Harvard's Education

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "I won't—"

  "Yes, you will. You already think that. Just because I'm a woman, you think I'm not as strong, not as capable. You think I need to be protected." Her eyes sparked. "Greg Greene's sitting over there looking like he's about to have a heart attack. But you're not trying to talk him out of making this jump."

  Harvard couldn't deny that.

  "I'm making this jump alone," P.J. told him firmly, despite the fact that her hands were shaking. "And since we're being timed for this exercise, do me a favour. Once we hit the ground, try to keep up."

  P.J. couldn't look down.

  She stared at the chute instead, at the pure white of the fabric against the piercing blueness of the sky.

  She was moving toward the ground faster than she'd imagined.

  She knew she had to look down to pinpoint the landing zone—the LZ—and to mark in her mind the spot where Harvard hit the ground. She had little doubt he would come within a few dozen yards of the LZ, despite the strong wind coming from the west.

  Her stomach churned, and she felt green with nausea and dizziness as she gritted her teeth and forced herself to watch the little toy fields and trees beneath her.

  It took countless dizzying minutes—far longer than she would have thought—for her to locate the open area that had been marked as their targeted landing zone. And it had been marked. There was a huge bull's-eye blazed in white on the brownish green of the cut grass in the field. It was ludicrously blatant, and despite that, it had been absorbed by the pattern of fields and woods, and she nearly hadn't seen it.

  What would it be like to try to find an unmarked target? When the SEALs went on missions, their landing areas weren't marked. And they nearly always made their jumps at night. What would it be like to be up here in the darkness, floating down into hostile territory, vulnerable and exposed?

  She felt vulnerable enough as it was, and no one on the ground wanted to kill her.

  The parachute was impossible for her to control. P.J. attempted to steer for the bull's-eye, but her arms felt boneless, and the wind was determined to send her to another field across the road.

  The trees were bigger now, and the ground was rushing up at her—at her and past her as a gust caught in the chute's cells and took her aloft instead of toward the ground.

  A line of very solid-looking trees and underbrush was approaching much too fast, but there was nothing P.J. could do. She was being blown like a leaf in the wind. She closed her eyes and braced herself for impact and...jerked to a stop.

  P.J. opened her eyes—and closed them fast. Dear, dear sweet Lord Jesus! Her chute had been caught by the branches of an enormous tree, and she was dangling thirty feet above the ground.

  She forced herself to breathe, forced herself to inhale and exhale until the initial roar of panic began to subside. As she slowly opened her eyes again, she looked into the branches above her. How badly was her chute tangled? If she tried to move around, would she shake herself free? She definitely didn't want to do that. That ground was too far away. A fall from this distance could break her legs—or her neck.

  She felt the panic return and closed her eyes, breathing again. Only breathing. A deep breath in, a long breath out. Over and over and over.

  When her pulse was finally down to ninety or a hundred, she looked into the tree again. There were big branches with leaves blocking most of her view of the chute, but what she could see seemed securely entangled.

  Sweat was dripping from her forehead, from underneath her helmet, and she wiped at it futilely.

  There were quick-release hooks that would instantly cut her free from the chute. They were right above her shoulders, and she reached above them, tugging first gently, then harder on the straps.

  She was securely lodged in the tree. She hoped.

  Still looking away from the ground, she brought one hand to her belt pack, to the length of lightweight rope that was coiled against her thigh. The rope was thin, but strong. And she knew why she had it with her. Without, she would have to dangle here until help arrived or risk almost certain injury by making the thirty-foot leap to the ground.

  She uncoiled part of the rope, careful to tie one end securely to her belt. This rope wouldn't do her a whole hell of a lot of good if she went and dropped it.

  She craned her neck to study the straps above her head. Her hands were shaking and her stomach was churning, but she told herself over and over again—as if it were a mantra—that she would be okay as long as she didn't look down.

  "Are you all right?"

  The voice was Harvard's, but P.J. didn't dare look at him. She felt a rush of relief, and it nearly pushed her over an emotional cliff. She took several deep, steadying breaths, forcing back the waves of emotion. God, she couldn't lose it Not yet. And especially not in front of this man.

