She glanced at him as if feeling his eyes on her, and he felt it again—that flash of sexual awareness that jolted to life between them. He held her gaze, boldly letting his smile grow wider, letting her take a good long look at this mutual attraction that hovered in the very air around them.
That photo he'd seen had made her look like someone's little sister. But meeting Melody Evans face-to-face made him well aware—and grateful—of the fact that while she may indeed have been someone's little sister, she sure as hell wasn't his.
With the exception of the silly moustache, she possessed damn near everything he liked most in a woman. She was tall and slender with a body that he knew firsthand was trim in some places, soft in others. Her face was pretty despite her lack of makeup and the smudges of shoe polish that decorated her forehead and cheeks and hid the shining gold of her hair. She had a small nose, a mouth that looked incredibly soft and crystal blue eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes. Clear intelligence shone in those eyes. Tears had shown there, too, moments after he'd introduced himself to her. But despite that, she hadn't let herself cry, much to Cowboy's relief.
As he watched, she rubbed her left shoulder, and he knew whatever pain she was experiencing was his fault. That shoulder was where she'd landed when he'd first come in and thrown her onto the floor.
"I'm sorry we had to treat you so roughly, ma'am," he said. "But in our line of work, it doesn't pay to be polite and ask questions first."
"Of course," she murmured, glancing almost shyly at him. "I understand—"
Suzanne Brockmann 17
Matthews drowned her out. "Well, I don't understand, and you can be damned sure your superiors are going to hear about this little incident. Holding the ambassador's staff at gunpoint and subjecting us to a body search!"
Cowboy didn't get a chance to defend Alpha Squad's actions because Melody Evans stood up and defended them for him. "These men came into this embassy looking for us," she said hotly. "They're risking their lives to be here right now—the same way they risked their lives when they opened that locked door and came into this room. They had no idea who or what was on the other side of that door!"
"Surely they could've seen just from looking that we were Americans," Matthews countered.
"Surely there's never been a terrorist who dresses up as a hostage and hides with his captives, waiting to blow away any rescuers," she lit into him. "And of course there's never been an American who's been brainwashed or coerced or bribed into defecting to the other side!"
For the first time since they'd let the hostages up off the floor, Kurt Matthews was silent.
Cowboy had to smile. He liked smart women—women who didn't suffer fools. And this one was more than smart. She was strong and clearly courageous, too—able to stand up and defend that which she believed in. He admired the swift action she took to disguise herself in the face of sheer disaster. Surely a woman with that much fight in her could be made to see how important it was that she leave here—and leave soon.
"Melody," he said, then corrected himself. "Miss Evans, it's now or never, ma'am. These tangos aren't gonna let you go, and you know that as well as I do. If you let these gee—gentlemen, talk you into staying here, you're all as good as dead. Forgive me for being so blunt, ma'am, but that's the God's truth. It would make our job a whole hell of a lot easier if you would simply trust us to get you safely home."
"But Chris is right. There's only a few of you and so many of them."
Count on a woman to play devil's advocate and switch sides just when he was convinced he had a solid ally. Still, when she fixed those baby blues on him, his exasperation dissolved into sheer admiration. It was true, the odds didn't appear to be in their favour. She had every right to be concerned, and it was up to him to convince her otherwise.
"We're Navy SEALs, ma'am," he said quietly, hoping she'd heard of the special forces teams, hoping word of SEAL Team Ten's counterterrorist training had somehow made its way to whatever small town she'd grown up in.
But his words didn't spark any recognition in her eyes.
The taller man, Chris Sterling, shook his head. "You say that as if it's some kind of answer, but I don't know what that means."
"It means they think they're supermen," Matthews said scornfully.
"Will you please let Ensign Jones talk?" Melody said sharply, and Matthews fell silent.
