The Defiant Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He was looking at her, really looking at her now, for the first time since he’d come into the room.

  “Please stay safe,” she told him desperately. “And remember that I love you. That I’ll always love you.”

  For one heart stopping moment, Eve thought that he was going to reach for her, that he was about to pull her into his arms and hold her tightly. That he was going to whisper that he loved her, too.

  Instead he wheeled away from her, nearly running for the door.

  It took every ounce of control she had not to burst into tears. Instead she chased after him, out past the commander’s secretary, past the commander himself, who looked up, startled, as they rushed past.

  She followed Ralph down the stairs and out of the building, her heels clattering on the walkway.

  He broke into a dead run as he hit the street, and she had no prayer of catching him. Not in these shoes.

  “I’m not just young,” she shouted after him, “I’m also a fool! I can’t change that about myself either! And fool that I am, I do love you! I’ll be there, in Ramsgate, waiting for you. I’ll wait for you forever! So you better come home to me! You better!”

  Ralph didn’t stop running, didn’t look back.

  “Please, Ralph,” Eve whispered, sinking down to sit on the steps of the building. “Just come safely home. It doesn’t have to be to me.”

  Nineteen

  STARRETT LAUGHED. “I’M sorry,” he said. “I know you don’t think this is funny, but—”

  “This is so not funny.” Locke stared at him, amazed and angered that he could be laughing about something so dreadfully serious. “The keys to these handcuffs are locked in the trunk of my car, which is in a parking lot on the other side of town! And you think this is funny?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  She stood up so fast, she knocked the chair over again. Her brain sloshed hard against the inside of her skull, making her want to scream. “How the hell are we going to get the key?” Her own raised voice hurt, and she lowered it, using tone rather than volume to convey her anger and disgust. “I don’t even have a shirt to wear. Look at this!” She took her stained shirt from where it was hanging around the cuffs and shook it at him. “I need a shower, I’m covered with this . . . this . . . chocolate. But how am I supposed to take a shower handcuffed to you?”

  “Actually, I can think of a number of ways that would—”

  She cut him off. “Are we supposed to just hail a cab wrapped in towels? How are we going to get through the hotel lobby without everyone seeing us—God, without everyone knowing?”

  “Well, shit,” Starrett said. He’d finally stopped laughing. “I guess we’ve hit on the real problem here, haven’t we? God forbid anyone find out that Alyssa Locke is human. Well, sorry, sweet thing, you kinda let that little secret slip with me last night.”

  It was all she could do not to hit him. “Don’t you ever, ever, call me that again.”

  “What, human?”

  Her head pounded and her stomach was churning. She yanked him with her, hard, toward the bathroom. “You know, Starrett, this is a perfect example of how completely stupid it is to drink alcohol. What was I thinking last night? What was I possibly thinking? I must’ve been completely out of my mind, because you’re the dead last man on earth I’d sleep with if I were sober. But, no, a little too much whiskey, and letting you take off my clothes suddenly seems like a good idea—instead of the biggest mistake of my stupid life!”

  He caught her arm, pulling her back toward him, his face taut with anger. “This wasn’t entirely my idea,” he told her. “You were on board right from the start, babe. And enthusiastically, might I add? In fact, you were the genius who found the chocolate sauce in the kitchen and—”

  Locke closed her eyes, remembering the kitchen table. “I know exactly what I did,” she told him through gritted teeth. “You don’t need to go into detail, thanks.”

  “You remember. Great. But do you remember if that was the second or the third time we made love last night, Alyssa? Or was it maybe the fourth?”

  She forced herself to meet his gaze. “What we did last night wasn’t making love.”

  He flinched as if she’d slapped him, but he recovered so quickly, she wondered if she’d imagined it. He laughed. “Poor choice of words. Let me rephrase the question. Was it the second or third time we fucked? Is that better, sweet thing?”

  She didn’t answer. She just turned and dragged him the rest of the way into the bathroom.

