Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers)

by Reasor, Teresa

  Tears burnt her eyes, and she blinked to clear their sting. She took a sip of the tea and then another, seeking calm, though her chest felt tight. Russell and Evan’s voices carried through the glass as she approached the door. She flinched and tried to block out the words. She tapped to warn them she was coming in.

  Their heads whipped around as she slid it open. “I have to leave.” She stepped into the kitchen. The tension between the two men hummed in the air. “We’re attending a barbecue tonight, and I need to prepare some things.” She plastered a smile on her face as she nodded to Evan and avoided looking at Russell altogether. She set her glass in the sink and collected her purse from the counter. “I’ll see myself out.”

  “Clara—let me see you to the door,” Russell said, following her.

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not,” The frustration and anger in his voice made his tone adamant.

  She forced herself to look at Russell. “He’s ill. He needs your undivided attention right now. I’ve intruded and it was never my intention—” Or was it? “I hope he gets well soon. Truly I do.” She fumbled for the door, but Russell’s hand was there on the knob blocking her escape.

  “I’m sorry, Clara.”

  She nodded. “I have to go.”

  His hand rested against the small of her back, the pressure light, his touch comforting. Warmth tumbled through her. Her heart clenched.

  Her gaze rose to his face. The look of pain and confusion she read in his expression triggered an ache of loss beneath her breastbone. “It’s all right.”

  Russell opened the door. She escaped out into the hall. Though the urge to rush was strong, she forced her steps to remain slow and measured, aware he watched her walk all the way to the elevator. She pushed the button. Come on, come on. Drawing several deep breaths, she closed her eyes against the fountain of tears pushing against her lids, and practically leapt aboard the elevator when the doors opened.

  ***

  Brett scissor kicked, straightening his body and digging deep with the next stroke. His shoulder and leg muscles burned as he reached the end of the two-mile swim. The familiar approach to the beach in front of the Hotel del Coronado loomed in the immediate distance. He turned inland, and the gradual rise of the bottom finally allowed him to stand in the chest-high water. Hearing the rumble of a boat motor approaching close behind him, he turned and floated on its wake as it pulled beside him.

  “Your best time yet, Cutter. Two miles in seventy minutes. That’s impressive,” Greenback said from the small skiff’s driver’s seat, his New Jersey accent exaggerated by excitement.

  “Thanks.” Brett breathed in several gulps of air. “It won’t mean a damn if I can’t convince the Doc and Jackson I’m good to go.”

  “He’ll come around, man. Give it some time. It’s only been two months.”

  “Time passes more slowly when you’re sitting on your ass waiting to get back into training.”

  Greenback’s expression settled into sympathetic lines. “You are training.”

  “Yeah, I guess. I appreciate you spotting me, Greenback.”

  “No problem. I’ll give some thought to what we talked about earlier. If I remember any more, I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks. Got a hot date waiting for me. Gotta go.” Brett said. He offered his wet hand. Greenback clasped it in his own briefly.

  Greenback turned the boat into the surf and shot away. The skiff took on more speed as he traveled east toward base.

  Brett swam closer to shore, and when he reached shallow water, removed his flippers. He walked up the beach toward the hotel. The sand clung to his wet feet and then crumbled away. Memories of being cold and wet and coated in grit flashed through his mind. Every time he walked this beach, the events of Hell week came back to him. He’d gone through more than two years of training since, and a deployment to Iraq, but that week was what stood out when he walked this stretch of sand. It had been the beginning of his SEAL career.

  Five minutes later he reached the car. He tossed his flippers and his dive knife with its rubber sheath into the trunk, exchanging it for his towel-wrapped clothes and shoes. Making a quick stop at one of the public restrooms that serviced the beach, he showered, dried off, and changed into street clothes.

  He paused by one of the mirrors over the sink to run his fingers through his short-cropped hair and shove it into place. His fingertips followed the shallow scar ridge left along his temple, a reminder of the blow that had left him in a coma. There were other smaller, less distinct, scars where they’d drilled into his skull to relieve the hematoma. But this one seemed to stay tender, though the dark red had lightened to pink.

