Frisco was a former member of Alpha Squad who had been pulled off the active duty list with a knee injury more than five years ago. Cowboy had been filling in for a missing member of the squad when Frisco had been injured. That had been Cowboy's first time in the field, his first time in a real war zone—and he'd been sure that it was going to be his last. Cowboy was certain that Joe Cat, the squad's commander, had seen his hands shaking as they set a bomb to blow a hole in the side of an embassy.
It had been another embassy rescue....
Melody Evans's wide blue eyes flashed into his head, but Cowboy gently pushed the image away. He'd been thinking about Mel too much lately, and right now he was writing up a summary of the information he was intending to share with the FInCOM agents. At Cat's request, he was in charge of presenting the psychological profile of a terrorist to the Finks. The key to success when dealing with terrorists lay in understanding their reasoning and motivation—how their minds worked. And with all of the cultural, environmental and religious differences, their minds worked very differently from the average white-bread American FInCOM agent.
Frisco was going to arrive Monday morning, and although it was only Friday, Cowboy was pushing to get his report finished today. After working nearly non-stop over the past seven months, he was hoping to take a few days of leave this weekend.
Mel's face popped into his thoughts again. He'd left a message on an answering machine he'd hoped was hers. Please, dear Lord, let her call him back.
Again he took a deep breath and focused his thoughts on his report. It was important to him that this summary be as complete as possible. Alan "Frisco" Francisco was going to be the man to read it, and Cowboy wanted to make the best impression he could.
Because when it was determined that Frisco's injury was permanent, Cowboy had been assigned to Alpha Squad at Joe Cat's request, as the man's replacement.
Cowboy still felt a little uncomfortable when Frisco was around. He knew the man missed being in the action, and here he was, his official replacement. And if Frisco hadn't been hurt, Cowboy probably wouldn't be working with the elite seven-member Alpha Squad. Cowboy had benefited from Frisco's tragedy, and both men damn well knew it. As a result, when they were together, they tippytoed around each other, acting especially polite. Cowboy was hoping that would change as the two men worked closely together over the next few months.
Right now, he appeared to be the only man in the room who was actually working. Blue McCoy and Harvard were checking out the Web site for Heckler and Koch, the German weapon manufacturer. Even Joe Catalanotto had his feet up on his desk as he talked on the phone with his wife, Veronica. Their son's first birthday was quickly approaching, but from what Cowboy couldn't help but overhear, it sounded as if Joe was more interested in planning a separate, very different, very private party for the parents of the birthday boy, to be held after all the guests had gone home and little Frankie Catalanotto was tucked into his crib.
The rest of the guys were sitting around the "office," trying to come up with ways to truly torment the poor Finks.
"We start the whole thing off with a twenty-five-mile run," Wesley was suggesting.
One desk over, Lucky O'Donlon was playing some kind of computer game complete with aliens and exploding starships and roaring sound effects.
"No, I read the rule book," Bobby countered loudly to be heard over the sound of the alien horde. "These guys—and gals—are going to be put up at the Marriott while they're here. I don't think they're going to let us run 'em for five miles, let alone twenty-five."
That got Lucky's attention. "FInCOM's sending women out here?"
"That's what I heard," Bobby said. "Just one or two out of the bunch of them."
Lucky smiled. "One or two is all we need. One for me and one for Cowboy. Oh, but wait. I almost forgot. Cowboy's sworn off women. He's decided to become a priest—or at least live like one. But then again, maybe a little one-on-one with a pretty young FInCOM agent is all he needs to get him back in the game."
Cowboy couldn't let that go. Lucky had been teasing him mercilessly about his current celibacy for months. "I don't criticize the way you live, O'Donlon," he said tightly. "I'd appreciate it if you'd show me the same courtesy."