  “You know, you were all over me,” he continued, not taking his cue to shut up from her silence. “I would’ve been fine with doing it once, but you just wanted more and more. I’m actually a little surprised you haven’t tried to jump me again this morning.”

  “I’m going to shower,” she told him as matter-of-factly as she could, as she turned on the water. “You can stand out here, outside the curtain. With your eyes closed.”

  She stepped into the shower and slipped out of her towel, tossing it over the curtain rod, where she could quickly grab it again when she was done. The warm water was just what she needed, and combined with the headache medicine Starrett had given her, she was starting to feel as if her head weren’t in quite so much danger of being detached from her shoulders.

  “Fuck this,” Starrett said, stepping into the shower with her. “I’m not standing out there.”

  “Hey!” She quickly turned her back to him.

  “And I’m not closing my eyes, either. It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked. Jesus. It’s not like I haven’t licked chocolate syrup off every inch of your body. I need a shower, too, this is my hotel room, so just . . . tough shit, Locke. You’re stuck with me for a little while longer.”

  Locke tried to be efficient and quick, lathering the soap and using her hands to wash herself clean. But her right hand was attached to Starrett’s left, and his fingers—intentionally, no doubt—kept skimming her until she wanted to scream. “Stop it. God forbid you should start acting like a gentleman at this late stage in your life.”

  “Pass the soap. I’ll wash your back. With pleasure.”

  With an exhale of frustration, she put the soap down far from him. “Aren’t you even the tiniest bit ashamed of taking advantage of the situation last night? You knew I’d had too much to drink. You haven’t even tried to apologize.”

  “That’s because I have no intention of apologizing,” he told her. “It was amazing—what we did last night, what we shared. Shit, it was great. I refuse to apologize. And I refuse to regret one fucking second of it. Yes, I knew you had too much to drink. And maybe that means I took advantage. But you wanted me, Alyssa. Badly. How the hell was I supposed to turn you down?”

  She stepped under the water, letting it flow over her head and her face so that she wouldn’t have to hear him. But it was only a temporary respite. They were handcuffed together, and would be, probably for the next few hours, God help her. He was right. She was stuck with him for now.

  And she had wanted him—he was right about that, too. The really stupid thing was that a part of her still wanted him. She was trying to pretend otherwise, but it was back there even now, eating away at her, like some kind of sick craving or addiction.

  She wanted him to touch her again.

  She wanted him to wash her back. She wanted . . .

  She squeegeed her hair back from her face with her hands, aware of the weight of his arm next to hers, angry with him for being there, for being too damned sexy, for getting to her, even now when sex should have been the last thing she wanted.

  She rinsed out the white T-shirt that was still hanging between them like a sodden and defeated flag of surrender.

  “Can we switch places, so I can have a little water now?” he asked.

  Silently she moved past him, trying to put as much space between them as possible, but he slipped and caught himself—by grabbing on to her in a full body hug.

  “Oh, my God!” Locke yanked herself away from him. He w
as completely aroused. Extremely aroused. Enormously aroused. Suddenly it was very hard to breathe.

  She jerked her eyes back to his face, angry at herself, twice as angry at him for making her angry at herself. “What is wrong with you?”

  He was indignant. “What’s wrong? Excuse me, but this is the correct response to this situation. I’m human, I’m male, you’re female, you’re naked. I’m standing here watching you rub soap all over your body. If I didn’t have a hard-on, that’s when something would be seriously wrong with me.”

  He rinsed himself, his movements jerky with anger. The way they were cuffed together, it was impossible for her to turn her back to him. She was forced to stand there and watch him.

  He was male perfection, all hard, sleek muscles, long, powerful legs, narrow hips, and . . .

  Oh, God, she remembered . . .

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “You say you remember what we did last night, but how could you remember and not want to do it again? We were smoking, Lys. We were off the charts. How could you not want more of that incredible magic?”

