Hot Pursuit

by Suzanne Brockmann

  My goodness, he was a well-constructed man. Jenn turned away, not wanting him to catch her staring, except, whoa. He wasn’t the only one eager to keep from overheating, taking off more layers than just their jackets.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again, although she had to admit that she was lying at least a little, because all around her, as the SEALs stripped down to their T-shirts and jeans, the normally dingy little room was filled with a wide variety of muscles and sexy flashes of incredibly interesting tattoos on smooth expanses of sun-kissed skin.

  And that, along with their many serious cases of hathead—or in Parka Man’s case, hoodhead—and still rosy cheeks from the frigid outside air, made them seem a curiously attractive mix of boyishly charming and curl-one’s-toes hot.

  And the realization that this worked for her so completely made her pause. This attraction was, perhaps, at the basis of her failed relationships with both John One and John Two, neither of whom were particularly good at handling basic responsibilities, yet had mastered the art of using a boyish smile to get women—with the tried and true fallback being their own pathetic mothers—to do their laundry and feed them.

  But both Johns got banished safely back into the distant past where they belonged when one of the SEALs all but lifted her out of his way. He was eager to help Parka and Steamy as they attempted to turn the knob on the radiator—a knob that hadn’t moved a whit for the past seventy years. If not longer.

  He was the SEAL she’d dubbed Lucky, because his matinee-idol face, his lush brown hair, and his long, long eyelashes were purely a result of genetics. He’d been lucky to get the parents that he’d had, it was as simple as that.

  He’d also come in with his not-particularly-thick jacket already unzipped, as if he’d been walking around with it open, with no hat and no gloves to boot. Apparently, the minus fifteen degree wind-chill of the city streets didn’t bother him.

  But the room’s current temperature certainly put him into a near panic.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered to Parka. Jenn clearly wasn’t meant to overhear him, because he mumbled, “Excuse me, ma’am,” when he looked up and saw she was watching him.

  Okay, staring at him. She was staring, she’d cop to that. He was just so … stare-able.

  “It’s okay,” she told him, pushing her glasses up her nose. “It took me awhile to get used to it, too. I went through the whole process. You know, anger, denial, bargaining …”

  He laughed at that, and his smile—a flash of straight, white teeth—was perfect. A dash of rue and a pinch of chagrin mixed nicely with his genuine, intelligent amusement.

  “The cost of replacing the heating system is astronomical,” Jenn told him, told his friends, too, because she didn’t want him to think she’d singled him out. Although she bet that, looking as he did, he was often singled out. “The landlord won’t do it without raising the rent—at which point we’d have to move. I’ve got the same problem in my apartment, too. It’s part of living low-budget in New York City.”

  “I’m not sure I could ever reach that kind of acceptance,” Lucky admitted.

  “You’ve absolutely got to want it,” Jenn agreed. “Living here’s not for everyone. But if you love it enough … Well, I’ve lived in Jersey, and I’ve found I can put up with almost anything to stay in Manhattan.”

  “Gilligan’s okay with it being hot, hot, hot,” Jacked chimed in. “As long as he’s outside. It’s the heat plus no open windows thing that makes him super-squirrelly. Tight places bug him, too.”

  “And I have bad breath in the morning.” Lucky wasn’t very happy with Jacked. “Don’t forget that. As long as you’re listing my failings. Jesus, Zanella.”

  “And here we go,” Starrett murmured to his laughing little son, whom he’d stripped down to a short-sleeved onesie and a diaper.

  Okay, so Jacked was Zanella, and Lucky was also known as Gilligan—which had to be a nickname for Gillman. Which meant that Steamy was Vlachic by process of elimination.

  He and Lopez-of-the-parka had given up on the valve and turned their attention to the window. Like most windows in elderly buildings in this part of the city, it was glued shut with around thirty coats of paint.

  “Anyone have a knife?” Vlachic asked.

  “Don’t open that!” Starrett said, in near perfect unison with Zanella and Lucky-Gilligan-Gillman.

  “Whoa,” Vlachic said. “Why not?”

