Night Watch

by Suzanne Brockmann

  But Britt, of course, was unable to think of anything besides how badly she’d wanted him to follow her down the hall.

  Maybe it was just about sex. Maybe her body instinctively recognized that Wes Skelly would make a good temporary plaything.

  Or maybe, just like with her ex-husband, That-Jerk-Quentin, she naturally gravitated toward the men who could hurt her the most.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I WISH YOU COULD somehow get inside of me and see yourself through my eyes.

  Wes sat in his car outside of Amber Tierney’s castle, eating doughnuts and drinking coffee and watching for her “enthusiastic fan” or stalker, depending on who he was listening to.

  I wish you could get inside of me…. Brittany hadn’t meant it that way, dirt brain. So stop thinking about that.

  But holy God, if only she had….

  If she had, he wouldn’t be sitting here right now with his teeth on edge and his nerves jangling. He wouldn’t have woken up this morning with a relentless ache that made him wish he’d given in to the urge last night to lock himself into the bathroom and…

  Sex or a cigarette. He wanted one or the other within the next two minutes or he was going to scream.

  Of course, all he’d pretty much have to do was knock on Amber Tierney’s door and…

  And he’d instantly go cold.

  No, it was Brittany Evans who heated him up.

  Man, oh, man it had taken every ounce of will-power he had not to follow her into her bedroom last night—crawling after her on his hands and knees—when she’d said, “I wish you could somehow get inside of me and see yourself through my eyes.”

  Ow, ow, ow! He’d nearly started bleeding from his ears and eyeballs. For about two minutes, he’d been convinced that his head was going to explode.

  And it wasn’t just the very innocent, very unintentional sexual innuendo that had him going. Although that was certainly part of it. No, it was the fact that she freaking meant it.

  The woman actually liked him.

  But how much?

  Not enough, apparently.

  She’d come over and kissed him on top of the head, like some kind of flipping child. But God, she’d smelled so good.

  And when she massaged his shoulders and neck, her strong fingers cool against his skin…

  He’d kept himself from following her by calling Lana. He’d promised to keep her updated, and he fought the temptation that was Brittany Evans by giving her a report of his dinner with Amber.

  It was kind of funny, but the entire time he spoke to Lana, he was thinking about Britt. He was listening to the sounds of the water in the pipes, to the distant sounds of movement as she got ready for bed.

  As she took off her clothes and slid beneath the covers.

  No, there was no way she slept naked. Not with Andy in the apartment.

  But Andy wasn’t there last night.

  Wes could have knocked on Britt’s door. He could have rubbed his eyes to make them a little red, and then knocked on her door, and said, “I can’t sleep,” implied that he couldn’t stop thinking about Ethan and added, “Can I come in and just, you know, hold on to you for a while?”

  Yeah, lying scumbag that he was, that would’ve gotten him into Brittany’s bed—where nature would have taken its course, because she liked him. Despite her “not my type” speech, she was attracted to him, too.

  He knew she was.

  It was starting to be this palpable thing between them. He could practically see it hanging in the air whenever they were together. If he lit a match, the entire room would explode.

  Good thing he’d quit smoking.

  God, he wanted a cigarette.

  But what would Brittany have said if he’d been completely honest about last night’s dinner with Amber?

  “The entire time I was there, Britt, I was looking at my watch and wishing I was back here, with you. And when I pulled into the driveway and saw that your car was there, that you were already home, I wanted to burst into song.”

  Down the street, Amber’s garage door went up, and Wes tried to focus his attention.

  There was no one around, no one on the sidewalks, no one sitting in any of the other cars parked on the street.

  But that didn’t mean Amber’s overly zealous fan wasn’t watching.

  Amber pulled out of the garage in the Spitfire. God, what a car.

  God, he wanted a cigarette.

  She signaled to make a left, but then changed her mind, and headed toward him.

  Directly toward him.

  She even freaking waved.

  She pulled up alongside of his car and lowered her window.

  It was just beautiful. Way to let the stalker know that, A, Wes was here and, B, she knew him well enough to stop and chat.