  He touched her cheek with his hand, his fingers gentle. She couldn’t pull away.

  “I could stay cuffed to you for two months,” he whispered, “and never once think to look for the key. The hell with the key.”

  He moved toward her, and she knew that he was going to kiss her. If she let him get close enough, he was going to lower his head and cover her mouth with his.

  She had to do something. She had to grab her towel and step out of this shower. She had to . . .

  But she didn’t.

  She couldn’t.

  And so he kissed her.

  His lips were so soft and so sweet, but it took only a matter of seconds before what started as a tender kiss exploded into passion.

  It was her fault. She was the one who tried to inhale him, who pulled him tightly against her, who nearly ate him alive.

  She could taste his surprise for all of a half a second. But then, “Oh, yeah,” he breathed, and he kissed her back, just as hungrily.

  It happened so fast. How could it have happened so fast? One minute they were fighting, and the next she was wrapping her legs around him.

  How could she be doing this? She didn’t even like him.

  But, God, she wanted him.

  She was still nauseous, still had a headache from hell. By all rights she should have been too sick to want anything but the solitude of a dark room and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  Instead she wanted Roger Starrett.

  She could feel him, thick and heavy against her. Her shoulders were pressed back against the cool tile of the wall as he kissed her, touched her, his hands everywhere at once. But his hands weren’t enough. One shift of her body, and, oh yes, he was inside of her.

  “Jesus, Alyssa!” she heard him say, but she drowned him out with her own cry of pleasure, clinging to him desperately, locking her legs around him, moving wildly against him as she lost what little remained of both her control and dignity.

  All she’d really needed was to feel him hard inside of her. It was enough to push her over the edge and she exploded.

  “Oh, God,” Starrett gasped, as if from a thousand miles away. “I can’t—”

  He was trying to pull away. But she was still being tossed by wave upon wave of excruciating pleasure, and she clung to him. She wouldn’t let him go.

  He spoke again, his voice a rough rasp through gritted teeth, as if he were lifting a thousand pounds and was more than ready to let it drop. “You gotta let me pull out, Lys, I’m not wearing a—”

  Condom.

  Locke opened her eyes, all of her pleasure instantly replaced by shocked disbelief. Icy cold, it ran through her veins and she froze—with her legs still tightly around him.

  She saw his release. She saw in his eyes the exact moment that he couldn’t fight it any longer, as he surrendered to his body’s needs and sent his seed deep inside of her.

  What had she just done?

  She let go of him, pushing him away from her, but it was too late.

  Much too late.

  “Oh, God, oh, Jesus, I’m sorry,” Starrett was saying.

  What had she done?

  Last night she’d had the excuse of too much to drink. This morning she had no excuse at all. And this morning she hadn’t even thought—not even once—about protection. What was wrong with her?

  Her knees weren’t working. She wobbled and Starrett tried to support her, but she pushed him away, holding on to the wall instead. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Alyssa, I swear, I never intended . . .” He was still breathing hard, still shaking. He held on to the wall himself. “It happened so fast. And then you wouldn’t let me go and I couldn’t pull out—”

  “You’re a Navy SEAL!” She tried to wash herself clean, but she knew damn well that wouldn’t help at all. She was dizzy and sick to her stomach and her headache was back in full force. “You’re an expert in hand-to-hand combat. You’ve got close to seventy pounds on me, and you’re telling me you couldn’t pull out?”

  “Not without hurting you. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want . . .” He shook his head miserably. “I thought I could hold on. I thought . . . Christ, I’m sorry.”

  He may well have just gotten her pregnant, and he was sorry? God, she was going to be sick again.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Starrett sat down on the edge of the tub as if he were as dizzy as she was. “Alyssa, look, if you’re pregnant, I’ll . . .” He took a deep breath. “I’ll marry you.”

  He was serious. He was actually serious. As if being chained to him for life would somehow make it all okay.

