­forting smiles and peaceful, quiet, reassuring love.

  He felt some of that frustration and rage form a tornado in­side him, making his stomach churn. Somehow, he kept smil­ing. "I'm honored," he said to Cindy.

  "Do you speak Ustanzian?" Cindy asked.

  Joe shook his head. "In Ustanzia we speak French," he said.

  "Je parle un pen frangais," Cindy said, her words almost unrecognizable.

  Oh, God, thought Veronica. Now what?

  "Tres bien," Joe said smoothly. "Very good."

  Veronica relaxed. Joe knew a bit of French, too. Thank goodness. That might have been a real disaster. Imagine the child's disappointment to find that her prince was an impos-ter...