“I’ve got it.”
Russell matched his pace to Evan’s as they strolled up the terminal to the exit. He made a point of pausing at the artwork displayed along the way, giving Evan time to rest.
His mind raced with possibilities as he studied the way Evan moved, the color of his skin, looking for clues. Though they were the same height, Evan had always been less muscular. But now he’d lost at least thirty pounds, maybe more.
They caught a shuttle to the parking lot. Dread slowed his pace as they walked the short distance to the car. He hit the button on his key ring to unlock the doors and raise the trunk lid. Evan stuffed in the bulky case. Russell slid behind the wheel and waited for him to get in and buckle his seat belt.
He rested his hands on the wheel, but didn’t start the car. Emotion tightened like a steel band around his chest and choked off his air. “What is it?” His voice sounded hoarse.
Evan’s brown eyes grew glassy and his throat worked as he swallowed. “I have AIDS, Dad.”
***
Clara gripped the steering wheel as she pulled out into the stream of traffic traveling east away from the airport.
My God, what a horrible way to find out your child is ill. The blatant shock on Dr. Connelly’s face had torn through the surprising pull of attraction she’d felt toward him and spurred her to offer him support in the only way a stranger could, through physical contact.
How long had it been since he’d seen his son? It was obvious he hadn’t seen him recently.
In the military, separations came so often and lasted anywhere from a few months to more than a year. But that was usually during deployment or training. Dr. Connelly was stationed here, had been for some time, or that had been the impression she’d gotten while Brett was ill.
Why hadn’t he seen his son? An estrangement? Could it be that Evan hadn’t wanted his father to know he was ill? But why?
She had no right to speculate. But the look on Russell’s face—Russell. The name suited him. The streaks of gray hair at his temples stood out against the sun-kissed tone of his skin. He must do some kind of outside activity.
His hand had gripped hers more out of an automatic response than an acceptance of the comfort she was offering.
He’d been so stunned.
She’d paused long enough to observe them out of concern—and curiosity.
He and his son hadn’t embraced, even after she’d left them. Pain had lain between them like shards of glass. How awful for them both. Was the distance a normal dynamic? Had it been shock that had held them apart, or was their relationship as strained as it seemed?
But after the shock, when Russell had begun to recover, she’d seen the look in his eyes and recognized it. The same look had stared back at her from the mirror for a long endless month until Sharon had recovered from her emergency surgery, and Brett had awakened from his coma.
Fear. Fear for your child, and helplessness, because there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to stand between them and the pain they were experiencing.
It had been etched into her husband Joseph’s features every time he’d seen Zoe in pain after the accident that had nearly cost her a leg. Not being able to shoulder their daughter’s pain had eaten at him. And her.
Evan had the hollow-eyed look of a cancer patient. The measured way he’d moved, as though he was conserving his strength between each step, spoke volumes. Whatever it was, it was bad.
Why wouldn’t he have turned to his father, a doctor, from the very beginning?
The question burrowed into her thoughts.
They owed Russell Connelly so much. Was there some way she could help? Would he even welcome the offer? He had her number. She’d just have to wait and see.
CHAPTER 3
“Are you going to tell Mom what Dr. Stewart said? Zoe asked.
“Are you going to tell her you’re sleeping with Hawk?” Brett shot back as he loaded the dishwasher. Jeez. How the hell did the place get in this kind of shape with only him here? He scanned the living room for any dishes he might have missed.
“That’s probably something I don’t have to say. She already knows—has known for some time.”
Brett’s head whipped around. “Damn, Zoe. That isn’t the kind of thing you talk about with your mom.”
“I’m living with him, Brett. We share a house and a bed.” Her dark blue eyes gleamed wickedly. “Do you really think she doesn’t know her children have sex lives?”
“If she ever asks, I’m still a virgin,” he said.
Zoe laughed. “Too late. She knows you and Jennifer Taylor swapped cherries in the back seat of her car on prom night. If you’re going to have sex in the family vehicle, at least get rid of all the condom wrappers.”