  Yes, she was definitely going to throw up again.

  Locke lunged for the toilet, pulling Starrett with her out of the tub. Her stomach should have been empty, but it wasn’t. And she managed to be violently ill all over again.

  It was worse than before, because this time she couldn’t block Starrett out.

  “Way to go, Roger,” he muttered to himself as he wiped her face with a cool cloth, as he took the sopping T-shirt that was hanging off her arm and wrung it out. “Sex with you makes her hurl. Or maybe it’s the thought of marriage. Either way, isn’t this just perfect?” He raised his voice just a little. “Alyssa, I am so fucking sorry.”

  Locke started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. Her misery was so intense, so consuming, and yet his apology was completely heartfelt and so totally Roger Starrett.

  But her laughter turned almost instantly to first one sob, and then another, and then, horribly, mortifyingly, she was crying.

  “Oh, God, I’ve ruined my life,” she sobbed pathetically, giving in to total self-pity. “I’ve completely destroyed my career.”

  Starrett knelt beside her, wrapping a towel around her. “What are you talking about? You’re not really afraid getting pregnant will—”

  “I’m not pregnant!” She looked up at him fiercely. “I’m supposed to get my period any day now. Any minute. I’m not pregnant. I can’t be. I won’t be.”

  He sat back, rocked onto his heels by her ferocity.

  “But I don’t need to get pregnant to completely screw things up for myself.” She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, forcing herself to stop. Crying wasn’t going to help—in fact it was only making this worse. “I didn’t even need to do this—” She lifted her wrist that was handcuffed and raised his arm, too. “—to ruin my life.”

  He didn’t get it.

  “I only had to spend the night with you, Roger,” she told him. “That’s all I had to do. The really stupid part was that it should have been easy to keep from messing my life up. Staying away from you should have been a cinch. We don’t even like each other.”

  He still didn’t understand. “You’re saying that spending the night with me has ruined your career? Get real, Locke—that’s just plain stupid.”

  “You want to hear stupid? Stupid is being the best sharpshooter in the entir
e U.S. military and being assigned to work a desk. Stupid is dealing with goddamned innuendos and thinly veiled sexual comments day in and day out, and getting so that you’re used to it, so that you expect it. Stupid is being recruited for an FBI counterterrorist team because you’re the best person for the job and still having to face comments about quotas and equal opportunity. Stupid is doing a kickass job and having my supervisor congratulate me while he sneaks a look down my shirt. You have no idea what I go up against every single day that I go into work,” she told him. “I cannot, cannot allow my coworkers to see me as a sex object. I cannot have them talking about my sex life. I can’t even have a sex life!”

  “You don’t,” Starrett pointed out. “You told me last night this is the first relationship you’ve been in in four years.”

  “No.” She shook her head, wiped her eyes. “This is not a relationship. This is an accident. A terrible, terrible accident.”

  He sat even farther back from her and laughed. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Silly me. It was an accident. Of course. Four different times, you accidentally put my dick in your—”

  “You’re such a jerk,” Locke interrupted him hotly. “I don’t know what I’m so worried about. No one’s going to believe you—go on, you can brag about this all you want.”

  He stared at her, open mouthed with seeming disbelief. “You think I’d brag about . . . ?”

  “Cut the insulted act,” Locke said, making sure the towel was secure around her as she leaned wearily back against the bathroom wall. “I know you. You like to talk. You’ll tell someone. WildCard. Or Jenk.” She closed her eyes. She could put in for reassignment. Maybe Chicago. Or San Francisco. No, San Francisco was too near the Naval Amphibious Base in Coronado. Maybe Denver . . . “Definitely John Nilsson. I know you’re going to tell Nils.”

  And then, forty-five minutes after they got these handcuffs off, the entire Troubleshooters squad would know that Roger Starrett had finally scored with Alyssa Locke. Or at least they would have heard the story. Whether they believed it was a different matter entirely.