  A hard knot of pain and anger gathered in his chest. He drew a deep breath.

  Derrick had cost him his position on the team. And now he was doing it again by not talking to the NCIS agents.

  Brett rolled the swim trunks up in the towel more securely. It was his own mind betraying him now. If stress was causing his language problem, then why not the holes in his memory? He had to break through it somehow to get back to where he wanted to be. He would break through it.

  He glanced at his dive watch. Almost time to meet Tess. He tucked the damp bundle beneath his arm, shoved his sunglasses on, and strolled from the restroom, up the network of sidewalks to the street.

  He went over the information his internet search this morning had garnered. Finding out she was Ian Kelly’s daughter had been the clincher. The man had connections. He could put pressure on sources that might open things up and force headquarters to get their collective heads out of their collective asses and find the kid.

  Brett breathed in the moderate California air and smelled the rich scent of hibiscus blooming along the walk. The whole thing could come down on him like an anchor. Or it might not. Jesus. Flash was the gambler, not him. And look where it had gotten him. Brett’s gut clenched. Well, if he got a bad feeling about this whole meeting, he could always walk away.

  The Hotel del Coronado sprawled before him, and his pace quickened. Would she be waiting for him, or would she keep him cooling his heels? Nerves knotted his stomach. He’d had a good day so far. Just pulled a blank a time or two while talking to Greenback. The stress of the conversation had probably been the reason.

  He rolled his shoulders and neck to relieve tension. A four-mile run and two-mile swim had depleted his reserves. He needed to replenish them, and his stomach growled as he worked his way around the hotel to the restaurant.

  He’d called ahead and made reservations. The place was a little expensive, but the food was incredible. Had he chosen it to impress her, or because it was close to where he’d end his swim? Probably a little of both.

  He spotted Tess sitting at a table beneath one of the square umbrellas. He studied her profile as she looked toward the water. Though she appeared lost in thought, he read tension in her posture. She gripped a glass of water and raised it to her lips. The peach blouse and cream linen pants she wore emphasized the graceful length of her limbs. Her hair was pulled back and bundled at the nape of her neck with a large tortoiseshell clip.

  The hostess appeared at his elbow. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I see the woman I’m meeting.” He nodded in Tess’s direction.

  “Please join her. I’ll send a server over immediately.”

  “Thanks.” He approached Tess from behind and to the right so the sun wouldn’t be in her eyes when they met.

  When he crossed within her view, she glanced up. Her sunglasses blocked his ability to read her expression, but the bulky frames and opaque lenses didn’t detract from the perfect proportion of her cheeks and jaw. The tug of attraction he’d felt the day before returned with a vengeance.

  “If only you were sixty, two hundred pounds and homely … I might be immune,” he said.

  Tessa’s lips parted in an oh of surprise.

  Good enough to kiss.

  He was still waiting for her retort when he pulled out the
chair on her right and sat down. He set the soggy bundle he carried on the sidewalk next to his seat.

  As promised, a server arrived to take their drink order and give them menus. Tess ordered unsweetened tea, Brett orange juice. He needed instant energy to ensure he was at the top of his game with her.

  “I read some of the articles you’ve written in the last six months,” he said as he studied the menu.

  Her auburn brows rose just above the sunglass frames.

  Though she attempted to appear relaxed, her hands gripped the menu, bending it. She was either nervous, barely able to contain her curiosity, or both.

  “You don’t strike me as someone who would be interested in San Diego social life, Ensign Weaver.”

  “I’m not. I wanted to get a feel for how you approach things.” He set aside the menu. “Call me Brett.”

  Soft color touched her cheeks. She focused her attention on arranging her silverware.

  So she wasn’t as immune to him as she tried to appear.

  “You mentioned you had a story in mind,” she said her gaze averted.