"I'm just curious, Cowboy, that's all. What's going on? Did you honestly find God or something?" Lucky's eyes were dancing with mischief. He didn't realize that he'd pushed Cowboy to his limit "I seem to remember a certain Middle Eastern country and a certain pretty little former hostage you seemed intent upon setting some kind of world record with. I mean, come on. It was kind of obvious what you were up to when you went to meet her for dinner and then didn't come back for six days." Lucky laughed. "She sure must've been one hell of a good—"
Cowboy stood up, his chair screeching across the concrete floor. "That's enough," he said hotly. "You say one more word about that girl and you're going to find the very next word you say is going to be said without any teeth."
Lucky stared at him. "God, Jones, you're serious! What the hell did this girl do to you?" But then he grinned, quick to turn anything and everything into a joke. "Do you think if I asked real nice, I could get her to do it to me, too?"
Cowboy was moments from launching himself at the blond-haired SEAL when Harvard stepped between them, holding up one hand, silently telling Cowboy to freeze.
The big man fixed Lucky with a steady, dangerous gaze. "You're nicknamed Lucky because with all the truly asinine things that come out of your mouth, you're lucky to still be alive, is that right, O'Donlon?"
Lucky wisely returned his attention to his computer game, glancing up at Cowboy with disbelief still glimmering in his eyes. "Sorry, Jones. Jeez."
Cowboy slowly sat back down, and as Joe Cat hung up the phone, a complete silence fell, broken only by the sounds of Lucky's computer game.
What the hell did this girl do to you?
Cowboy honestly didn't know.
Surely it was some kind of witchcraft. Some kind of enchantment or spell. It had been seven months, seven months, and he couldn't so much as glance at another woman without comparing her, unfavorably, to Melody Evans.
Melody. Shoot, she'd had his head spinning from the moment she'd opened her hotel-room door for him.
Her hair was so light, he'd nearly laughed aloud. He knew she was a blonde from her picture, but until he saw her, he really hadn't been able to imagine it. Cut short the way it was, it accentuated the delicate shape of her face and drew attention to her long, graceful neck.
She was gorgeous. She'd gotten hold of some makeup and wore just a trace of it on her eyes and a touch of lipstick on her sweet lips. It highlighted her natural beauty. And it told him without a doubt that she had anticipated and prepared for this dinner as much as he had.
She was wearing some kind of boxy, shapeless, too large dress that she must've had sent up from one of the hotel shops. On any other woman, it would've looked as if she was playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. But on Mel, it looked sexy. The neckline revealed her delicate collarbone, and the silky material managed to cling to her slender body, revealing every soft curve, every heart-stopping detail. Her legs were bare, and she wore the sandals he'd made for her on her feet
Nail polish. She had pink nail polish on her toes. Probably hadn't been able to get any green.
He'd stood there in the doorway, just looking at her, knowing that despite all he'd silently told himself about the basis for the emotion behind hostage-and-rescuer relationships, he was lost. He was truly and desperately lost.
He'd wanted this woman more than he'd ever wanted anyone...
Wes's voice broke the silence. "You think they're gonna put us up in the Marriott, too?" the shortest member of Alpha Squad wondered aloud.
Bobby, Wes's swim buddy, built like a restaurant refrigerator, shook his head. "I didn't see anything about that in the FInCOM rule book."
"What FInCOM rule book?" Joe Cat's husky New York accent cut through the noise of exploding spacecraft "Bl
ue, you know anything about a rule book?"
"No, sir."
"This morning, FInCOM sent over something they're calling a rule book," Bobby told their commanding officer.
"Let me see it," Cat ordered. "O'Donlon, kill the volume on that damn thing."
The computer sounds disappeared as Bobby sifted through the piles of paper on his desk. He uncovered the carefully stapled booklet FInCOM had sent via courier and tossed the entire express envelope across the room to Cat. Cat caught it with one hand.
The phone rang and Wesley picked it up. "Alpha Squad Pizza. We deliver."
Catalanotto pulled out the booklet and the cover letter. He quickly skimmed the letter, then opened the booklet to the first page and did the same. Then he laughed—a snort of derision—and ripped both the book and the letter in half. He stuffed it back into the envelope and tossed it back to Bob.
