by Jillian Neal
“What does that have to do with anything? Why do they care what we do in the army?” Watson huffed. God bless him and his dumbass life.
“Never mind.” I managed a quick eye roll. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on yet, but do me a favor and do not sign anything at all in their presence. Especially not a credit card slip. You got me? Not even a note to your mama where they could find it. Nothing. And for the love of American cheeseburgers in the desert do not give them any personal information at all. Make up a new hometown, school, hell, if you’re Catholic, plan a belated bar mitzvah because you just became Jewish. They chose four of us so we’re in this together. Leave no man behind. You got that.”
I received two exuberant army yes sirs and one guttural hoo-ah, so I was making my point.
“Wait, so I’m supposed to say I’m Jewish even though I’m Episcopalian?” Watson asked.
“Dude, what the hell do you know?” Seeger demanded of me.
“He’s Special Forces, man, listen to him,” Ryder urged.
“Tomorrow night at dinner,” I continued with my orders despite Watson’s utter confusion about life in general, “I’m going to be late. I need the three of you to keep them entertained.”
“But how do you know you’re going to be late?” Watson demanded.
I stared him down. “Tell me something. When you came in here did you notice a big-ass rainforest in the lobby?”
“Yeah. Duh.”
My eyes were going to lodge themselves in my fucking skull dealing with this guy. “K, I’m gonna need you to go stand in it, real near a few of the trees, because we need to get some oxygen to your brain.”
“You want me to do that now or tomorrow night during dinner?”
“Holy Mother of God. No! Just…forget the trees. Here’s what I want. You somehow survived Basic, so this shouldn’t be new to you. When I say something, you do what I said. No questions. So, tomorrow night I’m going to be late to dinner, and you’re going to be early and keep our wicked step-grandmothers from noticing that I’m late. You got that?”
“I guess. Well…but what did the rainforest have to do…?”
“Nope. Nada. If you have more questions, you write them down and give the paper to Mathis here. If he thinks it’s not a stupid-assed question, then you can come ask me.”
23
Hannah
I couldn’t believe this actually happened. Who were these women? “So, eight husbands, huh? Most of us can’t even find one,” I mumbled, still trying to keep them from overhearing the orders Griff was giving. It probably wasn’t really necessary. They were all tipsy and excited with the spoils of the auction.
“Oh, honey, you have to know where to look.” Ms. Rutherford took another long drag on her cigarette. I tried not to breathe. “Money helps. Men like a woman who can fend for herself and someone with a backbone. You must be a Pisces. Too sweet for your own good.”
“Actually, I’m a…”
“That’s the truth from the horse’s mouth right there,” one of the other woman interrupted and tapped her ashes in the champagne flute I’d grabbed off of the table when I realized that Griff was going to be forced to entertain these women and it was all my fault. Even Ms. Rutherford looked disgusted.
“Guess I’m not drinking that,” I ground out.
“Adds to the flavor, honey.”
Bile singed my esophagus and ignited my tongue. “No, it doesn’t. Not to mention the fact that it’s incredibly rude.”
“You get, what, eighty, ninety trips around the sun, girly.” Ms. Rutherford shrugged. “If I’d worried about being rude, I’da been miserable for most of my eighty-three trips. My fourth husband, Robert, always said take what you want. Nobody’s going to give it to you.”
“What do you do for a living, dear?” The other woman, the one who hadn’t yet done anything truly reprehensible, asked. Her tone, however, reminded me of cough syrup. Sweetened-coated bitterness that still tasted like shit.
“I’m an interior designer.”
“Is that a lucrative career?”
“Guess that depends if you’re any good or not.”
“And are you any good?” Ms. Rutherford picked up the conversation.
“Do you like the suites you’re staying in?” I countered.
“They’re all right. Touch overdone if you ask me.”
“Then I guess I’m just all right.” Whatever Griff was doing, I needed him to hurry before I tied the tails of their sequined gowns together and pulled a fire alarm.