  “Good morning,” she said, giving him a smile that was quite the little invitation.

  “It’s probably better if you don’t draw attention to the fact that I’m sitting out here,” he told her.

  “Oops,” she said. “Sorry. I’ll go. But…are you free for dinner?”

  “Not tonight,” he said. “Sorry. I’m having dinner with the friend I’m staying with. My fiancée. Brittany. She came with me to your party.” It wasn’t exactly completely a lie. He was having dinner with Brittany tonight. She just didn’t know it yet.

  “Maybe you could come by later,” Amber suggested. “After.”

  Yeah, he didn’t think so. And certainly not if he really did have a fiancée. What was Amber thinking?

  “I know we have more to discuss, but maybe we could meet for lunch, maybe on Monday.” He changed the subject. “You know, you left your garage door open.”

  She glanced back at it. “It’s automatic. It’ll go down by itself in about five minutes. That way I don’t have to remember to push the button.”

  Wes just started to laugh.

  WEARY TO HER BONES and on the verge of emotional meltdown, Brittany came home from the hospital to a brightly lit house where music was playing and the most incredible smell was coming from the kitchen.

  Wes was actually cooking dinner.

  She stopped just outside of the kitchen doorway. He’d set the table—sort of—and as she watched, he stood at the stove stirring a pot of…

  God, it smelled like some kind of exotic dish with curry. And that was definitely the fragrant aroma of Basmati rice, too.

  “Are you coming in?” he asked, “or are you going to stand out in the living room all night? Dinner’s ready.”

  The evening was warm, and he was wearing cargo shorts with a white tank undershirt. With his feet bare, that tattoo encircling his upper arm, and his hair still damp from a shower, he looked closer to Andy’s age.

  And then he put down the spoon and the muscles in his shoulders and arms rippled—yes, they actually rippled, darnit—and he looked every inch the full-grown man.

  Brittany peeked around the corner before stepping into the kitchen. “Are you alone?”

  He laughed at her. “Yeah, what do you think I’m doing? Cooking dinner for Amber? Get real. There’re too many calories in just the smell of this stew.”

  “Stew,” Britt repeated, still moving slowly, cautiously, setting her bag down on one of the kitchen chairs. “Is that what that is? It smells wonderful.”

  “Chicken, canned tomatoes, green beans and a handful of curry,” he told her. “Throw it all together, let it cook for a couple of hours and it comes out great—even if you’re in the middle of…nowhere.”

  He’d been about to say Afghanistan. She was sure of it.

  “Did you get my message?” she asked. “I didn’t have your cell phone number, so I called the answering machine here and—”

  “I got it,” he said.

  She’d called to say that she’d been asked to put in another four hours at the hospital.

  “I figured four hours was just long enough to run to the store, pick up some of the supplies you didn’t have,” Wes told her. “I used the chicken in th
e fridge—it was dated today. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  Brittany had to laugh, but it was a Mary Tyler Moore laugh—somewhat wobbly and sounding suspiciously like a sob. “Do I mind that you cooked dinner? Do I mind that something that smells incredible is ready to eat the moment I walk in the door? Although maybe you can turn down the heat for about five minutes, because I really need to shower.” Her voice shook.

  Wes turned to look at her, concern in his eyes. “You okay?”

  “I will be,” she said. “But… We had a really bad car accident come into the E.R. A minivan—a family. The five-year-old didn’t make it. The mother’s in a coma. I think she somehow knows and just won’t let herself wake up.”

  “God, that must have sucked,” he said. His eyes were filled with compassion and concern. But he didn’t move toward her. He didn’t make any attempt at all to pull her into his arms in a comforting hug.

  “It still sucks,” she told him. God, she wanted him to hug her. “It will still suck on Monday, too, when I’m scheduled to go back in. I really have to shower. Do you mind?”