"Send this back to Maryland with a letter that tells the good people of FInCOM no rule books. No rules. Sign my name and send it express."
"Yes, sir."
"Hey, Cowboy."
Cowboy looked up to see Wes holding up the telephone receiver, hand securely over the mouthpiece. "For you," Wesley said. "A lady. Someone named Melody Evans."
Suddenly, the room was so quiet, Cowboy could have heard a pin drop.
But then Harvard clapped his hands together. "Okay, coffee break," he announced loudly. "Everyone but Junior outside. Let's go. On the double."
Cowboy held the phone that Wes had handed him until the echo from the slamming door had faded away. Taking a deep breath, he put the receiver to his ear.
"Melody?"
He heard her laugh. It was a thin, shaky laugh, but he didn't care. Laughter was good, wasn't it? "Yeah, it's me," she said. "Congratulations on making lieutenant, Jones."
"Thanks," he said. "And thanks for calling me back. You sound...great. How are you?" He closed his eyes tightly. Damn, he sounded like some kind of fool.
"Busy," she said without hesitation, as if it was something she'd planned to say if he asked. "I've been incredibly busy. I'm working full-time as an AA for the town attorney, Ted Shepherd. He's running for state representative, so it's been crazy lately."
"Look, Mel, I don't want to play games with you," he told her. "I mean, we've never been anything but honest with each other, and I know you said you didn't want to see me again, but I can't get you out of my head. I want to get together."
There. He'd said it.
He waited for her to say something, but there was only silence.
"I can get a weekend pass and be up in Massachusetts in five hours."
More silence. Then, "Jones, this weekend is really bad for me. The election's only a few weeks away and... It's not a good time."
Now the silence belonged to him.
He had two options here. He could either accept her excuses and hang up the phone, or he could beg.
He hadn't begged back in March. He hadn't dropped to his knees and pleaded with her to reconsider. He hadn't tried to convince her that everything she'd told him about their passion being false, about their relationship being based on the adrenaline rush of her rescue, was wrong.
He was a psych specialist. Everything she said made sense—everything but the incredible intensity of his feelings for her. If those feelings weren't real, he didn't know what real was.
But his pride had kept him from saying everything he should have said. Maybe if he'd said it then, she wouldn't have walked away.
So maybe he should beg. It wouldn't kill him to beg, would it? But if he was going to beg, it would have to be face-to-face. No way was he going to do it over the phone.
"Nothing's changed," Melody said softly. "Ours wasn't a relationship that could ever go anywhere."
I miss you, Mel. Cowboy closed his eyes, unable to say the words aloud.
"It was nice hearing your voice, though," Melody said.
She said she was busy this weekend. Maybe it wasn't just a transparent excuse. Maybe she was busy. But even busy people had to grab a sandwich for lunch. He'd take that weekend pass, head up to Boston, rent a car and drive out to Appleton.
And then, face-to-face, he'd get down on the ground and beg.
"Yeah," Cowboy said, "yeah—it was nice talking to you."
"I'm sorry, Jones," she said quietly, and the line was disconnected.
Cowboy slowly hung up the phone.
For all these months, he'd sat around, waiting to get over this girl. It was definitely time to stop waiting and take some action.
He saved his file on the computer, then set it up to print. As the laser printer started spewing out his psych summary, Cowboy pushed his chair back from his desk.
He left the Quonset hut and headed toward the barracks where the unmarried members of Alpha Squad were being housed. He would pack a quick bag, do the necessary paperwork for a weekend pass, then bum a ride to the air base.
As Cowboy pulled open the screen door, the inner door opened, too, and he nearly walked into Harvard. The older man took one look at the grim set to Cowboy's mouth, then sighed.
"No good, huh?" Harvard stepped back to let Cowboy into the spartanly decorated bunk room.
Cowboy shook his head. "Senior Chief, I need a weekend pass and information on flights heading north to Boston."
Harvard smiled. "Way to go, Junior. You pack your things, I'll handle the paperwork. Meet you by the gate in fifteen."