  It was Lopez who explained, “There’s no window lock. We crack the seal, we’re making it less safe in here.”

  “You want me to find a hardware store?” Vlachic asked. “The frame is wood, a basic lock’s gotta cost around three dollars.” He turned to Jenn. “Are there more windows in your boss’s office?”

  “Two,” she said. “Equally ancient.”

  “Do you have a tool kit or even just a screwdriver?”

  “Um,” she said.

  “I’ll get a screwdriver, too,” he decided.

  “Tell Alyssa where you’re going. See if she wants you to get anything else while you’re there,” Starrett told him.

  “Yes, sir.” The SEAL grabbed his jacket and sweater and went out the door.

  “You know, I wasn’t listing your failings, Fishboy,” Zanella told Gillman, giving him yet another nickname as he sat on the conference table, next to the pile of baby’s clothes. “It’s freaking impressive for someone who’s claustrophobic to become a SEAL. Although to be completely honest, the bad breath has been”—he made a face—“an issue. Glad you finally know about it, bro. Large quantities of Scope next time, before you try to kiss me good morning.”

  “I’ll go with Vlachic,” Gillman volunteered, reaching for his jacket.

  But he didn’t put it on.

  Because Maria came out of her office, and he, like his friends, was struck dumb.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. She turned to Jenn, concern on her face. “I just got the strangest phone call—”

  But then Vlachic stuck his head back inside. “Sorry, sir. Excuse me, ma’am. But Ms. Locke’s not out here. I don’t know where she went.”

  “What’s on your schedule for today?”

  Robin Cassidy looked up from his Cheerios as Jules poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Not much,” Robin answered. “I’m going to visit Art, then probably hit the noon meeting at the Arlington Street Church. If you’re really going to be home by two, I’ll make sure I’m here before you.”

  “Hat and sunglasses, please,” Jules told him. “Heavy scruff—don’t shave. And yes, I’ll be home by then. This meeting won’t take long.”

  “Good,” Robin said. “And I know the drill. I’ll be fine. Alfonse says hi, by the way.”

  It had snowed again last night, and when Alfonse-the-plow-guy came—while Jules was still in the shower—Robin had gone outside, too. He loved being out in the pristine, winter-wonderland cleanness of it, but Jules would’ve kicked his ass if he’d gone out alone, so soon after last Thursday’s freakshow out in Hollywood.

  Even though the investigation was ongoing, everyone and their police detective sister believed the attack at the movie premiere to be an isolated incident. Dude didn’t even have bullets in his gun and was currently on suicide watch in a psychiatric hospital in Anaheim.

  There was no doubt about it, some people were quite literally crazy, but with Alfonse there, handling the big equipment, Robin was safe enough to shovel the walks and porch.

  Alfonse—who sported a Bahstan accent to die for and talked in telegram—was both huge and hugely disappointed that Dolphina, Jules and Robin’s personal assistant, wasn’t around. He was even more crestfallen to find out that she was on her honeymoon, after finally marrying her long-time boyfriend, Will.

  “Didn’t think that would last,” Alfonse opined. “What did he, put a bun in her oven?”

  “I don’t think so.” Robin had laughed, but then stopped.

  He asked Jules now, “Do you think Dolph married Will because she�
��s pregnant?”

  Jules turned from the toaster where he was monitoring his bagel, making sure it turned the perfect shade of brown. “No. I think she married him because she loves him.”

  “And you don’t think she’s going to come back from Europe in three weeks and, like, quit because she’s having a baby?”

  “Why would she quit? She knows she could have as many babies as she wants, and still work for us,” Jules pointed out, as always both calm and practical.

  And freaking handsome as all get out, dressed for work the way he was, even though it was a Saturday.

  The man could wear a dark suit and tie like nobody’s business. His handgun, secured in a shoulder holster tucked neatly up beneath his left arm, barely disturbed the lines of his well-tailored jacket.

  Add a pair of dark sunglasses, and the whole FBI agent look was … Well, it was one that Robin would never tire of.

  Ever.

