Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3)

by Marliss Melton

  "Don't change the subject," she ordered. "I'll accept your assertion that they had something, maybe a friendship, until I learn otherwise. But what do you need help with?"

  His smile faded. "I want to throw them together and see what happens." His expression grew serious. "Bullfrog is the purest human being I've ever known."

  "That's a strange word to use," she said.

  "If you get to know him, you'll see what I mean. He's spiritual. He's clean. For all the time that I've known him, he's kept to himself. He reads instead of going out. He meditates to keep his cool. I happen to know he came on this cruise just to make me happy, not for his own enjoyment. But if anyone deserves happiness, it's Bullfrog. And I think your sister is the key to his contentment."

  Juliet sucked her lower lip between her teeth. He'd given her a lot to think about, not the least of which was the intriguing notion that Emma had gotten emotionally involved with one of her own students, while she was married.

  Something else Tristan said caught her notice. "Why would he have felt the need to make you happy?" she demanded.

  Tristan grimaced and dropped his head. "You don't miss anything, do you?"

  "Not usually, no." She tapped her finger on the bar as she waited for his answer.

  "All right." He raised his head to take in her reaction. "I had planned to bring my girlfriend on this cruise and propose to her, but she broke up with me two weeks ago, and Bullfrog offered to come in her place."

  Something inside of Juliet sank, but she ignored it. "You had no idea she was going to bail on you?"

  He blew out a breath and looked away. "Maybe I did. I thought the cruise would spark something fresh between us. Things had flat-lined," he admitted.

  "How long were you together?" Whoops, that nosey, personal question slipped out before she could filter the private investigator in her.

  "That's not the topic of our conversation," Tristan told her in a firm but friendly voice. "Let's talk about Bullfrog and Emma. Will you help me put them together?"

  She considered his suggestion and couldn't see any reason why not. Even if it was only for the duration of the cruise, having Jeremiah Bullfrog around for her sister to play with seemed like a good idea. "Sure. How?"

  "It's easy. You let me know what excursions y'all are on, when you're planning to eat or go out, and I'll tell you the same. That way we hit up the same places, and they're thrown together. If it's meant to be, Mother Nature will do the rest."

  She considered his plan. "Emma is rather cynical when it comes to romance, so I doubt it'll be that easy. Eddie pretty much saw to that."

  "Her ex?" he asked.

  "That's the one." She sent him a hard smile.

  Leaning an elbow on the table, Tristan regarded her through his gold-tipped eyelashes. "Let me guess. You don't believe in romance, either."

  "That's not the topic of our conversation," she stated, repeating his earlier assertion.

  Her sass pulled a laugh out of him. "Fine, then. We'll stick to the topic. So you're in?"

  Juliet cast her sister a thoughtful glance. Ever since Eddie had bailed on their marriage, Emma had lived like a spinster, hiding in her condo with her daughter and their two cats. She'd stopped watching chick flicks, stopped reading romance novels. At this rate, she would be single the rest of her life.

  "Let's do this," she decided. Turning back to Tristan, she held out a hand to seal their agreement.

  For the second time that afternoon, his hand engulfed hers. The strength and assurance in his warm grasp conveyed a virility so palpable that her pulse skittered. She panicked and tugged her hand free.

  He let it go without comment. "Let me get your next drink," he offered.

  But she already had a token in her hand. "Nope. I'll get my own."

  Chapter 3

  Jeremiah's uneasiness mushroomed as he and Tristan participated in the safety drill.

  "This is nuts," Tristan muttered, giving voice to Jeremiah's agitation as they followed fellow passengers down the hallway.

  They'd all been sent to their cabins to prepare for the drill they'd been warned about that afternoon. At precisely 8 p.m., a grating alarm blared over the intercom, and they'd joined the throng of people heading toward the stairwell. Most of them appeared thoroughly inebriated. No one seemed to have a clear sense of where to go—themselves included. The clogged corridor backed up, and the line slowed to a crawl. If there'd been a fire, they would have all burned alive.