  "I'm dandy," she said with much more bravado than she felt when she finally could speak. "In fact I'm thinking about having a party up here."

  "Damn, I thought for once you'd honestly be glad to see me."

  She was. She was thrilled to hear his voice, if not to actually see him. But she wasn't about to tell him that. "I suppose as long as you're here, you might as well help me figure out a way to get down to the ground." Her voice shook despite her efforts to keep it steady, giving her away.

  Somehow he knew to stop teasing her. Somehow he knew that she was way worse off than her shaking voice had revealed.

  "Tie one end of the rope around your harness," he told her calmly, his velvet voice soothing and confident. "And toss the rest of the rope up and over that big branch near you. I'll grab the end of the rope, anchoring you. Then you can release your harness from the chute and I'll lower you to the ground."

  P.J. was silent, still looking at the white parachute trapped in the tree.

  "You've just got to be sure you tie that rope to your harness securely. Can you do that for me, P.J.?"

  She was nauseous, she was shaking, but she could still tie a knot. She hoped. "Yes." But there was more here that had to be removed from the tree than just herself. "What about the chute?" she asked.

  "The chute's just fine," he told her. "Your priority—and my priority—is to get you down out of that tree safely."

  "I'm supposed to hide my chute. I don't think leaving it here in this tree like a big white banner fits Lieutenant McCoy's definition of hide."

  "P.J., it's only an exercise—"

  "Throw your rope up to me."

  He was silent. P.J. had to go on faith that he was still standing there. She couldn't risk a look in his direction.

  "Throw me your rope," she said again. "Please? I can tie your rope around the chute, and then once I'm on the ground, we can try to pull it free."

  "You're going to have to look at me if you want to catch it."

  She nodded. "I know."

  "Tie your rope around your harness first," he told her. "I want to get you secure before we start playing catch."

  "Fair enough."

  P.J.'s hands were shaking so badly she could barely tie a knot. But she did it. She tied three different knots, and just as Harvard had told her, she tossed the coil of the rope over a very sturdy-looking branch.

  "That's good," Harvard said, approval heating his already warm voice. "You're doing really well."

  "Throw me your rope now. Please."

  "You ready for me?"

  She had to look at him. She lowered her gaze, and the movement of her head made her swing slightly. The ground, the underbrush, the rocks and leaves and Harvard seemed a terrifyingly dizzying distance away. She closed her eyes. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God..."

  "P.J., listen to me." Harvard's voice cut through. "You're safe, do you understand? I'm tying the end of your rope around my waist. I've got you. I will not let you fall."

  "These knots I tied—they could slip."

  "If they do, I swear, I'll catch you."

  P.J. was silent, trying desperately to steady her breathing and slow her racing heart. Her s
tomach churned.

  "Did you hear me?" Harvard asked.

  "You'll catch me," she repeated faintly. "I know. I know that."

  "Unhook your harness from the chute and let me get you down from there."

  God, she wanted that. She wanted that so badly. "But I need your rope first."

  Harvard laughed in exasperation. "Damn, woman, you're stubborn! This exercise is not that important. It's not that big a deal."

  "Maybe not to you, but it is to me!"

  As Harvard gazed at her, the solution suddenly seemed so obvious. "P.J., you don't have to catch my rope. You don't have to look down. You don't even have to open your eyes. I can tie mine onto the end of yours, and you can just pull it up."

  She laughed. It was a thin, scratchy, hugely stressed-out laugh, but it was laughter just the same. "Well, duh," she said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

  "It'll only work if you feel secure enough up there without me holding onto my end of your rope."

  "Do it," she said. "Just do it, so I can get down from here."

  Harvard quickly tied the coiled length of his rope to the end of P.J.'s. "Okay," he called. "Pull it up."

  He shaded his eyes, watching as P.J. tugged on the rope that was tied to her harness. She wrapped her rope around her arm between her elbow and her wrist as she took up the slack. He had to admire her control—she was able to think pretty clearly for someone who had been close to panic mere moments before.

