"Ellen?"
"Yeah," Wes grabbed for one of the sodas, using it to hose down the inside of his mouth. Lucky knew from experience that Texas Stan's spicy enchiladas were only slightly less hot than the chili. "She called to tell you she's getting married."
Lucky laughed at that. "Yeah, right, Skelly. Very funny. What did she really want?"
"We're serious," Bobby said. "Ellie's engaged. I called her from the motel. She sounds really happy."
"The guy's some college geek," Wes reported.
They weren't kidding. Lucky carefully put down his container of food. "Ellen's not old enough to get married.
.
She's only...what?" He had to do the math. "Hell, she's barely twenty-two."
"My little sister, Colleen, is twenty-two." Wes took another bite of his enchilada. "Ann frr's hrr errrurr mrnrrr."
"Colleen is old enough to get married," Bobby countered, completely able to understand him even with his mouth full. "You guys look at your little sisters and see ten-year-olds. It's like you're stuck in a time warp. Other guys look and see two very hot, very full-grown women."
Wes swallowed and turned to face the back seat. "Colleen? Hot? No way. Last time I was home, she skinned her knee skateboarding. She's the world's oldest living tomboy—she doesn't even know she's a girl. Thank God."
"Oh, come on, Skelly." Bobby shifted so that he was sitting forward and the entire van shook. "Remember when we visited her at college? Guys like her. A lot. They were always dropping in to her dorm room, remember?"
"Yeah, she's a great mechanic and they came asking her to fix their cars," Wes countered. "That's not the same thing."
"There's no way I'm letting Ellen get married," Lucky said grimly.
"Maybe she's pregnant," Wes said helpfully. "Maybe the geek knocked her up."
Lucky glared at him. "You should consider a new career writing greeting cards, Skelly. You always know exactly the right thing to say." He glowered at Bobby in the rear view mirror. "Why aren't you eating?"
"He's having dinner again with the supermodel."
Bobby smiled serenely. "Her name is Kyra."
"I hate you," Wes said. "First you make me stop smoking, now this."
'Trade you Kyra for Colleen."
Wes snorted. "Yeah, sure you would." He turned to Lucky. "I got E-mail today from a SEAL went through BUD/S training with the Priest."
Ellen was getting married. Lucky shook his head in disbelief.
"Actually," Wes expounded, "this guy—Ruben is his name—he went through BUD/S, but the Priest—Mitch— didn't."
That caught Lucky's attention. "Come again?"
"Apparently, Mitch didn't make it through BUD/S his first time around. It took him two tries." Wes paused and noisily sucked down half of a milk shake. "It's a great story, Lieutenant. You're going to love this."
Lucky just looked at him. Waiting.
Wes was unperturbed as he searched for a napkin and delicately wiped his mouth. "Ruben told me in this E-mail that the Priest made it nearly all the way through BUD/S—no complaints, not a lot of talking at all. Just silently getting the job done."
"Unlike those of us sitting here who talked nonstop through basic training," Bobby interjected.
"I'm not talking to you anymore," Wes said. "I hate you, remember? You've let a supermodel come between us."
Lucky closed his eyes. "Skelly."
"Yeah. So it's the morning before Hell Week starts, right? And the Priest wakes up, and he's got the flu. Raging fever, intense intestinal distress. I mean, he's sick as a dog. Sicker. He knows if any of the instructors find out, he'll get pulled and stuck in the hospital."
Wes finished the rest of his milk shake. "So," he continued. "He keeps his mouth shut. At least he tries to. But he gets pulled when he starts vomiting blood. Dead
•
giveaway he's got some medical problem. They try to talk him into ringing out, but he refuses. They drag him to the hospital, but as soon as they leave him alone, he breaks out of his room. He goes out the window—and this is with a hundred-and-four-degree fever—and rappels to the ground from the fifteenth floor.