  He shook his head as he lowered the heat on his chicken stew. “Of course not.” He swore softly. “Look, Britt, I understand completely if you don’t want any dinner at all. I won’t be offended if you—”

  “Thanks, but I didn’t have lunch,” she said. Maybe he didn’t want to hug her. Maybe he instinctively knew that she really wanted much more than a hug, and that the moment he put his arms around her, she’d melt into an emotional puddle on the floor. Maybe he was mortally afraid of that. “I’m not as hungry as I should be, but if I don’t eat something soon, I’m going to keel over.”

  Wes nodded. “Then you better go shower.”

  Britt nodded, too, still watching him. If he’d moved toward her at all, even just the smallest shift in her direction, she would have thrown herself at him. But he didn’t. And she couldn’t, for the life of her, read the look in his eyes.

  She turned and picked up her bag, and carried it with her into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  WES OPENED THE refrigerator and got out another beer. He twisted off the cap and set it down on the table, in front of Brittany.

  “Whoa,” she said. “What about your limit?”

  “It’s my limit,” he said. “Not yours.”

  “You don’t mind?” She looked at him searchingly.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t mind.” There was a lot he didn’t mind tonight. Like the fact that after her shower, Brittany had slipped into a pair of cut-off jeans and a snugly-fitting T-shirt. Her shorts and her shirt didn’t quite meet in the middle. Actually, they did, except when she moved her arms, or walked.

  At those times, he got glimpses of her skin, of her belly button.

  It was enough to drive him mad. Of course it was equally maddening at times like right now, when she was sitting still, at the kitchen table.

  Her feet were bare, and she wore pink nail polish on her toes. And he found that, for some crazy reason, outrageously sexy.

  Of course Wes thought even Brittany’s knees and elbows were outrageously sexy.

  She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and her hair was down loose around her shoulders. She still looked a little tired, but not quite as emotionally fragile as she’d seemed when she’d first walked in the door.

  He’d had to work overtime to keep himself from putting his arms around her. But that would’ve been a mistake. If he’d so much as touched her, he would’ve gotten himself into trouble.

  He would’ve kissed her, and jeez, she was vulnerable, so she might’ve kissed him, too. And instead of sitting across from each other at dinner, they’d be in her bedroom right now, naked in her bed. He would be—

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  Oh, no. No, no. He stood up, carrying their plates to the sink. “I was thinking how badly I want a cigarette.” It wasn’t a lie. His desire for a smoke was with him 24/7.

  “Well, you can’t have one.”

  Cigarettes weren’t the only thing he couldn’t have. “I know,” he said. “I’m trying real hard to be good, here.”

  “You’re doing great,” Britt said. “I know how hard it must be for you.”

  Little did she realize…

  “Is it really true that you and Bobby Taylor hated each other when you first met?” she continued.

  Wes laughed as he took out plastic containers to hold the leftovers. “Yes, it is.”

  “Tell me a story, Uncle Wesley,” Britt said. “Tell me that story. I assume it has a happy ending, right?”

  “There’s really not that much to tell,” Wes admitted, thankful she didn’t want to crawl around in the deepest darkest reaches of his head tonight. He didn’t think he could stand it, two nights in a row. “Bobby and I were in the same BUD/S class. We were assigned to be swim buddies, and it was instant dislike at first sight. I think they paired us up on purpose, because physically we were so different. He’s like twice as tall as me and he weighs twice as much, too.

  “Yeah, I’ve met him,” she said.

  “For a big guy he can move pretty fast—his father played football for Michigan State and was heading for the NFL when he blew out his knee. Did you know that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Dan Taylor. He graduated and tooled around for about a year, just kind of going where the wind pushed him, you know? And it would have to be a freaking strong wind, because he was big, like Bobby. He met Bobby’s mom working on a construction site in Albuquerque, I think it was. She was his boss, which I really would’ve liked to have seen. She’s Native American and about six feet tall herself and…

  “Anyway, they hooked up and had Bobby. His dad wanted him to play football, naturally. Bobby was huge as a kid, and like I said, he could really run. He probably could’ve played pro ball himself, but he joined the Navy, which really blew his old man’s mind. But he had heard about the SEALs and he wanted to become one.