"It means that even with only seven of us and fifty of them, the odds are still on our side," Cowboy told them, once again capturing Melody's gaze and holding it tightly. She was the one who was going to talk these other idiots into seeing reason. "It also means that the U.S. government has totally given up all hope of getting you out through negotiation or settlement. They don't send us in, Melody," he said, talking directly to her, "unless they're desperate."
She was scared. He could see that in her eyes. He didn't blame her. There was a part of him that was scared, too. Over the past few years, he'd learned to use that fear to hone his senses, to keep him alert and giving a full hundred and fifty percent or more. He'd also learned to hide his fear. Confidence bred confidence, and he tried to give her a solid dose of that feeling as he smiled reassuringly into Melody's ocean blue eyes.
"Trust us," he said again. "Trust me."
She turned back to the other hostages. "I believe him," she said bluntly. "I'm going."
Matthews stood up, indignant, menacing. "You stupid bitch. Don't you get it? If you try to escape, they'll kill us!"
"Then you better come, too," Melody said coolly.
"No!" His voice got louder. "No, we're staying here, right, Sterling? All of us. These steroid-pumped sea lions or whatever they call themselves can go ahead and get themselves killed, but we're staying right here." His voice got even louder. "In fact, since Mr. Jones seems to want so badly to die, I can give him a hand and shout for the guards to come and turn him into hamburger meat with their machine guns right now!"
Melody didn't see the broad-shouldered SEAL move, let alone raise his hand, but before she could blink, he was rather gently lowering Kurt Matthews onto the floor.
"By the way, it's Ensign Jones," he said to the now unconscious man. He flexed the fingers of the hand he'd used to put Matthews into that state and flashed an apologetic smile in Melody's direction before he looked up at Chris Sterling. "How about you?" he asked the other man as he straightened up to his full height. "You want to walk out of this embassy, or do you want to get carried out like your buddy here?''
"Walk," Sterling managed to say, staring down at Matthews. "I'll walk, thanks."
The door swung silently open, and a big black man—taller even than Ensign Harlan Jones—stepped into the room. Harvard. He was the one Ensign Jones had called Harvard. "You ready, Junior?"
"Zeppo, Harpo and Groucho here need robes," Jones told the other man, sending a quick wink in her direction. "And sandals."
Groucho. She fingered her false mustache. He'd gestured toward Matthews when he'd said Harpo. Harpo. The silent Marx brother. Melody laughed aloud. Chris Sterling looked at her as if she was crazy to laugh when at any moment they could be killed, but Jones gave her another wink and a smile.
Kevin Costner. That's who Jones looked like. He looked like a bigger, beefier, much younger version of the Hollywood heartthrob. And she had no doubt he knew it, too. That smile could melt hearts as well as bolster failing courage.
"Melody, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to take off those kicks, hon."
Hon. Honey. Well, she'd certainly gone from being called Miss Evans and ma'am to hon awfully fast. And as far as taking off her shoes... "These are new," she told him. "And warm. I'd rather wear them, if you don't mind."
"I do mind," Jones told her apologetically. "Check out the bottoms of my sandals, then look at the bottoms of those things you're wearing."
She did. The brand name of the athletic shoes was emblazoned across the bottoms, worked into the grooved and patterned-to-grip soles of the sneakers.
"Everyone
else in this city—and maybe even in this entire country—has sandals like mine," he continued, lifting his foot to show her the smooth leather sole. "If you go out wearing those, every time you take a step you'll leave a unique footprint. It will be the equivalent of signing your name in the dirt. And that will be like leaving a sign pointing in our direction that says Escaped American Hostages, This-a-way."
Melody took off the sneakers.
"That's my girl," he said, approval and something else warming his voice. He squeezed her shoulder briefly as he turned his attention to several more men who were coming silently into the room.
That's my girl.
His soft words should have made her object and object strenuously. Melody wasn't a girl. Jones couldn't have been more than a few years older than she was at most, and he would never have let anyone call him a boy.
And yet there was something oddly comforting about his words. She was his girl. Her life was totally in his hands. With his help, she could get out of here and return to the safety of Appleton. Without his help, she was as good as dead.