  “I don’t know,” Robin admitted. “I guess I was just spiraling into worst-case scenario land. I miss her when she’s not here, and now that the show’s on hiatus …”

  “Hiatus?” Jules repeated, losing a little of his calm. “Crap, it’s definite?”

  Robin nodded. “It will be, yeah. That’s one of the reasons why I’m going over to the hospital to see Art. I gotta talk him into doing what he needs to do to get back to speed. Which is to not return to work until he’s healthy.”

  Last week, Art Urban, the somewhat eccentric producer, director, and creator of Shadowland, the award-winning cable TV series that had helped put Robin back on the Hollywood A-list, had surprised the hell out of everyone who knew him by having a massive and near-fatal heart attack.

  In true Urban fashion, he drove himself to the hospital before collapsing just inside the emergency room door.

  Barely forty-five years old, he’d needed a triple bypass—and a major lifestyle change.

  “He’s looking at at least two months recovery at this place out near Sedona. You know, in Arizona,” Robin continued. “He’s been talking about putting the show into Fredo’s hands while he’s gone, but…” He shook his head. “If he’s trying to de-stress, that’s not going to work. It would probably be worse for him—attempting to micromanage from thousands of miles away … ?”

  “Two months?” Jules asked as he got his bagel travel-ready, putting it on one of their plastic happy-monster plates that they used whenever Haley, Billy or any of the other under-ten set visited.

  “At least two months. He really needs to go to this place—it’s a ranch and … I checked out the website. It’s like rehab for heart-attack survivors. They’ll get him off the cigarettes and train him to eat healthier and start exercising. He’s got to do it, or he’s going to die.”

  “Shit.” Jules wasn’t happy. “This is the worst time for this—with Dolphina gone for another month—”

  “Yeah, I know, but… He’s the show, babe. I mean, yeah, it’s him and me, but… If one of us is replaceable, it’s definitely me.”

  “I happen to disagree.” Jules rinsed out his mug and put it into the dishwasher. “You’re the star of the show—”

  “Yeah, and you’re fucking the star, so you’re not exactly impartial.”

  Jules laughed. “Sweetie, I’m pretty sure I lost star-fucker status when you married me.”

  “Yeah, but saying that you’re having marital relations with the star sounds boring.”

  The amusement in Jules’s brown eyes glinted with something a little dangerous. “Really?”

  Robin rested his chin in his hand as he gazed back at his husband. “I could just sit here all day with you looking at me like that.”

  Jules came over and kissed him. “No, you couldn’t,” he said, “and no, as much I want to, I can’t stay home today, and while I appreciate your loyalty to Art, two months is a long time for you to be without a project. You should call Don. See if he can’t find something short term for you to do.”

  “I know he can.” Robin’s agent was always trying to talk him into doing another movie. He looped his leg around Jules, keeping him close so he could straighten his tie. “Out in California. Which will suck. So, unless you can come with me, I’d rather stay in Boston.”

  “Yeah,” Jules said, and it was a word loaded with the promise of an unhappy surprise, coming soon to this very kitchen.

  “Ah, fuck me,” Robin said, letting him go. “When are you going? And please tell me it’s not Afghanistan—fuck!”

  It was. He could see in Jules’s eyes that not only was he going to the extremely dangerous war-torn country, but that he was going to be leaving much too soon.

  “Max called just a few minutes ago,” Jules told him. “The departure date’s not set, but it’s going to be within the next few weeks. He was giving me as much of an advance warning as he could.”

  Robin nodded as the Cheerios in his stomach turned to lead. Afghanistan. Again. God damn it.

  “The President’s going,” Jules told him quietly. “He asked for me to be part of the advance team. I’ll be there for about a month before he arrives, and … I can’t turn that down.”

  Robin met his husband’s steady gaze. “I would never ask you to—”

  “I know,” Jules reassured him.

  And there they were, Robin sitting on the stool at the kitchen island, Jules standing nearby, both of them ignoring their breakfasts.