  “So, okay, there he is. BUD/S day one. No one knows anyone else. All we know is that this is it. We’re here. We’re going to get a shot at being a SEAL. We all know that most guys don’t make it through the program, that most guys ring out. They fail. But I’m there and I’m thinking, not me. I’m not going to quit. But I’m also looking around at all these guys from all over the country, and I’m thinking, Damn, I’m the smallest, skinniest, shortest guy here.

  “And see, after being in the Navy for a few years, I’d recognized that it doesn’t always pay off to be noticeably different from everyone else. So I’m a little worried about that. But I’m not too worried. Because like I said, I know I’m not going to quit.

  “I might die,” he told Brittany, “but I won’t quit.

  “So I’m looking around and I’m thinking, ‘Look at him. He’s going to fail. And Jesus, he’s outta here before the week is through. And oh, holy God, would you look at this guy. He’s a monster. He’s like twice as tall as me, but he’s freaking fat. How the hell did he even get into the program? He’s so gone in like two minutes.’

  “And I’m standing there, listening to the instructors talk about swim buddies, about how we will work in pairs, how we will not go anywhere or do anything—not even take a leak—without our swim buddies until training is over. If we’re swimming, we’re only swimming as fast as the slowest of the pair of us can swim. If we’re running, likewise. Whatever we do, we’re together.

  “So I’m trying to focus on what they’re saying, you know, but there’s a part of me that’s thinking, ‘Okay, I may be small, but I’m fast and I’m tough as hell, and as long as they don’t weigh me down with one of these monster loads…’ And of course they pair me up with Fatty.”

  “Bobby Taylor isn’t fat,” Brittany scoffed.

  “He’s not now,” Wes said. “But at the time he was…well, he wasn’t exactly toned. He was huge, he was strong, but he had just a little bit of a sumo wrestler thing going.”

  She laughed. “I don’t beli
eve you. You’re so full of—”

  “Just ask him,” Wes protested. “Next time you see him. He’ll tell you. He was a kid—we both were. He still had some baby fat.

  “Anyway, I’m looking at this guy—you want the rest of this story or not?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Definitely.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Because if you don’t—”

  “I do. You’re looking at this guy—Bobby, right?”

  “Yeah, and he’s looking at me, looking me over, and I know he doesn’t like what he sees either. And he says, ‘You have no body fat. Water temperature’s really low this time of year. Surf torture’s gonna kill you, man. You’ll be gone by freaking midnight.’

  “So I say, ‘That’s okay, I’ll just crawl into your belly button for warmth, Santa Claus.’”

  She laughed. “Oh, my God, you’re so mean.”

  “Well, sh—shucks, his first words to me were you’ll be gone by freaking midnight.”

  “What’s surf torture?” she asked.

  “It’s where the instructors send all the SEAL candidates into the ocean, with our uniforms on. The water’s freaking cold, and we’re supposed to link arms and just sit there for hours and hours, getting pounded by the surf, freezing our balls off. It’s like an endurance test.”

  Brittany was watching him as he moved from the counter to the refrigerator. Her chin was in her hand, a small smile playing about the corners of her lips. God, he loved it when she smiled at him that way.

  “Needless to say, my Santa comment wasn’t well received. But we followed the rules. I basically pushed and pulled him over the O Course—the obstacle course—and hauled him behind me whenever we had to run or swim. He can out-swim me now—don’t tell him that—but at the time he was pathetic. His upper body strength sucked, too.”

  “He, in turn, did help keep me warm when I was about to chatter my teeth clear out of my head. And he turned out to be a better student than me. He helped me quite a bit with the classroom instruction. And as far as carrying the IBS around—we were in boat teams of about eight men, and wherever we went, we lugged around this thing called an Inflatable Boat, Small. Small, my ass. That thing weighed, like, a million pounds. I kind of stood on my tiptoes and touched it with the very tips of my fingers. I was too short. Everyone else was taller than me, especially Bobby. I’m pretty sure he carried his share and my share, too.