  But then the Dutch-accented voice of the captain interrupted the alarm to offer verbal reassurances and directions. They were to proceed to the aft stairwell and climb two levels to exit the port side of the boat.

  Where is that? Jeremiah heard up and down the hall as people asked each other where the port side was. He found himself hunting for Emma and hoping that the drill wasn't causing her undue distress.

  Without warning, the flashes of gunfire and spattered blood he'd envisioned that morning barraged his mind again. He reached for the wall, using it to keep himself grounded as the visions panned through him, spiking his adrenaline with their realistic quality. Sweat that had nothing to do with the stuffiness of the hallway breached his pores.

  My imagination, he told himself again, only this time he knew that it wasn't.

  At the aft stairwell, they encountered a crewmember holding up a sign that directed them to climb two floors. On deck seven, a young Malaysian steward doled out life vests. Jeremiah's fingers brushed the man's hand in the trade off, and shock broke his stride.

  The man's hand felt as cold as a corpse's.

  His sixth sense had never misled him. It was only a matter of time before his premonitions became reality and this man was dead. But who was going to kill him? And how could terrorists have boarded this ship when every passenger and their luggage had been put through a metal detector first? No one could have brought an AK-47 on board like the ones he was seeing in his head. Hell, he didn't even have his own weapon.

  It had to be the staff then. Weapons might have been secreted on board through the service entrance, hidden under a food pallet or concealed in instruments cases. If he could find the weapons stash before the culprits opened fire, he might keep his visions from materializing.

  Fresh air blew away his morbid thoughts as he stepped outside onto the deck on level seven. A gold-hued sky and calm seas reassured him that, for now, everyone was still safe. His gaze went to the lifeboats lashed to their moorings like chicks taking refuge under the wings of a stately mother swan. They hadn't been lowered—not for a simple drill.

  "Put your backs against the wall," instructed a crewmember.

  A curtain of auburn hair drew Jeremiah's gaze to where Emma, her daughter, and her sister all stood with their backs to the ship. Tristan had caught sight of them, as well, and headed straight in their direction. With an inward sigh, Jeremiah followed him, bracing himself for the effect Emma still had on him.

  As she met his gaze, her cautious smile erased his lingering resentment. Her confession earlier had already eased the ache he'd carried around for years. She had actually looked for him!

  All this time, he'd convinced himself that his intense attraction for his professor had been unreciprocated—the result of a young man's infatuation with a slightly older woman. But why would she have looked for him unless she'd felt a portion of the loss he'd experienced upon his banishment?

  Squeezing into an empty space just two people down from her, he realized how hard it would be not to run across her while aboard the ship—especially now that Tristan seemed intent on pursuing her sister. Those two stood next to each other with smug expressions on their faces.

  Sensing Emma's desire to communicate, he met her gaze again.

  As it had been in the past, they seemed capable of sharing thoughts without speaking.

  This drill is a joke, her eyes said.

  I agree, he smiled back.

  But then his blood turned cold at the thought of everything becoming real. The crew on th
e Escapade had probably never launched the safety boats with passengers aboard them. Only in certain ports, where the waters were calm and clear, did cruise ships actually lower and lift the lifeboats—and even then, only crewmembers were allowed to board.

  Once, many years ago, he'd read that a safety boat had plummeted thirty feet from its davits, killing all five crewmembers when it flipped upside down. That was why drills never involved passengers. In reality, the crew had no idea how to get their passengers to safety in a quick, efficient manner—never mind with crazy terrorists mowing people down, as his visions suggested.

  Sonofabitch! With the safety officer stalking up and down, barking into his megaphone, Jeremiah tipped his head back and closed his eyes, willing his visions to go away. At last, just as the crowd grew restless, the officer added one final directive.

  "Enjoy your evening," he called.

  With a cheer, passengers thronged toward the doors to pursue their evening entertainment. As Jeremiah moved with the flow of traffic, he resolved to engage Emma in small talk and see what came of it.

  Anticipation crackled through him as she drew up alongside him.

  "Well, wasn't that illuminating," she remarked.

