Setting the letter aside, Coop looked at Monica. “That’s pretty powerful stuff.”
“Yes, it is. I wish he’d had a chance to tell it to me in person, but I’m grateful I got the message, no matter the form.”
“With all the negotiation he did, it’s hard to believe he had such difficulty with words on a personal level.”
“Talking about feelings is a whole different ball game.” She tilted her head and regarded him. “And the strong, silent types seem to have the most problems with that. But you know something? I’ve learned a lesson too this week. As important as it is for people to talk the walk, it’s just as important to learn to listen with the heart as well as the ears.”
This was it, Coop realized. Time to fish or cut bait.
Drawing in a slow, deep breath, he took the proverbial leap of faith.
“What are you hearing now?” He searched her face as he asked the question.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
He should have figured she wouldn’t make this easy for him. He tried for a teasing tone. “Is this a test?”
“No. More like a challenge.”
“HRT operators thrive on those.”
“I kind of suspected they might.”
“Okay, you’re on. I’ll give this a shot.” He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers, all levity vanishing. “I’m not all that great with words, Monica. And I know you’d prefer a guy who is. I read your book last weekend cover to cover while you caught up on sleep, and that message came through loud and clear. I can’t promise I’ll ever be in the world-class verbal communications league. But I’m willing to work on it—if you’re willing to continue seeing me.”
“You didn’t do too badly at the safe house, when you told me about your childhood.”
“I’d never shared that with anyone else.”
“Do you regret telling me?”
“No. That’s why I know you’re special.” He picked up David’s letter. “I don’t want to end up like your father. Alone, with regrets.”
She lifted her hand and slowly traced his lips with her finger. “I don’t think you’re going to end up like my father, Coop.”
“Does that mean you’re willing to give this thing between us a chance? See where it leads?” His question came out hoarse—and hopeful.
The woman who believed in the power of words said nothing. She just smiled and leaned into his arms, giving him his answer in a language far more eloquent . . . and timeless . . . than the spoken word.
EPILOGUE
Five Months Later
Coop slipped into the back of the church and scanned the right center section for Monica. They always sat in the same area, and he quickly spotted her about halfway down. It was hard to miss the coppery highlights in her hair, which were burnished by the late-July sun streaming in the tall, clear windows.
As he walked down the side aisle toward her pew, he nodded discreetly to members of the congregation who looked his way as he passed, many of whom he’d met over the past few months. Although he’d debated skipping church to snatch an extra hour of sleep before tackling the hour-and-a-half drive to Richmond, he was glad now he hadn’t. He’d missed few Sundays since they began dating, and he relished his respite in the Lord’s house each week. He was making steady progress on this faith journey, and the hour on Sunday, supplemented with private Scripture readings, helped center him. Half a service was better than no service. Even if it came at the expense of sleep.
Besides, Monica’s expression as he slid in beside her more than compensated for his hurried shower and too-short night. Surprise softened to delight, and she gave him that warm, intimate, welcoming smile he’d come to love. The one that made him feel more like a man than any of the physical demands of his job or the macho off-duty pursuits he used to enjoy. She reached for his hand, and he twined his fingers with hers, giving them a gentle squeeze.
The service was uplifting, the sermon inspiring, and Coop did his best to focus on worship. But he couldn’t help stealing a few glances at the woman beside him, admiring the teal green silk dress, belted at her slender waist, that outlined her soft curves. As he traced her profile, he said a silent prayer of thanks that the only reminders of her trauma were a thin white scar on her chin and the nightmares that occasionally disrupted her sleep, leaving a dull headache as a morning souvenir.
Honing in on the faint shadows under her eyes and her pinched features, Coop suspected last night hadn’t been one of her more restful slumbers. Nor, perhaps, had the several previous nights. A few weeks ago, after he’d pressed her, she’d admitted that she struggled more with nightmares when he was away on missions. Not that she ever complained or tried to lay a guilt trip on him. But considering all she’d been through, he hated to add to her stress.
After the service ended, he commandeered her arm and headed toward the exit, responding to greetings with a polite smile and a few pleasant words without slowing his pace. As he hustled her out the door, she grinned at him.
“Can’t wait to get me alone, huh?” Her tone was playful, but the strain in her voice was telling.
“That thought did cross my mind. But in the spirit of open, honest communication, you look like you need to lie down. Bad night?”
Her smile faded. “Kind of.”
“How many in a row?”
“Three.” She summoned up her grin again and touched his cheek as he guided her toward her car. “Nice tan.”
“Thanks.”
She didn’t ask more. He didn’t offer. They both knew the rules of his covert job. Besides, she didn’t need to hear the sordid details of the dangerous mission that had taken him back to the jungles of Puerto Rico to flush out a drug lord. She had too many nightmares as it was.
“I’ll follow you home.” Opening her door, he leaned down for a quick kiss. “That’s just a sample,” he promised, his lips hovering close to hers.