Ms. Mallory rushed back into the ballroom. “Ms. Rutherford, ma’am, you signed the wrong last name on your check.” She thrust the offending paper in Victoria’s face.
“Did I? And this is the check you’re worried about? If I were you, I’d have my mind on another mistake,” she huffed.
What did that mean? I scooted closer.
She shook her head and seemed to slip back into character. “Well, you know I’ve been married so many times I forget my own name from time to time.” She accepted the pen and check. Easing to the side, I managed to spy the amount. It was made out to Megan Mallory for sixteen-thousand dollars. That made absolutely no sense. Even if she’d only bid one dollar more than I had on Griff that only left two thousand for each of the other men. That was impossible. That doctor I’d met earlier, while the guys were parading around the dance floor, said she’d bid a whole paycheck on that Watson guy.
“How much did you bid on Griff?” I demanded.
“A lady never reveals her secrets, Ms. Hagen,” Victoria scolded as she re-signed and then initialed the check.
At that very millisecond, I arrived at the end of my rope. The bitch was going down. There was a man standing in the room who I was desperately in love with, and he was desperately in love with me. How many people even get that? Not many.
He needed to be rescued from his own self-appointed sentence to hell, and I was the only one who’d ever been able to get through to him. Rescuing a victim is difficult. Rescuing a hero is damned near impossible, and I did not need this horrid woman fucking up my plans. “Oh, I don’t think so, honey. Why didn’t Ms. Donahue and Mr. Goodwin attend this event, Ms. Mallory? Why wasn’t the board here? And how the hell did you allow one woman to win four men? And why is that check made out to you and not Homefront? Perhaps I should phone Mr. Goodwin because I will not have Palindrome Designs associated with a charity that’s not completely on the up and up.”
“I did nothing wrong, Ms. Hagen. You’re welcome to call Sandra if you’d like. But do be sure to mention to her that the owner of Palindrome Design clearly had someone come to the auction she intended to bid on despite that being explicitly prohibited in the contract she signed.”
I ground my teeth but decided to take a cue card from all of the Berets in my life. Never give away all you know. Despite her returned threat, I hadn’t asked about calling Sandra Donahue. I’d threatened to call Mr. Goodwin. Was she aware of what she’d just said, or was that a slip? Would she prefer I call the head of the board, or was she of the opinion that telling me to do something was the quickest way to get me to balk? Perhaps Ms. Donahue would be angrier about all of my arrangements with Griff, and she wanted me to get cut from the list of distinguished donors to Homefront Heroes. “Is that a threat, Ms. Mallory?” was all I could come up with.
“I could ask you the same question, Ms. Hagen.”
Only problem with my plan was that I didn’t have all of the extensive training Berets receive. My job did not require that I threaten people too often. On occasion, a subcontractor would screw something up, and I’d have to let him know it needed to be fixed but I was in the market of making people happy. I liked it that way.
I wasn’t sure how to read Ms. Mallory, and my favorite Beret was still giving orders to a group of men all staring up at him like he was their only hope of getting out of this alive. You could take the armor off of the hero, but you could never take the hero out of the man.
Suddenly, he w
as standing beside me. I was aware of his presence before I lifted my eyes to his. It was stupid and I should’ve been focused on everything wrong with this auction, but just then what I really wanted was that rush I always got when he folded me into his arms like I was the only thing in the entire world that would ever matter.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” he demanded in that low guttural growl that shot a spike of awareness through my nerve endings.
“Seems Ms. Rutherford signed the wrong last name on her check.” Okay, so I sounded a little like I was tattling, but I was tired and this was seriously fucked up. “Her sixteen-thousand dollar check.”
“Interesting,” was his only comment. He was so much better at this whole thing than I was. He obviously knew something was up but gave nothing away.
Just then one of Victoria Rutherford’s cohorts started fanning herself. “All of this excitement has given me heart palpitations…or maybe it’s just you.” She waggled her eyebrows at Griff.
“I doubt that’s it,” Griff countered knowingly.
