Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers)

by Reasor, Teresa

An image of the two of them in one of the rooms exploring— Oh, shit. She couldn’t go there.

  What kind of story could he possibly have for her? Nothing with too much political substance. He’d not risk his career to offer her any military secrets. But if she didn’t go, she’d never know what he wanted.

  His patient silence on the other end of the line broke through her anxious speculations. “What time?” she asked.

  “How’s eleven?”

  “Eleven will be fine.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Tess hit the off button, and her attention shifted to Taylor. “That was,” she started to say Brett Weaver but changed it to, “a source. Possibly a lead on a story.”

  “Was he asking you out on a date?”

  A sudden shot of anger made her voice tremble. “I don’t date my sources, Mr. Taylor. You know we women are liberated enough that we don’t have to resort to using our bodies to—”

  He raised a hand. “I was out of line.” Taylor said, cutting her off.

  Tess took several deep breaths to calm herself. Had every man in this business remained stuck in the chauvinistic seventies like her father? “He says he has a story for me.”

  “About?”

  “An inside look at the SEALs. In particular, Brett Weaver.”

  “The guy who did the speaking engagement yesterday.”

  “Yes. People are interested in him because his buddy allegedly tried to kill Weaver and his sister along with some girl he was dating. This guy may be willing to tell me about that.”

  “If you can get info and corroborate it I may be tempted to allow you to do the series you’re angling for. You were angling for a series?”

  She hadn’t been, but a series would be great. Female readers would eat up one about SEALs. Perhaps he wanted to discuss why he’d been escorted back to base yesterday. He’d played it down, but there had been more than one tense moment in his encounter with the two military policemen.

  Excitement jogged through her system and her heart caught the rhythm. Maybe he’d actually open up, and she’d find out what was going on.

  And pigs could fly, too.

  ***

  Clara spooned meringue atop the banana pudding. Everyone liked banana pudding, didn’t they? He wouldn’t think she was being pushy by delivering something home-cooked to his door. Would he?

  She couldn’t shake the image of Russell Connelly standing with his son, his very ill son, at the airport. Every time the thought came to mind, it gave her heart a squeeze. They’d both looked so … alone.

  Strong arms came around her waist from behind and she jerked, startled.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Brett said as he gave her a squeeze. “That’s a lot of banana pudding, Mom. Think the team will be up to eating all that?” He kissed the top of her head.

  “I think your team could eat sauerkraut and wieners cooked in an old Marine Boondocker. They all have cast iron stomachs.”

  Brett laughed. “Yeah, they pretty much do.” He released her and leaned against the kitchen cabinet next to the stove.

  “I’m fixing a pan for Dr. Connelly and his son.”

  “Oh. I haven’t seen him since I was discharged and turned over to Dr. Stewart.”

  “I ran into him at the airport.” She set aside the mixing bowl and spoon, opened the oven door, and slid the two glass casserole dishes into the oven.

  After setting the timer, she focused on Brett. His skin was tanned, his hair, always blond, tipped with lighter tones from being in the sun. Dressed in a t-shirt and running shorts, he looked fit and strong. But there were shadows beneath his eyes as though he hadn’t slept. Was there more going on than just a difficult relationship with a commanding officer?

  “You know I can sleep on the couch. You didn’t have to give up your bed for me,” she said.

  “I’m fine on the sofa bed, Mom. I can sleep anywhere. Why are you making banana pudding for Dr. Connelly?” he asked, speculation in his gaze.

  “His son is ill. You know how I used to make you banana pudding when you were sick?”

  “Yeah. ‘It goes down smooth and replenishes your potassium.’ How old is his son?”

  “I’d say close to your age. Maybe a little older.” She touched his smooth-shaven cheek. “Dr. Connelly was so good to you when you were his patient. I just want to do some small something in return.”

  “How are you going to get it to him?”

  “Hawk got his address for me. I thought I’d take the dish over while you’re out running.” She glanced at his running shoes. “That is what you’re getting ready to do?”

  “Yeah. Just a few miles.”

  “Uh-huh.” A few miles to him meant five or six. She didn’t know how he did it. Or maybe she did. She studied his features, so much like his father’s. A wave of longing struck her. What would things have been like if Joe—She wouldn’t let herself go there. It had been too many years.

  “Your father would be so proud of you, Brett.”

  His eyes, a lighter shade of blue than Zoe’s, focused on her face. “He’d be pissed off I joined the Navy instead of the Marines.”

  She laughed. “Maybe just a little. But he’d have been proud of your accomplishments, too.”

  “I know.” He was silent a moment. “Remember that wooden pistol he gave me that shot rubber bands?”

  She folded her arms against her waist and said, sternly, “I remember you shooting your sisters in the behind with it.”

  He grinned mischievously. “I practiced for hours on the cardboard targets he made for me. Shooting a moving target was more fun.”

  “I don’t think your sisters had quite the same perspective.”

  “Dad threatened to turn it into kindling and burn it if I didn’t quit. He said he’d given it to me to teach me gun safety, not to torment my sisters.”

  “And he took you out on the target range and let you shoot that twenty-two he’d won at a match.”