His comment elicited a throaty chuckle that spiked his blood pressure. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Twenty minutes later, after following her into her house, he made good on his promise with a lingering kiss that left them both a bit breathless.
“I missed you.” He murmured the words against her hair, inhaling her fresh, distinctive scent.
“Not as much as I missed you.”
“Mmm. That’s good to hear.” He held her close for a couple of minutes, her head nestled against his chest, then extricated himself to shrug out of his sport jacket and loosen his tie. “Okay. First things first. Did you take anything for the headache?”
“I didn’t say I had one.”
“You didn’t have to. Did you take anything?”
“No. You know I don’t like medicine.”
“An admirable trait. Medicine should be used judiciously and only when needed. Go sit in the living room while I get you a couple of pills and a glass of water.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re bossy?”
“Never. Go sit down.”
She propped her hands on her hips and stared him down, trying to scowl. “You don’t intimidate me, Evan Cooper.”
“I could try a different kind of persuasion.” A slow grin teased his lips, and he took a step toward her.
“Okay, okay.” She backed up. “You win. I’m going. But you caught me at a weak moment. As soon as I get my strength back, you may have to use some of that persuasion.”
“I’m counting on it,” he countered with a wink.
After he rejoined her, she swallowed the pills in one gulp and gave him an apologetic smile. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have taken these before church. I hate to forfeit one second of our time together to a headache.”
“I didn’t know I was coming, either. We didn’t get in until four this morning.” As he talked, he tugged off her pumps and lifted her legs to the couch.
“How much sleep did you get?”
“Three hours.” And only four the night before. But he left that unsaid.
&nb
sp; “You should have stayed home, Coop. You must be exhausted.”
“And give up our Sunday? No way.” He plumped a cushion and set it on one end of the couch. “Just rest for a little while, until the medication kicks in.”
“This seems like such a waste, after you drove all the way down here to be with me.” But she didn’t resist when he pressed her back into a prone position. He took a seat at the opposite end of the couch and settled her feet on his lap.
“I don’t consider it a waste to spend my Sunday playing with a beautiful woman’s toes.”
She gave a soft chuckle and closed her eyes. “Mmm. That feels good.” She snuggled deeper into the cushion, and within a couple of minutes she’d drifted to sleep.
Two hours later, when she stirred, Coop’s eyelids flickered open. It seemed they’d both needed sleep, he acknowledged, rotating his neck to get the kinks out.
“Hi.” She blinked, her voice husky from slumber.
“Hi yourself.”
“What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “One-thirty.”
“Already?” She swung her legs to the floor and scooted closer to him. “Why did you let me sleep so long?”
“You needed it. I did too. Feel better?”
“Yes. Much.”
She did look refreshed, he decided, assessing her. The lines of strain had eased and the shadows under her eyes had faded. “How about a late lunch?” Most Sundays, they went somewhere for brunch after church. But a quiet, elegant, leisurely lunch dovetailed better with his plans. Assuming all went as he hoped.
“Sure. Let me freshen up a little.”
Heading for the bathroom, she gave her hair a quick brush and did no more than reapply her lipstick, loathe to give up one more minute of her precious time with Coop.
When she returned, she found him waiting for her in the living room. He’d retrieved his sport jacket from the kitchen, and she hesitated in the doorway, assuming he’d want to leave at once. But he surprised her.
“Sit with me for a minute. I have something I want to show you.”
“Okay.” She crossed the room and dropped beside him, attuned to his odd inflection. He sounded almost . . . nervous. Not the kind of vibe she often picked up from this confident, decisive man.
“Do you remember saying last February that once the crisis was over, you were going to go someplace that had white sand, palm trees, and sunshine for some R&R?”
“Yes.” Some of her animation faded. “But I wasn’t in the mood right after my father was . . . after he died. By the time I’d regrouped, I was committed to teaching summer school. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
“I think it was. Your timing was just a little off.” He withdrew an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. “I found the perfect place for you to unwind.”
Curious, she opened the envelope and withdrew several pages of color printouts. The sheets were filled with interior and exterior shots of an elegant house, surrounded by palm trees and tropical flowers, positioned on a small rise above a pristine, empty white beach.
“Wow! Where is this place?”
“A private island in the Caribbean.”
“A private island.” She scanned the photos again, puzzled. “Even if I could afford it—and that’s a big if—how would I get access to a place like this?”
“Through me. It belongs to a high-level government official who was grateful for my assistance during a dignitary protection detail. He offered to put it at my disposal any time for two weeks. I thought it would be a great place to spend Thanksgiving.”
“You want me to come with you?” Up to this point in their relationship, he hadn’t pushed her beyond her comfort level with intimacy, respecting the old-fashioned values her faith espoused—and which she thought he’d come to share as his own faith blossomed. But the invitation threw her off balance. If she’d misread him on this, had she misread him on other things too?