“Shock and awe sometimes give me palpitations,” I teased under my breath while everyone else was distracted with a woman in a red, white, and blue sequined gown snatching an unused napkin, folded like a fan, to mop her brow and then her bosom.
With my favorite half-smirk planted on his features, he shook his head at me and chuckled. Being able to laugh in a bad situation was Survival 101, something else I’d learned from my mom.
“Well, Sergeant Haywood, I do hope you and Ms. Hagen have an enjoyable week despite the fact that it’s been more than obvious you both knowingly broke several rules in regards to the auction. Do remind Ms. Hagen of that from time to time.” With that, all sense of humor that I’d conjured a moment before was scoured from the air around us.
Griff’s eyes narrowed a half-notch. His jaw cocked to the side as he stared Megan Mallory down. Almost instinctively, she stepped back. Smart woman. My lips folded under the weight of my teeth when his suit coat bulged from the force of his biceps flexing. Team Seven used to have several mottos. Their favorite was, “burn the house, torch the skyline, and fuck the world.” That was precisely what was about to happen.
“I need you to get something straight, Ms. Mallory, so listen up. I am not Sergeant Haywood. I am Sergeant First Class Griffin Haywood weapons expert from Operational Detachment Alpha 1167. Heavily trained and medal-bearing in foreign internal defense, black ops, hand-to-hand combat, special reconnaissance, and unconventional warfare. Ms. Hagen runs an extremely successful design firm not to mention all of her charity work. I doubt she needs me to remind her of anything. But you might want to remind yourself, from time to time, that Berets only find themselves in a fair fight when they haven’t planned their mission well. And I always have a plan.”
Ms. Mallory’s harsh swallow revealed her nerves. “I’ll see everyone at dinner tomorrow evening. Enjoy your stay, Sergeant Haywood.” Ms. Mallory stormed toward the door once more.
“I intend to.” Griff lined up and took a final shot. Based on the frantic look in Ms. Mallory’s eyes, he’d hit the bullseye.
“Well, Haywood is going to be just a little late for dinner tomorrow,” that Watson guy announced rather loudly.
Griff turned to stare him down. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. “Dude, are both of your brain cells arguing currently or something? Keep your mouth shut,” he rasped quietly.
“She’s hosting the dinner. I thought she might want to know you’re going to be late. It’s polite.”
“Were your parents cousins?”
I choked back laughter, but Griff swiveled his head and shut his mouth when he noticed Ms. Rutherford and her friends staring at him.
“You ready, baby?” He grabbed my hand.
“Sure.” The heat of every gaze in the room scalded my cheeks.
“Where do you think you’re going? I paid good money for a week with the four of you. She can go. You’re coming to the bar with us,” the woman who’d wanted to know if my career was lucrative informed him.
“No, ma’am, you didn’t. She paid to have a few dinners and a brunch with us. Nothing more.” Griff pointed to Ms. Rutherford.
I watched every minute movement of the exchange. “You know, honey,” she sauntered closer, “you can learn a lot from a more experienced woman.” With her gloved hand, she traced down the buttons of his shirt. I wanted to vomit, preferably on her. “We could have a good time. She’s nothing. She’s barely even legal. But after a week with me you’d have so many tricks of the trade you could have any woman you want.”
Since my age was still something Griff felt guilty about, I leapt. “Excuse me, I am far more than legal!” I fumed, but Griff shook his head. “I’m…” His arm whipped around me with lightning speed, and his hand wrapped gently over my mouth.
“Do not say another word,” he commanded. Too shocked to have spoken anyway, I managed a nod. What the actual fuck was going on? “Few things, I do not need the education you’re offering up. Trust me. And she is everything. Every single thing. In fact, she’s not just everything she is the only thing. You got that?” With that, he lowered his hand from my mouth and draped it over my shoulder. Then he half-dragged me out of the ballroom.
“Mm, mm, mmm, I would not mind being manhandled by that one,” Ms. Rutherford drawled as we made our escape.
I turned back just long enough to see that wine waiter approaching Ms. Rutherford and her friends. He no longer had his tray.