' 'Ruben told me the Priest just showed up back in Cor-onado. Middle of the night. He just rejoins his boat team as if he's never been gone. He can barely stand, but there he is. 'Ready for duty, sir!' This time, the instructors figure they'll just wait for him to keel over, but when he falls, he crawls. The tough little sonuvabitch doesn't stay down. So they promise him he can start over again with the candidates from the next cycle, but that's not good enough for the Priest. He won't quit. They end up having to knock him out with a shot of Valium. And when he wakes up, Hell Week's over."
"Oh, man." Lucky couldn't imagine going through Hell Week, that awful endurance test while stricken with the flu.
"He came through the next cycle," Wes said, "head of the class."
For several long moments, they sat quietly.
"Wherever he is," Bobby said, breaking the silence, "I hope he's okay."
Then Wes spoke, voicing aloud the question running through Lucky's mind. "Is it possible for a guy like that to sell out?"
"No way," Bobby said.
Lucky wasn't so sure.
Chapter
Jjecca took a glass of champagne from the waiter's tray, smiling her thanks, trying her hardest to pay attention to Harry Cook as he talked about his granddaughter's first ballet recital.
Harry was a sweet man—generous with his millions, too—and Becca had met four-year-old Lila during last year's Children's Hospital fund-raising picnic. The story Harry was telling was amusing, but Becca was finding it hard to focus.
She turned her back on the arched entrance that led into the restaurant from the lobby, determined not to spend the evening waiting for Mish to show.
Or not to show.
That was tonight's question.
She took a sip of champagne, forcing herself to slow down, to breathe. She usually didn't drink during these parties. After all, she was being paid to attend, to
'
schmooze, to reinforce Justin Whitlow's contacts with the well-to-do population of northern New Mexico.
But tonight, she needed the champagne.
She laughed with everyone else as Harry finished his story, as he did what had to be a rather accurate imitation of Lila's final bow, but then she broke away from the group, heading toward the door to the Sidewinder's central outdoor plaza.
The night air was much warmer than the relentless chill of the restaurant's air-conditioning. And since the long dress she was wearing exposed all of her arms and most of her back, she welcomed the heat.
There were only a few people outside, and Becca was glad to take a breather from the crowd. She sipped her champagne, gazing up at the strings of festive lights that decorated the plaza, dancing in the gentle breeze.
Mish wasn't going to come.
Even if he did, he would probably be too embarrassed to enter the high-class restaurant in his jeans and T-shirt.
The moon was a sliver in the sky—far more beautiful than the strings of lights. And the breeze carried the scent of flowers—proof that nature could provide far more enticing decorations for a party than even the chic Sidewinder.
Becca looked up at the moon, refusing to wonder if she would ever see Mish again.
If she didn't, so be it. He'd been around when it had been most important—to save Chip's life. If she had to choose between that and his appearance tonight at this party, well, that was a no-brainer. As much as she liked Mish, she'd take Chip, alive and well, any day. And even though Mish wasn't going to show, well, at least the possibility of his appearance had inspired her to wear this dress.
It had been hanging in the back of her closet for years, hanging in the back of her mother's closet since before Becca had been born. Her great-grandmother had made it during the s. It was elegant and graceful and undeniably sexy. Blatantly sexy.
Definitely not something she wore every day.
/>
She heard the door to the restaurant open, like a portal to a different world. The music and laughter was momentarily louder before it closed again, shutting out all but the heartiest laughter and the faint kitchen sounds of dishes clinking together.
Becca glanced up to see a man in a dark suit stop to get his bearings, still standing by the door. He wasn't Mish—his hair was too short, and besides, the suit looked expensive. She looked away. But she could see him from the corner of her eye as he took in the bar on the far side of the plaza, the couples talking quietly in the shadows, the strings of lights, the flowers, the trees, the moon.
He looked at the moon for a long time.
She turned her back to him before he could glance at her a second time.
One thing about this dress, it made men take long second glances. And some men even were bold enough to approach her.