Brett squeezed his eyes shut. “Man. It sucks when you can’t hide anything from the women in your life.”
Her expression grew serious. “You already keep so many secrets. It helps us feel connected when you share the emotional parts of your life with us.”
“Not this, Zoe. I don’t want Mom to look at me as though I’m defective.” Like Captain Jackson does.
The bland expression never wavered. But had he seen a small flinch of pain in her blue eyes?
Ah, shit!
“Mom would never think that about you,” she said.
Damn. She would take the high road instead of bashing him. And now he felt like an asshole. “Zo—”
“It’s all right. You don’t have to tiptoe around me, or my leg, Brett. You of all people should know that.” She bent to pick up a dishtowel from the floor and limped into the small laundry room. “I’m still on my feet. I’m still mostly in one piece. A bit dented here and there, but I’m good.”
Damn his big mouth. He leaned against the doorframe as she loaded the sheets he’d stripped from the bed into the washing machine and started it. There was no one on the planet he loved more than Zoe. She’d stood by him, done physical therapy on him, read to him, talked and fussed and begged him to wake up the whole time he’d been in the coma. She’d never given up. Damned if he’d repay her with thoughtless comments like that. He tried to formulate an apology.
“Did he give you any timetable as to when you can start full training again?” she asked.
Brett shook his head. “He’s finally given his consent for some running and calisthenics.”
“Which you’ve been doing for a month now.” Zoe broke in.
Brett narrowed his eyes. How did she know?
“We both know you have. I do pick up your clothes every time I come here.”
Shit. He’d always been more squared away than this. He was going to have to get his act together. Get his discipline back. “Until he releases me to train I’m still stuck on desk duty and paperwork.”
“It beats sitting here looking at the walls and driving yourself crazy.”
Captain Jackson was sure to come up with some unique torture. Guaranteed. He’d test him and zero in on his speech problem. Damn him. Jackson had focused on the term “brain injury” in his doctor’s report, and, as far as that prick was concerned, it meant he was unfit for duty. Forever.
Zoe’s arms slid around his waist, and she rested her head against his chest. “It’s going to be all right, Brett.”
He could always depend on her belief in him. It never wavered. He rubbed her slender back and rested his chin on the top of her head. “Damn straight,” he said, giving her hazelnut-streaked ponytail a gentle tug.
He had to get into the right mind-set to prove to Jackson he was still in the game. Being a SEAL was all he’d ever wanted. He wasn’t going to allow Derrick and Captain SOB to steal it from him.
“When are you going to put Hawk out of his misery and marry him?”
Zoe pulled away and leaned back against the kitchen counter. She averted her eyes, and a frown crossed her features. “I’d marry him tomorrow if he wanted it. He still doesn’t think he’s atoned enough for breaking things off with me a few months ago. And he wants me to be
sure I can handle being separated for such long periods of time when he’s deployed and training.”
“I can set him straight,” Brett said “You’re like a bad penny, a burr, gum on the bottom of a shoe. There’s no getting rid of you.”
“Thanks,” Zoe’s tone was dry. “I really want him to think of me in those terms.”
Brett grinned. “I’ll try and pretty it up for him then. “V-V” What was the fucking word?
Zoe’s expression remained passive, patient.
He grinned when it came to him. “Vel-Velcro maybe.”
The phone rang. He strode to it and snapped it up. Captain Jackson’s secretary spoke on the other end of the line. He listened intently.
“Who was it?” Zoe asked as soon as he hung up.
“I’m to report to Captain Jackson ASAP. He has an assignment for me.”
“Good! After my interview, I’ll stick around and get Mom settled.” She punched him in the arm. “You’re getting out from behind the desk. This is what you wanted, what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” But what kind of assignment was it? Jackson was going to put the screws to him. He knew it.