  She worked quickly and soon tossed the ends of both ropes to the ground.

  Harvard looped the rope tied to her harness around his waist and tugged on it, testing the strength of the branch that would support P.J.'s weight.

  "Okay, I'm ready for you," he called to her.

  This wasn't going to be easy for her. She was going to have to release herself from the chute. She had to have absolute faith that he wouldn't let her fall.

  She didn't move, didn't speak. He wasn't sure she was breathing.

  "P.J., you've got to trust me," he said quietly, his voice carrying in the stillness of the afternoon.

  She nodded. And reached up and unfastened the hooks.

  P.J. weighed practically nothing, even with all her gear. He lowered her smoothly, effortlessly, gently, but when her feet hit the ground, her knees gave out and she crumpled, for a moment pressing the front of her helmet to the earth.

  He moved quickly toward her as she pushed herself onto her knees. She looked at him as she took off her helmet, and the relief and emotion in her eyes were so profound, Harvard couldn't stop himself. He reached for her, pulling her into his arms and holding her close.

  She clung to him, and he could feel her heart still racing, hear her ragged breathing, feel her trembling.

  Harvard felt a welling of indescribable emotion. It was an odd mix of tenderness and admiration and sheer, bittersweet longing. This woman fit too damn well in his arms.

  "Thank you," she whispered, her face pressed against his shoulder. "Thank you.''

  "Hey," he said, pulling back slightly and tipping her chin so she had to meet his eyes. "Don't thank me. You did most of that yourself. You did the hard part."

  P.J. didn't say anything. She just looked at him with those gigantic brown eyes.

  Harvard couldn't help himself. He lowered his mouth the last few inches that separated them and he kissed her.

  He heard her sigh as his lips covered hers, and it was that little breathless sound that shattered the very last of his resistance. He deepened the kiss, knowing he shouldn't, but no longer giving a damn.

  Her lips were so soft, her mouth so sweet, he felt his control melt like butter in a hot frying pan. He felt his knees grow weak with desire-desire and something else. Something big and frighteningly powerful. He closed his eyes against it, unable to analyze, unable to do anything but kiss her again and again.

  He kissed her hungrily now, and P.J. kissed him back so passionately he nearly laughed aloud.

  She was like a bolt of lightning in his arms—electrifying to hold. Her body was everything he'd imagined and then some. She was tiny but so perfect, a dizzying mix of firm muscles and soft flesh. He could cover one of her breasts completely with the palm of his hand—he could, and he did.

  And she pulled back, away from him, in shock.

  "Oh, my God," she breathed, staring at him, eyes wide, breaking free from his arms, moving away from him, scuttling back in the soft dirt on her rear end.

  Harvard sat on the ground. "I guess you were a little glad to see me after all, huh?" He meant to sound teasing, his words a pathetic attempt at a joke, but he could do little more than whisper.

  "We're late," P.J. said, turning away from him. "We have to hurry. I really screwed up our time."

  She pushed herself to her feet, her fingers fumbling as she unbuckled the harness and stepped out of the jumpsuit she wore over her fatigues and T-shirt. As Harvard watched, she took the rope attached to the chute and tried to finesse the snagged fabric and lines out of the tree.

  Luck combined with the fact that her body weight was no longer keeping the chute hooked in the branches, and it slid cooperatively down to the ground, covering P.J. completely.

  By the time Harvard stood to help her, she'd wrestled the parachute silk into a relatively small bundle and secured both it and her flight suit beneath a particularly thick growth of brambles.

  She swayed slightly as she consulted the tiny compass on her wristwatch. "This way," she said, pointing to the east

  Harvard couldn't keep his exasperation from sounding in his voice. Exasperation and frustration. "You don't really think you're going to walk all the way to the extraction site."

  "No," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. "I'm not going to walk, I'm going to run."

  P.J. stared at the list of times each of the pairs of SEALs and FInCOM agents had clocked during the afternoon's exercise.