Sure enough, she could hear his footsteps on the bricks, coming closer. He'd started walking toward her.
Becca turned toward the door, ready to nod politely on her way back into the restaurant and...
"Sorry I'm a little late. The bus from Albuquerque had aflat."
Mish?
It was. He'd gotten a haircut. And a new suit. And he was so clean-shaven, he must've stopped for a touch-up in the men's room before coming outside.
-
"You look incredible," he told her, his voice nearly as velvety-soft as the night.
"You do, too." Her own voice was husky as well.
He smiled crookedly, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. "Yeah, I cleaned up pretty well, huh?"
She touched the lightweight wool of his jacket sleeve. "Where on earth did you get the money for this?"
He stepped back slightly, pulling free from her grasp, putting both of his hands into his pockets. A gentle reminder. No sex. No touching. "I called my man Jeeves, had him wire me some funds from my Swiss account."
Becca laughed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."
"Truth is, I had some cash," Mish told her. He'd been hoping he'd find the rest of his clothes and his other belongings—books, at least, because surely he had books— at the address listed in his personnel file. But he'd gone all the way to Albuquerque only to find that the address had been a fake. The street existed, but not the number. It had been a business district, filled with rundown pawnshops and seedy topless bars. Everything about it was completely unfamiliar.
The phone number Mish had found in the file had been disconnected, as well.
He'd spent nearly two days wandering around Albuquerque, looking for something, anything that triggered any kind of recognition.
The closest he'd come to a flicker of memory had been when he'd gone to the mall and tried on this suit. As he slipped on the jacket and looked at himself in the mirror, he'd gotten the sense that something was wrong. He'd worn suits before, but the jacket had been different. There was something about the neckline or the collar or... He'd stared at himself in the three-way mirror until the fitting-
i
room clerk had gotten nervous, but the answer hadn't come to him. How could a suit jacket be different? Men's jackets had been virtually the same for nearly a hundred years. It didn't make any sense at all.
"How are you feeling?" Becca asked.
"Much better," he told her. "Although I'd appreciate it if you could refrain from elbowing me in the side for another day or two."
She laughed. 'Til try."
She really did look amazingly beautiful. Her dress was a killer, with narrow straps that were barely there, but necessary to hold up the front, like some kind of feat of engineering. The fabric was shimmerv—not quite white, not quite gold, but a color somewhere in between that set off her golden-brown curls almost perfectly. She'd actually tried to comb her hair into some semblance of a style, using clips to hold it in place, but it was rebelling. He had to smile.
"You decided to leave your cowboy hat home, huh?"
"No, just out in the truck," she countered.
Mish kept his eyes on her face, away from all that smooth skin, away from the golden-white material that clung enticingly to her breasts and stomach and fell in a smooth sheet all the way to the floor. But he couldn't resist taking a peek at her feet.
"No," she said, "I'm not wearing boots." She lifted her skirt slightly to show him.
Her shoes looked like something Cinderella might wear. Delicate and barely there. As sexy as the dress.
She was smiling at him, and despite the fact that he was playing with fire here tonight, he felt himself start to relax. Albuquerque had held no answers. Maybe he'd never find out where he'd come from, what he'd done. And maybe that was okay.
. .
"Are we allowed to dance?" he asked her.
She knew he was referring to the no-sex rule, and she thought about it. "I think it's probably okay. I mean, as long as we're in public, sure. We can dance. But only after dinner."
Mish had to laugh, and he couldn't begin to guess. "Why only after dinner?"
She finished her glass of champagne and set it down on a nearby table, giving him a smile that warmed him to his very soul. "Because I'm starving."
She headed for the door, and Mish followed her inside.
He probably would have followed her anywhere.
"She moved next door when I was in second grade," Becca told Mish.
They'd found a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant, and had talked about books and movies while they'd had dinner. Or rather, she'd talked. Mish had listened.
