But she’d been in Stan’s room last night, making sure he had something to eat. She’d brought him coffee today—and despite what she’d said about bringing some for everyone, he knew the truth. She’d brought it for him. She’d shaded him from the freaking sun, for Christ’s sake.
If that wasn’t hero worship, he didn’t know what was.
Maybe he could twist it to his advantage—this blatant admiration he could see in her eyes. He could touch her again, let his hands linger. Let her know that he’d welcome her showing up in his room again tonight.
And maybe she’d go to bed with him because her own sense of normal was so warped, because she’d been some kind of hideous victim as a child. And he still didn’t know of what. God, it was driving him crazy.
Yes sir, he could take advantage of her trust, and wouldn’t he be proud of himself then?
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Teri whispered, as if he’d said it had been only twenty-one weeks or even days instead of years since his mother had died. As if the wound were still raw and painful. Her eyes were so soft, he thought he might go blind if he looked directly at her, like looking into the sun.
He focused on the next weapon, its cold weight in his hands centering him. It, too, was in working order. He picked up the next.
“It was lung cancer,” he said, more comfortable with the facts. “She made me quit smoking.”
“You smoked?”
“In high school, yeah. Told you I’ve done some stupid things in my life. But both my parents smoked while I was growing up, so . . .” He shrugged. “When she was diagnosed—and it was stage four; there was not a lot of hope that she would survive—she made both me and Stan Senior quit. It was not a fun time to be living in our house, you better believe that, both of us going cold turkey, her so sick. But we did it, you know?”
For her.
“Do you really think of your father as Stan Senior?” Teri asked. “That’s the second time you called him that.”
“What is this? Interrogate the senior chief day?” he countered with a laugh.
“It’s just . . . you know so much about me,” she said. “And I know hardly anything about you.”
He turned to face her. It had taken him only five weapons—all checked and ready to go—before he’d regained his equilibrium enough to look her in the eye again. Shit, he was in trouble here.
“I grew up in Chicago. Enlisted in the Navy out of high school.” After his mother’s long illness, there hadn’t been enough money to send both him and his sister to college, so he’d gotten his education via the Navy. “It was supposed to be temporary, but I got into the BUD/S program—SEAL training, you know? And it turned into my entire life. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. What you see is what you get. There’s not a whole lot of mystery here, Lieutenant.”
“Except for the four nieces and restoring the bungalow and the antiques . . .”
“If you know all that, you know more than most people know about me,” he pointed out. He was glowering at her, but she didn’t back down. Not one inch. Amazing. Figures she’d choose now to finally start using her backbone.
“Did your father ever remarry?” she asked.
“No.”
“What are you going to do after you retire?”
Oh, Christ. “I don’t know! Sleep late in the mornings for about five years. Jesus, Teri . . .”
“Hi, Senior, we’re two more of your terrorists. Can you set us up?” Alyssa Locke and her FBI partner approached, saving Stan’s ass before he did something stupid like telling Teri about his idea to furnish his house with antiques that he’d then turn around and sell.
Or his equally stupid-ass idea to sell the house to some bungalow lover who wanted the charm without the restoration work. With the money from the sale, he’d buy a sailboat and live like Jimmy Buffett for a year or two, floating around the Caribbean, at one with the ocean. Then he’d find another bungalow in need of serious repair, get a mortgage, and start all over again. Fix it and sell it. Sail around for a while. Again and again.
He could live all over the country, because the Arts and Crafts revival had spread like a weed from California at the turn of the century. He could find a bungalow in virtually any town in any state and restore it to its original simple charm. He could spend some time in Chicago, near his sister and his golden-haired nieces—enough time to finally learn to tell the four little girls apart.
Of course, they’d be in high school before he’d be ready to retire.
But he didn’t have to tell her any of that, thank you, Jesus and Alyssa Locke.
Locke and her partner didn’t really need more than a hand pointing in the right direction, but Stan stayed with them, scared to death of what Teri Howe’s next question for him might be, terrified of turning this game she was playing back around on her and asking her the too-intimate questions he was both dying and dreading to know the answers to.
When she was a child, did someone she trusted—her father, or a teacher or someone in a position of authority—take advantage of the adoration and hero worship they saw in those big brown eyes?
What had happened all those years ago to make her still so afraid?
Stan briefly closed his eyes, remembering the look on her face as she’d given him the coffee. Accept me. Encourage me.
He’d seen that look before—usually on the faces of young enlisted men who were just starting to discover themselves as SEAL candidates in the BUD/S training program. The men who’d been told too many times that they’d never amount to much. The ones who’d been nearly completely brainwashed into believing that was true.
Nearly completely. There was still a spark left, though. The spark that made them push to get into BUD/S even though everyone told them they’d be the first to ring out. A spark of life. A spark of hope.
Love me unconditionally, so I can start learning to love myself, Senior Chief.
Expect only the best from me, and I’ll give it to you, Senior Chief.
Give me shit when I slip and deserve shit because that’s further proof that I matter to you, Senior Chief.
Be my hero, Senior Chief, and never let me down.