  "I don't see what the big deal is," Schneider said with a nonchalant shrug.

  P.J. gave him an incredulous look. "Crash and Lucky took fourteen and a half minutes to check in at the extraction site—fourteen and a half minutes from the time they stepped out of the airplane to the time they arrived at the final destination. Bobby and Wes took a few seconds longer. You don't see the big difference between those times and the sixty-nine big, fat minutes you and Greene took? Or how about the forty-four minutes it took Lieutenant McCoy because he was saddled with Tim Farber? Or my score—forty-eight embarrassingly long minutes, even though I was working with the Senior Chief? Don't you see a pattern here?"

  Farber cleared his throat. "Lieutenant McCoy was not saddled with me—"

  "No?" P.J. was hot and tired and dizzy and feeling as if she might throw up. Again. She'd had to take a forced timeout during the run from the LZ to the check-in point. Her chicken-salad sandwich had had the final say in their ongoing argument, and she'd surrendered to its unconditional demands right there in the woods. Harvard had gotten out his radio and had been ready to call for medical assistance, but she'd staggered to her feet and told him to put the damn thing away. No way was she going to quit—not after she'd come so far. Something in her eyes must have convinced him she was dead serious, because he'd done as she'd ordered.

  She'd made it all the way back-forty-eight minutes after she'd stepped out of that plane.

  "Look at the numbers again, Tim," she told Farber. "I know for a fact that if the Senior Chief had been paired with Lieutenant McCoy, they would have a time of about fifteen minutes. Instead, their time was not just doubled but tripled because they were saddled with inexperienced teammates."

  "That was the first time I've ever jumped out of a plane," Greg Greene protested. "We can't be expected to perform like the SEALs without the same extensive training."

  "But that's exactly the point," P.J. argued. "There's no way FlnCOM can provide us with the kind of training the Navy gives the SEAL teams. It's insane for them to think something like this Combined SEAL/FInCOM team could work with any efficiency. These numbe
rs are proof. Alpha Squad can get the job done better and faster—not just twice as fast but three times faster—without our so-called help."

  "I'm sure with a little practice—" Tim Farber started.

  "We might only slow them down half as much?" P.J. interjected. She looked up to see Harvard leaning against a tree watching her. She quickly looked away, afraid he would somehow see the heat that instantly flamed in her cheeks.

  She'd lost her mind this afternoon, and she'd let him kiss her.

  No, correction—she hadn't merely let him kiss her. She'd kissed him just as enthusiastically. She could still feel the impossibly intimate sensation of his hand curved around her breast.

  Dear Lord, she hadn't known something as simple as a touch could feel so good.

  As Farber and the twin idiots wandered away, clearly not interested in hearing any more of her observations, Harvard pushed himself up and away from the tree. He took his time to approach her, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips. "You up for a ride to your hotel, or do you intend to run back?"

  Her lips were dry, and when she moistened them with the tip of her tongue, Harvard's gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there. When he looked into her eyes, she could see an echo of the flames they'd ignited earlier that day. His smile was gone, and the look on his face was pure predator.

  She didn't stand a chance against this man.

  The thought popped into her head, but she pushed it far away. That was ridiculous. Of course she stood a chance. She'd been approached and hit on and propositioned and pursued by all types of men. Harvard was no different

  So what if he was taller and stronger and ten times more dangerously handsome than any man she'd ever met? So what if a keen intelligence sparkled in his eyes? So what if his voice was like velvet and his smile like a sunrise? And so what if he'd totally redefined the word kiss-not to mention given new meaning to other words she'd ignored in the past, words like desire and want.

  Part of her wanted him to kiss her again. But the part of her that wanted that was the same part that had urged her, at age eleven, to let fourteen-year-old Jackson Porter steal a kiss in the alley alongside the corner market. It was the same part of her that could so easily have followed her mother's not quite full-grown footsteps. But P.J. had successfully stomped that impractical, romantically, childishly foolish side of her down before. Lord knows she could do it again.