  "In all of the wrong ways," he agreed. They shared a look that warmed him to his toes.

  A glance at her pink shoulders and freckled nose told him that she'd spent too much time in the sun that afternoon. Her daughter, who was all arms and legs and boasted a head of shiny dark hair, shuffled along behind her looking bored.

  The adult-sized life jacket hanging on the girl's slender frame had him reaching back automatically to cinch her belt tighter.

  "That's too big for you," he said when she cut him a startled look.

  Premonition sparked the neural pathways in his brain. "Do me a favor," he said to Emma. "If there's ever an actual emergency, come and find me."

  At his odd tone, she searched his face intently. "I bet you've seen a lot of crazy things."

  "Oh, yeah. And I can keep you safer than anyone in this crew." Maybe that was why their paths had crossed. Maybe he was here to protect her.

  As they surrendered their life jackets to the man collecting them, Tristan and Juliet reappeared.

  "Hey, Bullfrog," Tristan said. "Let's take these beautiful women to the Lizard Lounge. I hear they like karaoke."

  With his thoughts still caught up in mayhem, Jeremiah just blinked at Tristan's suggestion. He glanced at Emma to gauge her reaction.

  "What is Sammy going to do?" she asked her sister. "She can't go to the bar."

  Passengers jostled them as they headed for the stairs.

  "I want to go to Kids' Zone," Sammy piped up. "That's where my friend Sophia's going."

  "Okay, but I need to sign you in first." She looked back at Jeremiah.

  "Emma has a beautiful voice," Juliet interjected. "Wait until you hear her sing."

  The comment aroused Jeremiah's suspicions. Was Juliet hoping to push him and Emma together? Oh, hell no. He wasn't jumping into that murky water when keeping his head clear and his eyes peeled for terrorists was his top priority.

  "Look, there's Sophia." Sammy pointed out a girl getting in the elevator with her parents. "Can we go?" As she tugged her mother toward the elevator, a line of people promptly streamed between them.

  "Maybe I'll meet you there," Emma called, having to raise her voice to be heard as she and Sammy hurried away.

  Jeremiah noted the look of frustration on Juliet's face.

  "I'm sure she'll join us," she insisted.

  "Come on, brother," Tristan urged. "Let's go hang out."

  "I'm going to take a walk first," Jeremiah prevaricated. He could sense a trap, and he wasn't going to stumble blindly into it. Besides, he needed to find the service entrance and strike up conversations with the some of the staff.

  With a half-salute, he swung around and marched right back outside onto the now-deserted deck. He had to examine his visions from every conceivable angle. With enough clues, he might be able to piece together the plot that was afoot. If so, he would do his best to foil it.

  That had to be the reason his and Emma's paths had crossed. He was meant to protect her, and that was it. He wasn't going to initiate a rekindling of the feelings between them, not when she'd been the one to chase him off. If she wanted to have him in her life again, she would have to make the first move.

  * * *

  "I can't believe neither one of them showed up," Tristan commented, letting his annoyance show. Leaning back in one of the plush, eggshell-shaped seats scattered around the Lizard Lounge, he swirled his scotch in one hand while eying Juliet across the little table between them.

  "I can," she drawled, nibbling on a peppermint leaf from her mojito.

  Watching the way her lips and teeth moved up the stem warmed him all over. Unlike his insecure, raven-haired girlfriend of nearly two years, Juliet gave off an air of self-reliance that he found relaxing. She didn't talk endlessly the way Mariah did. When Juliet said something, it was usually insightful. Her honey-blond hair and gray eyes paired with an athletic build made her beautiful, but not in a fragile way. She looked like she could hold her own in a wrestling match. A mental image of her wrestling gave way to a vision of their arms, legs, and sweat-soaked bodies entangled, their mouths fused.

  Damn, get a grip, he told himself.

  "For some reason, you seem like the older sister, but you're younger, aren't you?"

  "First of all, I'm going to forgive you for suggesting that I look old." She laughed when his expression shifted to one of dismay and he started to shake his head.