In the past, it had been a burden at times—his role of the infallible hero, the mighty senior chief—but it had never been so heavy as it was right now.
Because he’d seen something else in Teri Howe’s eyes, something different, something he’d never seen in all of the hopeful young faces that had come before.
Kiss me, Senior Chief.
So, Stan, are you seeing anyone back in San Diego?
Teri silently cursed herself for not being fast enough, for letting the moment escape without asking the senior chief the question she really wanted answered.
Although that one would’ve certainly tipped him off as to her feelings, wouldn’t it have?
God, she was such a coward. She was actually relieved that she hadn’t managed to ask him that.
Teri smiled automatically as Stan introduced her to the two FBI agents and the two SAS men who, with her, would be playing the terrorists while the SEALs ran their drill.
And then he was gone, leaving her holding the unwieldy weapon, wishing she were brave enough to be waiting in Stan’s room again tonight.
Naked and lying on his bed.
Yeah, like she’d ever have the guts to do that in a million years.
She could just imagine him gently covering her up with a blanket, gathering up her clothes, and leading her to the bathroom, so she could get dressed in private.
And that would be the likeliest outcome of that scenario. Stan would surely do his best to make sure she wasn’t too embarrassed as he kicked her out of his room. And he would kick her out instead of flinging off his own clothes as he rushed to join her on the bed. Instead of kissing her mouth, her neck, her breasts, his mouth hot and wet and impossibly sweet, the heavy weight of his body pressing against her as he pushed himself between her thighs, as she lifted her hips to meet him and—
&
nbsp; Boom!
Teri was pushed back on her rear end against the wooden deck of the mock-up, more from surprise rather than the force of any explosion. She felt her head smack the wall with a brain-jarring thwack.
Stan had told her there would be something called a flash bang when they entered, but she’d had no idea it would be so loud, that the sudden flash of light would make it nearly impossible to see as the SEALs rushed into the mock-up of the plane.
Point and spray, he’d told her, but she’d bobbled the assault weapon when she fell. It took her several long seconds to find both the gun and the trigger with her vision still filled with the aftereffects of a brightness akin to the surface of the sun.
And then someone was alongside her, appearing in her peripheral vision. She didn’t see more than a shadowy shape of a man and a gun, and she turned just as she found the trigger. Point and spray.
She saw through the spots of light still floating across her line of sight that it was Mike Muldoon, and he looked surprised. No, he looked flat-out shocked.
She’d killed him.
Well, mock killed him.
But then her weapon stopped working, and Lieutenant Starrett was striding toward them, and just like that—it couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds—it was over.
“What the fuck were you waiting for?” Starrett lit into Muldoon.
“Teri was down, Lieutenant. I thought she was hurt. I thought—” Muldoon shook his head.
“She’s not Teri, she’s a terrorist. You hesitate and you’re the one we take out of there in a body bag. She fucking killed you!”
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“You okay?” It was Stan’s voice.
Teri turned to see him crouching on the other side of her, sweat dripping down the side of his face, looking sexy as hell. He touched her, his fingers gentle as he explored the back of her head, where she’d connected with the wall.
“I’m fine.” What he was doing felt very nice, but it wasn’t necessary. She hadn’t been hurt. No more than a slight bruise, anyway.
“I saw you go down.” He checked her again, more slowly this time. “You bounced your head off that bulkhead pretty hard.”
“I have a thick skull.” Her voice came out sounding breathless and odd. It was all she could do not to close her eyes, to lean back into his hands and pretend he was touching her that way, holding her head in place, because he was about to kiss her.
Stan pulled his hands away from her, killing the fantasy. He stood up, helping her to her feet. “Lopez!” he shouted.
“I don’t care if one of the terrorists looks like your favorite uncle Frank,” Starrett was continuing his tirade. He was still right in Muldoon’s face. “I don’t care if one of ’em is a seventy-year-old gray-haired lady. Head shots, Muldoon. Double pops. Without hesitation.”
SEAL Team Sixteen’s medic, Jay Lopez, was already right there, next to the senior chief. He had a flashlight that he used to check Teri’s eyes, and then it was his turn to touch the back of her head, feeling for a bump or a bruise.
“She all right, Senior?” Starrett asked Stan.
“I’m fine,” Teri said again. “Really.”
“She looks good, Lieutenant,” Lopez announced.
Stan leaned closer to Starrett. “Next go round, have Muldoon take out Howe again—or Locke. He needs practice eliminating female targets. We might as well take advantage of having Howe and Locke around.”
“Good idea, Senior.” Starrett raised his voice. “Who’s got the details of what just went down?”
Stan looked at Teri, leaned closer to speak directly into her ear. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Letting your team get practice killing women?” she murmured back. “Why ever would I mind?”
“What we do isn’t pretty,” Stan said, speaking softly enough so that only she could hear him. “But it doesn’t do anyone any good to think about terrorists as anything but targets that need eliminating. Some of the men have trouble with the female targets. My personal hell is when children are involved. Twelve-year-olds with Uzis. Babies used as human shields. But if you hesitate, you’re dead. Or worse, your teammate’s dead.”