“Yes. But there is a caveat. You’ll need a credential only I can supply.” Once more he reached inside his jacket.
Monica stopped breathing as he withdrew his hand and she saw a small, square, satin-covered jeweler’s box resting in his palm.
“To take advantage of my once-in-a-lifetime offer, this has to be on your finger. Along with a matching band.” He flipped open the lid.
She stared at the perfect solitaire flanked by two square-cut diamonds. “You want me to marry you.” Dazed, she tore her gaze away from the ring. She’d known they were heading this direction. She just hadn’t expected things to move this fast.
“Yes.” He leaned forward and took her hand. “I’ll never be a silver-tongued wonder, Monica. I’m afraid it’s not in my genes. But I love you with every fiber of my being. I can’t imagine a future without you, and I give thanks to the Lord every day for your presence in my life.”
During the months they’d been dating, Monica had learned much about Coop, whose profession of love filled her with a joy as radiant as the spring sun after a long, dreary winter. She knew he could be trusted to keep his promises and honor his commitment. That he could open up and share what was in his heart—with her, at least. She cherished his strength and kindness and sensitivity, admired his intelligence and humor and capacity for tenderness, and loved him for stepping out of his comfort zone to woo and win her.
In the past, on the few occasions she’d allowed herself to daydream about the kind of man she might marry, someone like Coop hadn’t even been on her radar screen. Yet now she couldn’t imagine sharing her life with anyone else.
When the silence lengthened, Coop shifted. She saw an emotion resembling panic flit through his eyes, but before she could reassure him he spoke.
“I want you to know that if my job is a deal breaker, I’m prepared to hand in my resignation tomorrow. The HRT isn’t a long-term gig, anyway. Most operators leave after five or six years. I’d be moving on in a year or so, with or without you in my life. If I have to accelerate that timetable, it’s not a problem.”
Over the past few months, Monica had visited Quantico often and had met many of the HRT operators. And she’d come to understand the tremendous commitment, perseverance, and hard work it took to get on the elite team. It was not a membership given up lightly. Or too soon. Coop’s willingness to walk away from the job he loved sooner than he’d planned was yet more evidence of the depth of his love.
For a moment, Monica was tempted to take him up on his offer. She worried constantly while he was on missions. The margin for error was slim, and as she knew firsthand, a life could be snuffed out in an instant. Every time he left on a mission, there was always a chance he wouldn’t return.
Yet people were killed every day crossing the street too, she reminded herself. Coop was well trained. He was careful. In exchange for a lifetime of love, how could she deny him the work that, for now, helped define him? She’d lectured him once about trust. Now it was her turn to put his welfare in God’s hands and have faith the Lord would keep him safe.
“I wouldn’t ask you to give up your work, Coop.”
“I’m willing to do it, if that’s what it takes.”
“No. It’s part of who you are.”
He gave her an uncertain look. “So . . . is that a yes or a no?”
“To what?”
“My proposal. I asked you to marry me.”
“Not in those exact words.”
As he caught her subtle teasing tone, some of the tension in his face eased. “We’re back to that word thing again, huh?”
“Most women only get to hear this question once in their life. I don’t want to feel deprived.”
“Okay. Then we’ll do this right.” He dropped to one knee and cocooned her hand in his. “Monica Callahan, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
In response, she leaned toward him, aiming for his lips. But to her surprise, he backed off.
“Uh-uh. This works both ways. Yes or no. A man deserves to hear the ans
wer in words.”
Grinning, she put her free hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him until their noses were almost touching. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Good enough?”
“Good enough,” he confirmed.
Then the room fell silent.
Because words, after all, do have their limitations.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Back in the summer of 2006, when I decided to dip my toes into the world of suspense, I was a total rookie. I had no background in police procedure, criminal investigation, or FBI protocols—let alone any knowledge of the elite Hostage Rescue Team.
As a result, this series represents a ton of research. I spent hours at the library, online, and talking to experts in a variety of fields. For their help with book 1 in my Heroes of Quantico series, several people deserve special recognition. I offer my most heartfelt thanks to the following individuals.
To Pat Bradley, for reviewing the Afghanistan sections. In general, I visit all places I write about, but for Afghanistan I relied on research material. I asked Pat to double-check my descriptions to ensure I portrayed the terrain and the “feel” of the country accurately. And he would know. Through International Crisis Aid (ICA), which brings food, medicines, and supplies to desperate people in places other organizations cannot or will not go, Pat has made many “under the radar” trips to the world’s trouble spots in the name of humanitarian aid. He does this as a volunteer, and at great personal risk. He has my deepest gratitude—and respect. (For more information on ICA, visit www.crisisaid.org.)
To Steven Buckner, PhD, chairman of the chemistry department at St. Louis University, for his impromptu chemistry lesson. He told me his colleagues deemed my break-in scenario “chemically and physically realistic and sound,” and I consider that a great compliment. But it wouldn’t have happened without his input.
Against All Odds Page 29