“What are we going to do now?” he whined to Victoria. “You promised me a check.”
24
Griff
“What is going on? Why did you cover my mouth?” Hannah huffed as soon as we were out of the ballroom.
“We’re going by your room to get your stuff,” I informed her as we escaped toward the Villa Suite corridor. “We’ll talk when we get to my room.” Her legs may have gone on for miles, but she was struggling to keep up with me in those heels. I forced myself to slow down. She clearly hadn’t given them enough information if they were still trying to goad her birthday out of her. She was safe. I repeated that phrase in my head for the rest of our march to her suite. It stood to reason that if they were that interested in a few lowly soldiers’ credit cards, Hannah’s would’ve delighted them.
“It’s never a good sign when you start giving me orders. Talk now.” She slipped her key card in the door and stared up at me. Her eyes were pools of confusion, exhaustion, and irritation.
“Thought that’s what you were wanting from me?” Hey, I could dodge like a pro. Not a problem.
And I earned myself her I-am-officially-pissed expression. “Pretty sure you knew I meant in bed.”
“Might’ve picked up on that.” I sealed the door shut behind me. “I’m not sorry I covered your mouth. It was necessary. I am sorry if I freaked you out though.”
“I didn’t so much mind. I just want to know why it was necessary?”
Dammit, I still didn’t have this all figured out and I sure as hell didn’t want to scare her. She wanted a week for just us and, my God, I needed that more than anything in the whole entire fucked-up world.
Grabbing a sturdy looking side chair from nearby, I wedged it under the door handle. Hannah’s eyes rounded with dread. “Griff, what is going on?”
“Come here to me.” I took a seat on the sofa in her suite. It was in the same location as the one in mine, but the decor in her room was different. No hard edges. Big, fluffy cushions and pastel colors. The entire place felt warm, just like my own personal sunshine. Like she’d designed the suite for herself. “Baby, do you want us to stay here instead of in my suite?” Truthfully, I hoped she’d want to stay in mine. I’d already worked out attack and counter attack points for my space, but I wanted to give her the week she wanted just as soon as I figured out exactly how devious The Little Shop of Horrors backup singers really were.
“No.” Hannah eased beside me on the sofa. She threw frantic glances back to the door
a few times before staring up at me. “I want you to tell me what you figured out, and I want to know how that awful woman bought all of you for so little money. I mean, compared to my bid. I also want to know why there’s a three-thousand dollar Henredon arm chair in front of my door.”
“I haven’t quite figured everything out yet.” The words tasted like battery acid on my tongue. I had to get some answers. In any other scenario, I’d call Smith and talk it out. That certainly wasn’t an option this time. “The chair is just a precaution. I will keep you safe, baby. You know that.”
Contemplation weighted her gaze. “I do know that. I never feel safer than I do when I’m with you. But why do you need to keep me safe from the Charlie’s Angels’ outcasts?”
“Hey, that was a good one.” I was genuinely impressed. Neither of us were old enough to watch that show.
“Talk, Griff,” she ordered. “You’re the one Victoria Rutherford bid on. There’s something weird about this auction and the amount of money and all of that. But none of that explains why you think I’m in danger.”
I momentarily debated sticking to army protocol in case of capture—name, rank, number, and nothing else. She had me bolted to the fucking sofa with those eyes. I certainly couldn’t escape. And here’s the thing, I didn’t want to. Buying myself one moment more I inhaled one long heavenly inhale of her scent. Sweet vanilla cream filled my lungs and bile swirled in my gut. If anyone tried to hurt her, I’d kill them. No questions asked. “When I first saw Victoria, I suspected she was a black widow.”
She stared at me like I’d grown another head out of my ass or something. “You thought she was a spider?”
“It’s a term used for women that kill their husbands off for insurance money.”
Both her eyes and her mouth opened wider. “Oh my gosh. I thought stuff like that only happened in movies.”
“I have little to no proof, and now I’m not so sure that’s it. Did you notice how one of her friend’s eyes kept twitching?”