Still, she couldn't help but notice that little bit of something else that she'd heard in his voice. That subtle tone that told her he was a man and she was a woman and he wasn't ever going to forget that.
She watched Ensign Jones as he spoke quietly to the other SEALs. He certainly was a piece of work. She couldn't believe those smiles he kept giving her. Here they were, deep inside an embassy overrun with terrorists, and Jones had been firing off his very best bedroom smile in her direction. He was as relaxed as a man leaning against a bar, offering to buy her a drink, asking for her sign. But this wasn't a bar, this was a war zone. Still, Jones looked and acted as if he were having fun.
Who was this guy? He was either very stupid, very brave or totally insane.
Totally insane, she decided, watching him as he took a bundle of robes from another of the SEALs. Underneath his own robe, he wore some kind of dark-coloured vest that appeared to be loaded with all kinds of gear and weaponry. He had what looked to be a lightweight, nearly invisible set of headphones on his head, as well as an attached microphone similar to, but smaller than, something a telephone operator would wear. It stretched out on a hinged piece of wire or plastic and could be manoeuvred directly in front of his mouth when he needed to talk.
What kind of man did this kind of thing for a living?
Jones tossed one of the robes to Chris Sterling and the other to her, along with another of those smiles.
It was hard to keep from smiling back.
As Melody watched, Jones spoke to someone outside the room through his little mike and headphones as he efficiently and quickly dressed the still-unconscious Kurt Matthews in the third robe.
He was talking about sandals. Sandals, apparently, were a bit harder to procure than the robes had been. At least it was difficult to find something in her size.
"She's going to have to go in her socks," one of the other SEALs finally concluded.
"It's cold out there," Jones protested.
"I don't care," Melody said. "I just want to go."
"Let's do it," the black man said. "Let's move, Cowboy. Cat controls the back door. Now's the time."
Jones turned to Melody. "Put the kicks back on. Quickly."
"But you said—"
He pushed her down into a chair and began putting the sneakers on her feet himself. "Lucky, got your duct tape?"
"You know I do."
"Tape the bottom of her foot," Jones ordered, thrusting the tied shoe on Melody's right foot toward the other SEAL.
The SEAL called Lucky got to work, and Jones himself began taping the bottom of her left sneaker, using a roll of silvery grey duct tape he, too, had been carrying in his vest.
They were covering the tread, making sure that when she walked, she wouldn't leave an unusual footprint behind.
"It might be slippery." Jones was kneeling in front of her, her foot on his thigh, as if he were some kind of fantasy shoe salesman. "And we're going to have to make sure that if you wear it through, we tape 'em up again, okay?"
Melody nodded.
He smiled. "Good girl." He moved his mike so that it was in front of his mouth. "Okay, Cat, we're all set. We're coming out." He turned to Melody. "You're with me, okay? Whatever happens, stick close to me. Do exactly what I say, no questions. Just do it, understand?"
Melody nodded again. She was his girl. She couldn't think of anything else she wanted to be right at that particular moment in time.
"If shots are fired," he continued, and for once his face was serious, his eyes lit with intensity rather than amusement or attraction, "get behind me. I will protect you. In return, I need two hundred percent of your trust."
Melody couldn't tear her gaze away from those neon green eyes. She nodded.
Maybe this man was insane, but he was also incredibly brave. He'd come into this terrorist stronghold to help rescue her. He'd been safe and sound, but he chose to give that up and risk his life for hers. I will protect you. As bold and as confident as his words were, the truth was that the next few minutes could see them both killed.
"In case something goes wrong," she began, intending to thank him. God knows if something went wrong, she wouldn't have the chance to thank him. She knew without a doubt that he would die first-taking bullets meant for her.
But he didn't let her finish. "Nothing's gonna go wrong. Joe Cat's got the door. Getting out of this latrine's gonna be a piece of cake. Trust me, Mel."