  “Yeah. Beautiful pistol. Got me hooked on real guns.”

  “It’s still at the house if you’d like to have it.”

  His eyes lit up. “Sure. I carry Dad’s, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” She took in the control in his expression. “Whatever it takes to keep you safe, Brett.”

  He nodded. “There’s a line we don’t cross, Mom.”

  Something in his voice drew her eyes to his face.

  His features had grown empty with control. His fists clenched and unclenched, tightening and releasing, and his biceps swelled with the action. “Even though we’re soldiers, and we follow orders, we still have a moral code we follow. If it’s morally wrong, we don’t … follow through.”

  Had all he’d endured driven him to a crisis of belief in himself? Or what he’d chosen as his calling? The idea thrust her heartbeat high into her throat. She shoved away from the counter to stand in front of him. “What you do in war, you do to save lives. That’s why your father went to war, and that’s why you did. I know that the actions you’ve taken in battle were done to preserve morality, not to pervert it. I know you know the difference in right and wrong, because I raised you. I’ve seen you train and strive to be the most professional, honorable soldier and human being you can.”

  The tension in his body relaxed somewhat and his expression lightened. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Her throat was too dry to swallow. “You aren’t doubting that, are you?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Someone said something yesterday that’s been going through my head. And I was thinking more of you than me.”

  “Me?” Her mouth parted in surprise, she sucked in a breath. “You don’t ever have to doubt my belief in you. You’re a good man, Brett. A good human being. And a good soldier. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not.” A thought had anger climbing into her chest and she gritted her teeth. “Especially Captain—Asshole.”

  Surprise crossed his face. He threw his head back and laughed.

  “Z
oe told me about the assignment yesterday, and I was just—”

  “It was a test, Mom. I’m used to having harder things thrown at me. I admit I was sweating bullets a time or two, but for the most part it was okay. And the ladies were very receptive.”

  “Meaning that several hit on you.”

  He chuckled again. “Yeah. But I’m beyond the SEAL groupie thing now.”

  “This coming from the man who had a number tucked in his shirt pocket when he got home last night.”

  “Yeah, but she’s different. Definitely not a groupie.”

  Clara raised her eyebrows, instantly interested. What kind of girl was she? “Hum.” The timer went off and she picked up oven mitts from the counter.

  Brett pushed away from the cabinet. “I’m going running. Be back about one. I have an appointment on Coronado afterwards.”

  She recognized his need to escape before she asked any more questions. Was she being a busybody? A pest? She’d have to be careful about that. Her children were leading their own lives and no longer needed her counsel. “Take your time, Brett. You don’t have to entertain me. I’m good.”

  The door closed behind him. She removed both casserole dishes from the oven and set them atop the stove to cool.

  She’d have to call before she delivered the dish. Why was she so nervous about calling Russell Connelly? Her stomach grew hollow with nerves. She pressed a hand against her midriff.

  Because she was thinking of him now as Russell, and not Captain or Doctor Connelly. She’d felt that moment of connection. Felt the brush of his gaze over her face, her breasts, and recognized the male interest in his expression.

  After so many years as a widow, she’d thought that sweet feeling of response had been lost to her.

  She’d tried dating a little when the kids had gotten older and were out of the house, living their own lives. Loneliness had driven her to it. But it hadn’t felt right.

  She hadn’t been as receptive to the men’s sexual overtures as they’d expected, either. They’d desired a quick, easy conquest instead of having to woo her. As though being a widow made a woman desperate for casual sex, or at least more open to it.

  She’d been looking for more. She’d been looking for what she’d had with Joe. But she’d never found even a hint of that special something with the four men she’d gone out with.

  Then on her fiftieth birthday—She cringed at the memory. Charlie Cooper was a nice guy. But she’d felt self-conscious and uncomfortable afterwards. Guilty, too. Though he’d called and tried to ask her out several times, she’d never seen him again.

  Her gaze rose to her reflection in the microwave door above the stove. She touched the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. What was it Russell Connelly saw when he looked at her?

  She turned away from her reflection. Fifty-five was worse than fifty. Five years worse. Pathetically worse. If Russell were interested, how would she feel if he wanted more? The panicked beating of her heart was her only answer.

  CHAPTER 8

  Clara stood before Russell Connelly’s apartment. She balanced the casserole dish of banana pudding, still warm from the oven, and tapped on the door. It swung open almost before her hand had dropped.

  “Hello.” Russell smiled. Dressed in knee-length khaki shorts and a t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and chest, he looked masculine and fit. “Come in. Evan’s still asleep but should be up any moment.” His large hand rested at the small of her back as he guided her through a small but neat living room. “I don’t sit in here much, I guess you can tell. I prefer the kitchen.” He gestured to the right.

  The kitchen was clearly the heart of the apartment. Sunlight streamed through a sliding glass door at the end of the room, brightening the interior, and the pale yellow walls reflected the natural light. A laptop and several files lay on the table.

  “May I take that?” Russell asked, nodding toward the dish she held.

  “Certainly. If you like it hot I can pop it back into the oven.”