  “I’m going to call Dolphina,” Jules finally said, “see if she can’t suggest a replacement assistant until she’s back. You’re going to need help picking a project and—”

  “Babysitter,” Robin interrupted. “Why don’t we just call it what it is? We’re looking for someone to babysit me while you’re gone. Shit, Jules, you know if you call her, she’s going to cut her trip short as soon as you say Afghanistan.”

  Last time Jules went to Afghanistan, everything had been fine. He’d come home a week later, safe and sound. But it had been a hard week for Robin—a very hard week.

  Because on the trip before that one, shortly before their wedding, Jules had nearly died in Khandahar.

  Living with the fear was part of being married to a man with an important and dangerous job. But it wasn’t easy. Sure, Robin was an actor, so he could smile and exude confidence—make like he was convinced everything was okay.

  Out of all of his friends, Dolphina alone knew of the toll it took on him. She helped him schedule his work while Jules was out on a perilous assignment, helping him use it as a distraction, pretty much around the clock.

  But here he was, with Jules again on the verge of leaving, with no work and no Dolphina. Talk about providing a challenge for the recovering alcoholic.

  But okay. What didn’t kill him would make him stronger. Wasn’t that how the saying went?

  “We’ll figure something out,” Robin told Jules, and told himself while he was at it. “Any chance you can, um, get a couple days off before you go?”

  “I’ll ask,” Jules said.

  Robin managed a smile. “Thank you,” he said.

  Jules kissed him again and it was filled with such regret and apology, Robin knew it wasn’t a few days off that Jules was going to ask for.

  So he grabbed Jules by the lapels and all but shook him. “Don’t you dare turn this down,” he said. “The freaking President—the guy we both voted for—asked for you. You’re going. I’ll be fine. We’ll figure something out. We’ll get me whatever babysitters or bodyguards you think I need, so you don’t have to be worrying about me while you’re over there. You got that, babe? Repeat it back to me: We’ll figure this out.”

  “We’ll figure this out,” Jules agreed.

  Sam wasn’t worried that Alyssa wasn’t in the hall.

  Not at first.

  His wife was a big girl. She could take care of herself, and then some. If she wasn’t in the corridor, it was probably because cell reception sucked in this city, with all of its man-made mountains and valleys.

  Sam had tried to talk to Haley durin
g the cab ride from the airport to the hotel where they were billeting the SEALs, and cell reception stank. After getting cut off twice, his daughter, old enough at age seven to put a little “of course my dad’s a moron” into her voice, God help him, had said with exasperation, “Daddy, just call me later, when you get back from your trip to the far side of the moon.”

  Alyssa had probably gone looking for a signal that didn’t garble her incoming call from—had to be—Max Bhagat.

  She and the high-level FBI administrator had been playing phone tag all morning, and yeah, okay, the first thing Sam had thought when Tony V. had announced that Alyssa had gone into hiding wasn’t Oh, no, she might be in some kind of trouble. No, the caveman section of his brain kicked in, as always too ready to get stuck, like a skipping record, thinking about the fact that his wife used to suck face with Max.

  Forget about the fact that that had happened a million years ago, and that Sam had been married to his ex, Mary Lou, at the time. Forget, too, that Max was, himself, married now, with two beautiful kids of his own. Forget about the fact that Sam knew Alyssa loved him, loved Ash, loved this crazy life they were building together.

  Sam’s caveman instincts were strong, and needed to be battled daily, if not hourly.

  “See if she’s in the stairwell or down in the lobby,” he told Vlachic, who nodded and vanished. If Alyssa was finally talking to Max, he didn’t want to call her and interrupt. He turned to Jenn, who was responding to the assemblywoman—who, by the way, was the best-looking politician he’d ever seen in his life. Normally women who looked like Maria Bonavita were caught sneaking out the hotel room of a senator or congressman—proof that times truly were a-changing.

  “On your cell?” Jenn was asking about the assemblywoman’s announcement that she’d just gotten a strange phone call.

  “Yeah. My caller ID said it was from Margaret Bell,” Bonavita told her assistant, “but the voice on the other end was male.”

  “I don’t think I know her,” Jenn said. “Margaret Bell … ?”

  “Of course you do. Big donor. Really big.”