  "I'm kidding," she assured him. "Emma's older by four years," she acknowledged. "But I've always been more grounded, more practical than Emma. She was the romantic dreamer."

  "Was," he noted.

  "Yep. Now, she's just disillusioned. She's probably in our cabin reading a book."

  "No!" He protested the mere idea. "How could she do that when there's so much to do here?"

  "I take it you don't read much," she retorted, flipping the focus of their talk onto him.

  He acknowledged his shortcoming with a grimace. "Only if I have to. I like newspapers and magazines if that raises your opinion of me at all."

  She studied him with wry humor. "Let me guess. You have a subscription to a fitness magazine."

  "Nah, fitness doesn't interest me. I just do my job, and that's all the workout I need," he said with mild indifference. "Actually, I subscribe to racing magazines. I used to be a NASCAR driver."

  She issued a startled laugh. "Are you serious?"

  "Yeah, I spent four years on the circuit before becoming a SEAL."

  "What, that adrenaline rush wasn't enough for you?" she needled.

  He grinned at her insight. "Something like that. I like pushing myself to the edge to see what happens."

  "I think you have to be crazy to race cars, let alone join the Special Forces."

  "Please, don't mince your words," he begged. "You can call me crazy right to my face, and it won't hurt my feelings. I've been called that before."

  Her tawny eyebrows came together as she studied him. "What makes you do it?" she queried.

  He'd asked himself that question too many times to count. "I don't know," he started to say, and then he peered into his watered-down scotch. Actually, he did know, and the scotch acted like truth serum, making him admit to the reason when he would normally have kept it to himself. "I'm not like the rest of my family."

  She sat forward, her evident interest inviting him to share more. "In what way?"

  He cast a glance at the ceiling. "Let's see. My parents are both doctors. My brother is a lawyer, and my sister is a financial advisor. Does that give you any clues?"

  Her frank gaze wandered over him. "If you're saying you're the dunce of the family, I happen to know that to make it as a SEAL, you must be bright."

  See, she was a softy on the inside. "Well, thank you. Actually, I was adopted, which may explain why book learn
ing and the traditional careers of the rest of my family didn't appeal to me. My birth mother left me in the lobby of the hospital emergency room. My parents, who worked in the ER, took me home."

  She blinked several times as if deciding whether he was lying. "You're not kidding," she finally said.

  "Nope."

  "So you... push the limits of human capabilities because...?" She gestured for him to finish the thought.

  But he didn't finish it. Telling her that he considered himself the product of human error, a mistake who should never have been born, sounded stupid, but that was the insight that drove him to do reckless shit—not that he was trying to kill himself. He really didn't understand why he did it.

  "Do you want to hear me sing?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly. Not one of the individuals who'd climbed onto the stage to do karaoke had done justice to the music, and it was driving him crazy.

  She regarded him for a somber moment. "I don't know," she said. "Are you any good?"

  He grinned at her. "I'll let you be the judge of that."

  He left her at the table, approaching the DJ to select the song he wanted to sing. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a middle-aged man swagger up to their table and talk to Juliet. A surprising pinch of possessiveness had him looking over as the man made overtures and actually started to sit in the seat across from hers.

  Tristan was about to intervene when the stranger hung his head and skulked away.

  No doubt about it, Juliet could hold her own. He realized right then what song he wanted to sing—a country western piece about love growing cold on a stormy night. He shared a word with the DJ, stepped up onto the stage, and grabbed the mike.

  The room went silent as all eyes beheld him. He was used to that phenomenon. Men studied him with sullen envy. Women regarded him like something edible. He'd learned a long time ago that looks didn't mean much after the initial impression.

  The music started, wresting his gaze to the screen displaying the lyrics. At the proper cue, he started singing. Halfway into the first stanza, he glanced up and found Juliet's mouth hanging open. He couldn't resist a smile. This was something women didn't expect from him—the boy could sing. He'd heard that a time or two. He wasn't a virtuoso, and he wasn't about to bump any country music stars off the Billboard charts, but no one else in his family could sing like he could.