  He set it on the stove. “I have to confess, I’ve never had homemade banana pudding, just the boxed stuff. I’m not much of a cook. But like most men, I’m a master at the grill.”

  Did her smile look as nervous as she felt? Had she ever been this tightly wound with a man before?

  She drew a deep breath. “I’m just the opposite. I’m more at home in front of the stove. If I light the grill without starting a brush fire, I think I’ve done something special.”

  He chuckled and leaned forward to pull the aluminum foil from the dish. “This smells wonderful. Evan needs the calories and the potassium.” He smiled again. “I probably don’t, but I’ll have my share.”

  “My children swear by it, like grandma used to swear by chicken soup. It might help Evan’s meds go down easier, too,” she said.

  “Would you like to sit out on the balcony with me until he’s awake?” he asked. “I have iced tea.”

  Was he asking her just to be polite or did he truly want her company? She glanced at her watch, though she didn’t have any place else to be. “If you’re not busy. Brett’s gone for a run and has a lunch appointment, so I’m on my own for a while.”

  “I’m just wading through some paperwork. You’ll be the perfect excuse to ignore it.” He got glasses out of the cabinet, filled them with ice, and poured the tea.

  Clara accepted hers and wandered to the sliding glass door. She unlatched it, pushed it open and stepped out onto the small balcony, a twelve by twelve space at most. The metal railing beckoned, and she leaned on it, looking over the vista of multi-level buildings, all steel and concrete.

  Russell set his ice tea glass on a small table and closed the door. “Not much of a view,” he said, joining her.

  “I’ve lived in the same subdivision house for twenty years. There’s not much of a view there either, but I have small things. An herb garden, some flowers, and some bird feeders.”

  Glancing at him, she found him studying the balcony and turned to scan it herself. The grill was pushed against the wall at one corner. A small table with four chairs took up the bulk of the remaining space on that side. Two lounge chairs with a small square table between filled most of the additional space. Everything was aligned with military precision. And everything was white or gray.

  Clara smiled at his rueful expression. “You’re not home much. What would you do with pots of flowers when you’re not here to water them?”

  “Thank you for giving me an out, but to be honest, it never occurred to me to add those things. I spend most of my time at the hospital. But I do manage to run three days a week.”

  Thus the tan and the muscular calves displayed by his khaki shorts.

  “Maybe a cactus.”

  He laughed. “How long will you be here visiting?”

  “I don’t know, yet. I’ve taught for so long. I’ve lived for my own children, then other people’s. Now it may take me a while to find my way.”

  “You could start a whole new career.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “A flower shop.”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “Your husband was military.”

  “Yes. A Marine. He was killed by friendly fire during Desert Storm.”

  His expression blanked, then settled into a frown. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”

  Always the same reaction. Shock, regret, and then sympathy. A life cut short. But not wasted. Joe had given her children, and so much more. “It’s been a long time.”

  “You never remarried.”

  She shook her head. “Evan’s mother?”

  “We’ve been divorced since Desert Storm. She remarried and lives in Los Angeles.” He leaned down to rest his arms on the railing. “I’ve had several deployments since then. This last one will probably be my last. I’m getting a little old for battlefield medicine.”

  “Not if you still have a passion for it.”

  “Thanks. But I feel as though I’m doing more good here now. They’re trying
to nudge me toward a more administrative position at the hospital. Head of my department, but I’m not sure that’s what I want.”

  He glanced at the sliding glass doors. “I’ve taken some leave while Evan’s here. Maybe It will give me time to decide.”

  “So it seems we’re both at crossroads,” Clara said, taking a sip of her iced tea.

  “Not always the most comfortable place to be.”

  “No. Retiring has been the riskiest thing I’ve ever done. But after everything that happened last April, I—wanted to be free to enjoy my family, certainly. But I wanted to see what more I could do besides teach.”

  “What do you think you want to do?” he asked. He took a drink of his tea, his throat working. He was bigger than Joe, over six feet. His hands were square and large.

  His eyes weren’t green or gray, but hazel. With his face so close to hers and his gaze focused on her so intently, Clara became self-conscious and looked away. She concentrated on her ice tea glass, uncertain of what she’d read in his gaze. “When the kids were little, I used to have a passion for photography. I even won a contest once. It was a picture of Zoe.” She fell silent a moment. “I’ve saved a little cash. I thought I’d invest in a really good camera and see where it takes me.”

  “That sounds like a plan,” he said.

  She glanced in his direction to find a smile curving his lips. “It may be a pipe dream, but I’ll have fun with it,” she said and shrugged.

  The sliding glass door opened behind them and they turned to see Evan standing in the doorway. “Hey,” Evan nodded to Clara. “May I speak to you, Dad?”

  Russell set aside his ice tea and entered the apartment.

  “What’s she doing here? Is she one of your women?” Evan asked, his voice carrying before the door closed.

  Clara’s face burned and her stomach dropped. Evan didn’t want her here. Though the knowledge hurt, she understood he was ill and might not feel up to having a stranger visit. Trapped on the balcony, Clara turned away to avoid witnessing their discussion through the glass door. Humiliation whipped through her, curdling her stomach.

  One of his women? Was Russell Connelly a player?