***
Brett strode down the hall. With every step, he seesawed between excitement and anxiety. Reaching his destination, he paused outside the office door. Maybe they were going to allow him to return to full duty. Naw—Doc Stewart would have let him know. He was doing speech therapy one day a week, his psych therapy twice a month, and taking a language class. Goddamn. What else did they want him to do to prove his fitness for duty? How much longer was he going to have to wait?
Brett took a deep breath to offset the quick flash of anger tightening the muscles of his face. He tapped at the Captain’s door with a little more force than was necessary.
“Enter.” Jackson’s muffled tone carried through the barrier.
Brett opened the door, reached the desk in two strides, then snapped to attention. Jackson continued to look over some paperwork on a clipboard while Brett maintained his posture.
“At ease, Ensign. How do you feel about public speaking?”
Dread hit the pit of Brett’s stomach with the punch of a grenade launcher. Ah, shit. He spread his feet, folded his hands behind him, and focused his attention out the window just beyond Jackson’s shoulder. “I think it should be left to priests and politicians, sir.”
Jackson studied him, his expression impassive. “Our public information officer has developed a staph infection and has been hospitalized. He was scheduled to deliver a speech about SEAL team training to the San Diego Women’s Political League. You have been chosen to take his place this afternoon.”
Shit! “I’m not much of a public speaker, sir.”
Jackson eyed him. “It’s important for us to keep our best foot forward in the public eye, Ensign. Especially now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be attending as well, but the bulk of the information will be coming from you.”
“Yes, sir.” Another damned test. That’s what it was. “Permission to ask a question, sir.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Permission granted.”
“How many ladies will be attending, sir?”
“About two hundred.”
Two hundred women he could humiliate himself in front of by forgetting the word he wanted, or not being able to come up with a substitute. Great, just freaking great. “Where is this meeting to be held?”
“In the Crown Room at Hotel del Coronado. You have two hours to prepare, Ensign. You’re dismissed.”
Brett focused on Jackson’s face. The son-of-a-bitch had probably waited until the last minute to call him in. “Yes, sir.” He saluted, swiveled on his heel, and left Jackson’s office. He strode down the hallway to the elevator. The doors opened and he stepped in. Blessedly alone, he painted the air blue with a stream of swear words that would have had his schoolteacher mother slapping him upside the head. Why the hell didn’t he ever forget any of them?
***
Teresa “Tessa” Kelly shifted from one foot to the other as she stood at the back of the sprawling, richly paneled Crown room. The meal had been well prepared and delicious, but she had barely touched it. A girl had to watch her figure. She looked forward with more enthusiasm to the entertainment part of the session. At least she’d have something to write about after it concluded.
This lifestyles page assignment was a never-ending afternoon-tea hell. If she had to swallow one more canapé, or rub elbows with one more SEAL team groupie, she would scream. Being in a war zone dodging bullets and bombs would be preferable to this. Her pale redhead complexion had already turned pink though she had layered on sun block before leaving her apartment. She should have forgone the poolside drinks.
Captain Jackson rose to speak to the group. He looked tall and imposing in his whites, his prematurely gray hair gleaming beneath the lights as he climbed the steps to the small podium. She was sure what he had to say to the ladies would be some of the same things all the Naval speakers said about the war on terrorism in Iraq and Afghanistan. And as important as the subject was to her assignment, Tess’s attention wandered back to the young officer sitting at the table with Barbara Hanover, their hostess. Ensign Brett Weaver.
Tess clicked on the small mini-recorder she carried so as not to miss any part of Jackson’s speech. But her thoughts turned to the younger officer who had accompanied him. What was Brett Weaver doing here? Was he going to take part in some way?
The brief news article that had followed his injury, followed by the meltdown of one of his team members and the disappearance of another, had piqued her interest. If she could just get an exclusive interview with him, she might be able to convince her editor to move her from the lifestyles page to the political beat. Luckily, this assignment did have political overtones, otherwise Captain Jackson would not have attended. That’s what was giving her an itchy feeling between her shoulder blades. Why was he doing a PR stint when he could have sent any junior officer to handle the San Diego Women’s Political League? If only she could ferret out exactly what she was missing.