Babies. Teri looked at him, but he’d already moved slightly away from her and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Estimated seventeen passengers would have been killed or injured.” WildCard Karmody had access to some kind of Palm Pilot. “One SEAL death—Muldoon—courtesy of the vicious terrorist Teri Howe. The senior chief got Taggett with a double shot, O’Leary got Ian from out in sniperland—right between the eyes, and Starrett took down Howe. Hey, here’s a fun fact. Howe’s weapon was discharged the most number of times. Congratulations, Teri. You actually took out two of the other tangos—Locke and Cassidy—within two seconds of the flash bang. You’re responsible for most of the civilians killed as well. Hoo-yah, girl.”
“You scored points for both sides,” Lieutenant Starrett told her with a grin. “Way to go.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat. God, she didn’t ask to do this. “I thought I’d dropped the gun. I didn’t even realize I was pulling the trigger. . . .”
Stan was back, standing beside her again. He touched her—a brief squeeze of her arm. “Hey, you did good. Your reaction was far more realistic than anyone else’s. Most tangos have no experience in this kind of thing—chances are they’re going to drop their weapons, too. What we’ve got to do is move faster going in so there’s no time for anyone to spray the cabin with bullets.” He looked around at the team, landing on Muldoon. “Right?”
“You going to hesitate on me ever again?” Starrett asked Muldoon.
The ensign looked determined, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “No sir, I will not.”
“Good, let’s do this at least three times more before lunch.”
Stan lingered as the other SEALs went back outside. “Now that you know what the flash bang sounds like—”
“I’ll manage to stay on my feet next time,” Teri reassured him.
“No, I want you to do the same thing—”
Crack!
The sound came from outside, from the port side of the plane, and Stan went to one of the windows to look out. “Ah, Christ!”
Teri looked, too. The port wing had broken clear off. She could see Lieutenant Starrett on the ground, his face grim as he surveyed the damage.
He looked up, directly at Stan. “Will you please fucking go and fucking get me a real fucking World Airlines 747, Senior Chief? Right fucking now?”
Stan looked at Teri. “Looks like I’m going to need a ride to the airport.”
“Don’t you mean the fucking airport?” she asked, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
God, she loved making Stan laugh.
Eleven
The pretty pilot—the lieutenant with the dark hair and eyes—had said something to make Stanley Wolchonok laugh. And there it was again. Marte’s smile.
Helga sat in the shade of the observers’tent and watched as the pair walked toward the waiting helicopter.
Stanley was a gentleman. No doubt about it, Marte had raised her son well. This beautiful young woman was drawn to him. It was obvious in the way she spoke to him, in the way she stood, in the way she looked at him.
She adored him.
And yet he treated her with complete respect.
Most men would strut with a woman like that walking beside them. Most men would want to make sure every other man around knew that a woman like that wanted him. Most men would broadcast the fact loudly and clearly.
Yet there was nothing even remotely possessive or arrogant in Stan Wolchonok’s body language.
Sure, it might’ve been due to the fact that she was an officer and he was enlisted. He had to treat her with respect and maintain a distance from her. Fraternizing was still frowned upon in the U.S. Armed Forces—a throwback to the British army, when officers were peers of the realm or some such nonsense.
Helga would have thought the Americans—those bold, loud, outrageous Americans—would have tossed aside such an archaic salute to the masters and servants class system ages ago.
Of course, it was entirely possible that Stanley—unlike wild Marte—simply had the self-control to be discreet. It was possible that as soon as he found a spot of privacy, he would pull the pretty pilot into his arms and kiss her, finally able to express everything he’d worked so hard to hide from the rest of the world.
The way Helga had once seen Hershel kissing Annebet, in the shadows of her mother’s garden. The night of a dinner party celebrating her mother’s birthday.
It was summer, the days long and warm, with an evening light that went on and on forever.
Fru Gunvald was cooking in the hot kitchen. Marte had come to help her, and Annebet was one of three girls hired to serve the food to the guests.
Despite the fact that Hershel had been seated next to the extremely buxom Ebba Gersfelt, he spent the entire meal distracted and restless, watching the door to the kitchen for any sign of Annebet.
When she was in the room, serving the soup or clearing the dishes, Hershel breathed differently. It seemed remarkable to Helga that no one else—not even Annebet—seemed to notice.
No one except Ebba Gersfelt, that is.
Helga watched Ebba watch Hershel watch Annebet, who kept her eyes carefully down as she placed more of Fru Gunvald’s freshly baked rolls on the table.
Helga saw it all through the open French doors into the dining room, from her perch on the stairs. She was too young to attend the grown-ups’party but old enough to escape the confines of the nursery to watch the glitter below.
With Annebet’s hair up under her cap, with her eyes properly downcast, it was difficult to tell her apart from the other two serving girls. Unless Helga watched Hershel.
Or Ebba, who either seethed or leaned closer to whisper into Hershel’s ear whenever Annebet came into the dining room.
Over the Edge Page 17