  “I’ve run four miles and completed a two mile swim this morning. I’d prefer to eat before we talk.”

  Her brows climbed higher. “Have you been released for full duty now?”

  “No.”

  “Should you be training so hard?”

  He smiled. “If you don’t train, you get out of shape. If you get out of shape, you put your team and yourself at risk. You’re a liability if you’re not at peak performance. If I wait until I’m released to train—”

  “You’d be a liability,” she finished.

  “Exactly.”

  The waitress arrived with their drinks. Brett set aside the menu and downed half his juice while Tess ordered an asparagus and wild mushroom pizzetta with boursin cheese. He ordered a white cheddar burger and fries.

  “Why the SEALs?” she asked breaking the silence that fell once the woman had left.

  “My dad was a Marine. Semper Fi all the way. He thrived on challenges. I took after him.” He studied the curve of her chin. “You know about following in your dad’s footsteps?”

  “Yes.” She looked away toward the beach and the distant gleam of the water.

  “Ian Kelly is a legend in journalism,” he prodded.

  “Some people say that.”

  Brett leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “What do you say?”

  “I’m not here to share confidences, Ensign Weaver. I’m here for the story.”

  Were they estranged? It wouldn’t help his cause if they were. “You may need his help with this story.”

  Her head jerked around. “Why do you say that?”

  “He has connections, and you’re going to need connections to get at the heart of this.”

  Tess’s lips compressed. “So it has an international component?”

  “Yeah.” Brett removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket. Would she have the guts to come out from behind her dark lenses so he could read her reactions more easily?

  “Are you at liberty to speak about the particulars?”

  “It wasn’t top secret. And no one has ordered me not to.”

  Tess jerked her sunglasses from her face and set them aside. “All right. Tell me what this is about.”

  He studied the intensity in her sherry-brown eyes. He might have smiled had the situation been less serious. He hoped fervently he was doing the right thing in opening this can of worms.

  “I think I’m being investigated for murder.”

  CHAPTER 9

  After watching Clara enter the elevator, Russell closed the apartment door. “Jesus Christ. What the hell just happened here, Evan?”

  “She probably buys into that old adage that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  His snide tone sounded so much like Gloria’s, Russell fought the urge to punch something. “She brought the pudding for you. She thought it might help your medications go down easier.”

  Evan’s eyes widened. “You told her?”

  “No. But she isn’t blind.” He shook his head. “How could you be cruel to someone who was showing you an act of kindness?”

  “It didn’t look as though she were here to see me.” Conflicting emotions raced across Evan’s face, anger, frustration, and something more until his features took on a sulky look. “I didn’t want her here.”

  “You made that clear enough, and she’s gone.” Clara wouldn’t be back. Regret lay like a weight inside his chest. He raked both hands through his hair.

  They had been making a connection. She had been uncertain, shy. And he had been more attracted than he’d been in … ever.

  And his son had purposely hurt her.

  “You called her one of my women. You know nothing about my life. You’ve never wanted to. What kind of bullshit did your mother serve up to you to make you think I was running around acting like a wartime lothario? If that’s the tripe she’s fed you, she’s a fucking liar.”

  Evan flinched and looked away.

  Russell had taken enough of Gloria’s vicious punishment to last a lifetime. It had made him gun-shy in his other relationships, what few there had been. No more, damn her. “Was I supposed to pine for her for the rest of my days while she moved on with her life?’

  Evan tugged at the belt of his robe. “Yeah, I guess you were.”

  The sudden acquiescence to his accusations brought Russell up short.

  Evan shuffled to the overstuffed sofa and sat down. “I read the legal file last night. She was involved with Carl before your first deployment to Iraq. She remarried the day after the divorce was final. Yet she harped on your being unfaithful.”

  “Never.” He sat down in a chair across from Evan. “I’m not perfect. I was a neglectful husband. I had med school, my internship, and residency. Then you were born. The Navy paid for my education and training. I owed them.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I can understand your mother’s reasons for looking elsewhere for what she needed. I can understand her seeking a divorce. But I was never unfaithful.”