He took her hand, pulling her with him out into the hall.
Piece of cake.
She almost believed him.
Chapter 2
Something was wrong.
Melody could tell from the seriousness with which the man Ensign Jones called Joe Cat was talking to the shorter, blond-haired man named Blue.
They'd made it safely out of the embassy just as Jones had promised. They'd come farther than she'd ever thought possible. They'd travelled across and outside the limits of the city, up into the hills, moving quietly through the darkness.
The danger had not ended when they left the embassy. The city was under military rule, and there was a pre-dusk curfew that was strictly enforced. If they were spotted by one of the squads patrolling the streets, they would be shot without any questions.
More than once, they'd had to hide as a patrol came within inches of them.
"Close your eyes," Jones had murmured into her ear as the soldiers had approached. "Don't look at them. And don't hold your breath. Breathe shallowly, softly. They won't see us, I promise."
Melody's shoulder had been pressed against him, and she leaned even closer, taking strength from his solid warmth. And from the thought that if she died, at least she wouldn't die alone.
After that, each time they had to hide, he'd slipped one arm around her, keeping his other arm free for his deadly-looking assault weapon. Melody had given up her pretence of being strong and independent. She'd let him hold her—let him be big and strong, let herself take comfort from his strength. She'd tucked her head underneath his chin, closing her eyes and listening to the steady beating of his heart kick into overdrive, breathing softly and shallowly as he'd told her.
So far they hadn't been caught.
Jones came and sat next to her now.
"We've got a problem," he said bluntly, not trying to hide the truth from her.
Her trust in him went up to just over a thousand percent. He wasn't trying to pretend everything was hunky-dory when it so obviously was not.
"The chopper's a no-show," he told her. In the moonlight, his expression was serious, his mouth grim instead of curling up into his usual smile. "They're ten minutes late. We're getting ready to split up. We can't keep moving together. Come daybreak, a group this size is going to get noticed. And it won't be long before the tangos realize you and Pete and Line got away."
Pete and Line. The men who made up two-thirds of the Mod Squad. Even at his most serious, this man couldn't resist m
aking a joke of sorts. "Ten minutes isn't that long," Melody countered. "Shouldn't we just wait?"
Jones shook his head. "One minute isn't that long. Ten is too long. The chopper's not coming, Mel. Something went wrong, and our waiting here is putting us in danger." He lifted one of her feet, looking at the bottom of her sneaker. "How's that duct tape holding up?"
"It's starting to wear through," Melody admitted.
He handed her his roll of tape. "Can you put on another layer yourself? We need to be ready to leave here in about three minutes, but right now I want to put in my two cents about our next move."
Melody took the tape from him as he stood up.
Split up. He'd said they were going to split up. Melody felt a sudden rush of panic. "Jones," she called softly, and he paused, looking back at her. "Please. I want to stay with you."
She couldn't see his eyes in the shadows, but she saw him nod.
Dawn was beginning to light the eastern sky before they stopped moving.
Harvard had the point and he'd travelled twice as far as Cowboy and Melody had during the night. He'd continuously moved ahead, silently scouting out the best route to take, then doubling back to report what he'd seen.
Cowboy was glad to have H. on his team. Moving through hostile territory would've been tricky enough for two SEALs on their own. Add a female civilian into the equation, and that mission got significantly harder. Getting across the border was going to be a real pain in the butt.
He glanced at Melody. The small smile she gave him both worried and elated him.
It was obvious she trusted him. He hadn't been the only one in Alpha Squad to hear her say that she wanted to stay with him. Under normal circumstances, such an overheard remark would've been subject to merciless teasing. Cowboy Jones, notorious lady-killer, strikes again.
But every one of those other men knew that the lady's words only verified that Cowboy had done his job and done it well. It wasn't easy to gain the complete confidence and trust of a former hostage. Kurt Matthews, for instance, hadn't bonded to Cowboy in quite the same way.
Everyday, Average Jones Page 2