Brett Weaver turned his head to speak to the woman next to him. The strong line of his jaw appeared masculine and clean. His brows, darker than his hair, followed a strong brow ridge. His sun-bleached hair was cropped close to his head. Would he be going wheels up soon, as the teams called shipping out?
As though sensing her interest, Weaver looked over Barbara Hanover’s shoulder directly at her. In the past, she had thought blond men washed out. There was nothing watercolor-soft about this man. He looked fit and focused. Even across the room, his eyes pinned her with a steady, bold look that triggered a quiver in her stomach.
Captain Jackson’s comments wound down too quickly, and, surprised, Tess’s attention shifted to him. “I’m sure you’d rather speak to a younger member of the teams. Ensign Weaver will be happy to answer any questions you may have.”
Tess’s brows rose. She hadn’t known he was going to speak. Her heartbeat started to drum, and she hurried forward to find a closer seat.
***
Brett climbed the two steps to the platform. God, he’d rather be three feet deep in a foxhole with bullets whizzing overhead than standing up here in front of two hundred women. His heart was running like an engine stuck in high gear. Sweat ran down his back, making his shirt cling to his spine. He shifted, trying to relieve the discomfort. Fuck! Just how many more hoops was he going to have to jump through before they judged him fit?
His attention fastened on the face of the redhead he had noticed eyeing him earlier. Her long, steady stride ate up the distance as she walked up the aisle between the white linen cover tables. Her steps flipped up the hem of her yellow sundress, baring shapely thighs. Color flared across her cheekbones to match the soft, sun-kissed pink of her nose. With a brush of her hand, she shoved her skirt down and slid into her seat.
Distracted from his nervousness, Brett’s lips quirked up. L
egs that long and beautiful needed to be insured, or at least declared a national treasure. If he could get a closer look at them after this was over, it might even be worth the discomfort he was feeling.
He waited for the woman to get settled then said, “Good afternoon, ladies.” God, his Kentucky accent sounded so much thicker over the PA system.
“I understand you have some questions you’d like answered about the SEALs and our training. I’ve been a SEAL for three years, and I can tell you from experience the training is rigorous and sometimes dangerous. But there are other facets to it as well. While I wait for my next deployment, I’m taking a foreign language class so I’ll be able to communicate in the area I may be deployed to. So, contrary to popular belief, it isn’t just about fighting a war, or quelling violence and aggression, or taking down terrorists. It’s about saving as many lives as we can, and having the skills we need to do that successfully. Now what else would you like to know?”
Fifty hands went up all at once, among them the redhead’s. Brett called on a woman closer to the front of the group whose hand wavered tentatively. “Will you tell us about your experience during BUD/S training?”
For a moment, Brett thought of Derrick and the ordeal they had faced together as teammates and swim buddies. The loss of his friendship, his comradeship, still hurt.
He jerked his attention back to the question. “It was tough. The instructors pushed us to the limit, but we pushed ourselves as well. If we hadn’t, we wouldn’t have made it through. It taught us to work as a team, and it conditioned us mentally to withstand a great deal of pressure.”
“Mental pressure. I thought it was just physical punishment,” the redhead said.
Bret paused a moment. “When you’re swimming in the ocean in the dark, you link together to make sure you don’t lose anyone. You’re cold and wet, and the sand is sticking to and scraping the skin off of places you wished it wasn’t—” He smiled as a smattering of laughter broke out. “You know you aren’t alone, because you have a brotherhood of men around you experiencing the same hardship, the same discomforts. You come out of the ocean, and you layer yourselves together to conserve body heat because you’re a unit, and you take care of each other. Because your strength lies in keeping all the members of your unit strong and ready to act. It’s as much a mental preparation as it is physical.”
Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers) Page 3