  “What about Valerie?” Evan asked. “I remember her.”

  “I’m surprised. You only saw her once. I met her eighteen months after the divorce. You were almost ten by then.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Old pain jabbed him with the sharpness of a scalpel and twisted. “She died in a car accident.” After nearly a year of dating, they’d been talking about marriage versus living together. Just a few days later she was gone.

  “I was in my mid-thirties when Valerie died.” His voice sounded rusty. He cleared his throat. “I’ve dated my share of women since, but none—” He shrugged. “Now, I’m racing toward the end of my fifties, and I’m alone. That wasn’t what I planned for myself.”

  “No, I don’t guess so,” Evan looked away again. “This isn’t exactly what I planned for myself either.” He gestured to his scrawny frame. “It seems we’ve both been unlucky in love.”

  Though he’d worked hard to accept who his son was, there were times Evan’s openness about his lifestyle made him uncomfortable. “How is Simon?”

  “Still healthy. I’m trying hard not to hate his guts.”

  “How about I hate him enough for both of us,” Russell said.

  Evan laughed. “That’s the closest thing you’ve ever come to saying something that even remotely sounded gay.”

  “So glad I’m finally picking up some of the nuances,” Russell said, his tone dry.

  Evan’s smile was brief. He swallowed. “I’m sorry I pulled the pissy gay guy thing.”

  “I’m not the one you owe an apology to.” It would do no good for him to harp on it. Evan was an intelligent man. He knew what he needed to do. But his disappointment in his son’s behavior lay between them as unavoidable as the pall of sickness.

  ***

  Tess studied Brett’s expression as they left the restaurant and strolled down
to the beach. His features remained closed, unreadable. It was frustrating as hell.

  Brett paused at one of the coupled lounge units owned by the hotel and raised the umbrella. He motioned for her to take a seat.

  “Where did you grow up?” he asked.

  “For a while, all over the country. But when I was ten, my parents divorced and my mom and I settled in New York.” She sat down, swung her legs up on the lounge, and relaxed against the back of her chair. “Who’s interviewing who, Brett?”

  “I’m about to place my Naval career in your hands. I want to know something about you.”

  Her pulse leapt and her eyes focused on his face.

  He folded his tall, muscular frame onto the lounge and stared out across the ocean. Though he appeared relaxed, a muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Is your mother still living?”

  “Yes, she’s an interior designer in New York. She remarried when I was twelve. He’s a very nice, very rich banker. His name is Milton Chase.”

  “My mom’s visiting me and my sister. She arrived yesterday.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “When my dad was killed in Desert Storm, she held the family together. She’s a tough lady. My sisters are, too. I can always count on them to have my back.” His gaze swung to her face. “Who has yours?”

  Tess remained silent a moment. Her mother and stepfather would certainly stand up for her, but would her father?

  No. The story always came first. Before birthdays, Christmas, or any medical catastrophe. Some day he’d die in a distant country, searching for something neither she nor her mother had ever been able to give him.

  “If you need someone who’ll dig for the truth and damn the consequences, you can trust my father to follow through. But you can’t depend on him to care too deeply for anyone. Not even those of us who have a genetic tie to him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She deflected the feelings his sincerity triggered with a shrug. “I’m used to it.” Liar. She swung her legs off the lounge and, leaning forward, rested her hand on his arm. “Why don’t we just cut right to the heart of it?”

  The muscles in his forearm grew taut beneath her touch. The warmth of his skin seeped into her fingers. His pale blue gaze, lighter gray-blue around the pupil and darker around the rim of the iris, delved into hers. And when his lips parted, her gaze dropped to them. The structure of his jaw was undoubtedly masculine, his lips not too thick or thin. What would they feel like—Whoa—Hadn’t he just said he was being investigated for murder? She had no business even sitting close to him, let alone touching him.