He was listening still, watching her across the small table, giving her every ounce of his attention. He listened with his eyes as well as his ears, his face lit by the flickering light from a single candle. It was a little disconcerting to be the focus of all that intensity. But it was extremely nice, too—as if everything she had to say mattered. As if he didn't want to miss a single word.
"We were inseparable right through high school," she continued. "And when we went to college, we stayed tight. Peg was going to be a kindergarten teacher, and I was going to be a veterinarian." She had to smile. "Only I hated it. I don't know what I expected—probably a few years of classes and then an internship spent cavorting across the countryside with the doctor from All Things Bright and Beautiful, helping birth lambs and foals and bunnies. Instead, I was stuck in a city animal hospital,
tending to dogs that had been hit by cars. House pets that had been abused. We had one woman bring in her cat— someone had sprayed him with lighter fluid and set him on fire. It was..." She shook her head. "It was really awful. But I was determined not to quit. Being a vet had been my dream for so long. I couldn't just abandon it."
Mish had been watching her, his eyes the most perfect blend of green and blue and brown, but now he looked down, into his coffee cup. "It's hard to admit you've made a mistake, particularly on that scale."
"I think I was afraid of my parents' disapproval," she admitted.
He looked up again, into her eyes, and Becca felt the room tilt. ' 'So what happened?''
"Peg was diagnosed with cancer."
Mish nodded, as if he'd been expecting her to tell him that awful news about her lifelong best friend. "I'm sorry."
"It was Hodgkin's disease. In an advanced stage. She did chemo and radiation, and..." God, it had been ten years, and Becca still had to blink back tears. Of course, she never talked about it, never talked about Peg. She couldn't remember the last time she'd given so much of her soul away for free. But she truly wanted Mish to understand. Because maybe then he'd know why she'd been pursuing him so relentlessly.
"She died eight months later," Becca told him.
Silently, Mish reached across the table and took her hand.
Becca felt fresh tears well as she gazed down at their intertwined fingers. His hands were warm, his fingers broad and work roughened. She wanted him to hold her hand, but she didn't want him to do it out of pity.
Gently, she pulled her hand free. "She
knew she was
.
dying," Becca said. "And even though I'd stopped complaining about school—how could I bitch about something as trivial as boring classes and dull teachers when she was going through this real life hell?—she knew I was unhappy. And she made me talk about it. Yes, I hated school, but I wouldn't quit. I felt trapped by my expectations and my sense of responsibility. And she asked me what I loved doing best, more than anything else in the world. Of course, she knew—I loved riding. I told her, great, who was going to pay me money to ride all day? And she told me to go be a cowboy, work on a ranch, to do whatever I had to do—just make damn sure that I was happy. Life was too short to waste."
Mish's eyes were beautiful but inscrutable. He surely understood what she was telling him, but he didn't acknowledge that her words applied to him—to the two of them and the attraction that simmered between them. And when he spoke, he surprised her. "So why are you still working at the Lazy Eight?"
She didn't answer right away. "I love New Mexico." It sounded exactly like what it was—an excuse for wimp-ing out.
Mish nodded.
Becca briefly closed her eyes. "Yes, okay, so I'd be much happier working for myself. I bought a lottery ticket tonight. Maybe I'll get lucky and win enough money to buy my own ranch." And maybe Silver would grow wings and fly. Or—even more unlikely—maybe she'd wake up tomorrow morning with Mish in her bed.
She looked away, suddenly aware she'd been eyeing him as if he were the dessert can. ' should really go schmooze."
"You know, sometimes it works better if you make your own luck," he told her as she pushed her chair back
from the table. ' 'If you seek it out rather than waiting for it to come to you."
Becca touched him then, just lightly, the tips of her fingers sliding down his cheek in the softest caress. "Haven't you noticed me trying?"
She walked away, her heart pounding, before she could see his reaction.
Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 08 - Identity Unknown Page 10