Cowboy forced a smile of his own. "Thanks, H."
First thing tomorrow, he'd be face-to-face with Melody Evans.
She didn't want to see him because she knew damn well that if she saw him, she wouldn't be able to resist the pull of the attraction that lingered between them. Face-to-face, she wouldn't be able to resist him any more than he could resist her.
And by this time tomorrow, he'd have her back in his arms.
And maybe, if he played his cards right, if he got humble and got down on his knees and begged, maybe then he'd have her back in his life for as long as it took for him to be satisfied-to get over her once and for all.
For the first time in a long time, Cowboy's smile actually felt real.
Chapter 4
Melody spotted him from across the town common and her heart nearly stopped.
The Romanellas' new foster kid, Andy Marshall, was fighting with two boys who had to be at least three years older and a foot and a half taller than he was.
The three kids were in the shadows of the trees at the edge of the town playground. As Melody watched, Andy was knocked almost playfully to the ground as the two older boys laughed. But the kid rolled into the fall like an accomplished stunt fighter and came up swinging. His fist connected with the nose of one of the other boys, sending the taller one staggering back.
Melody could hear the bellow of pain from inside her car. She heard the shouts change from taunting laughter to genuine anger, and she knew that Andy was on the verge of getting the spit kicked out of him.
She took a quick left onto Huntington Street and another left the wrong way into the Exit Only marked drive of the playground parking lot, leaning on her horn as she went.
"Hey!" she shouted out the car window. "You boys! Stop that! Stop fighting right now!"
One of the older boys—Alex Parks—savagely backhanded Andy with enough force to make Melody's own teeth rattle before he and his friend turned and ran.
As Melody scrambled to pull her girth from the front seat of her car, Andy tried to run, too, but he couldn't. He couldn't do better than to push himself up onto his hands and knees on the grass.
"Oh, Andy!" Melody crouched down next to him. "Oh, God! Are you all right?"
She reached for him, but he jerked away and she backed off.
His knees and elbows were raw, and his nose was bleeding pretty steadily. He had a scrape on his cheek underneath his left eye, and his lip was already swollen and split. His brown hair was messy and clotted with dirt and bits of grass, and his T-shirt was bloody and torn.
&nb
sp; He'd had the wind knocked out of him and he struggled to regain his breath as tears of pain and humiliation filled his eyes.
"Go away," he growled. "Just leave me alone!"
"I can't do that," Melody told him evenly. "Because we're neighbours. And here in Appleton, neighbours look out for each other."
She sat down in the grass, crossing her legs tailor-style, fighting a familiar wave of nausea, thankful they were sitting in the shade.
He was checking the watch he wore on his skinny left wrist, examining the protective surface over the clock face and holding it to his ear to be sure it was still ticking.
"Did they break it?" Melody asked.
"What's it to you?" he sneered.
"Well, you seem more concerned with your watch than with the fact that you're bleeding, so I thought—"
"You're the unwed mother, right?"
Melody refused to acknowledge the tone of his voice. He was being purposely rude so that she wouldn't know he was on the verge of dissolving into tears. She ignored both the rudeness and the threatening tears. "In a nutshell, yeah, I guess I am. My name's Melody Evans. I live next door to the Romanellas. We met last week, when Vince and Kirsty brought you home with them."
He sat down, still catching his breath. "You know, they talk about you. They wonder exactly who knocked you up. Everyone in town talks about you all the time."
"Except when they're talking about you," Melody pointed out. "Between the two of us, we've got the gossips working full-time, haven't we? A foster child from the big, bad city who blows up lawn mowers. There's probably a betting pool guessing how long it'll be before the police become involved in your discipline."
Her bluntly honest words surprised him, and he actually looked at her. For a brief moment, he actually met her eyes. His own were brown and angry—far too angry and bitter for a twelve-year-old. But then he looked away.
"The hell with them," he said harshly. "I won't be here long anyway."
Everyday, Average Jones Page 6
